The Persians of my audience twisted their mustachoes with a combined feeling of pleasure and pride on hearing this testimony to the value of that ornament of the visage; and Khan Sâhib, who was one of the party, said to me with a smile, "You gentlemen with the mission wear mustachoes in compliance with the prejudices of the Persians; but is it true that many officers of your cavalry now wear them, and that they are again likely to become popular in England?" I said, perhaps they might; adding, I had no doubt that would be the case, if there appeared the slightest chance of their ever turning to account in the money-market, like those of John de Castro. But I must quit this curious and interesting subject to proceed with my narration. At Pool-e-Dellâk the Elchee received letters from the prime minister Hajee Ibrahim, congratulating him upon his near approach to the capital. "My house," the Hajee wrote, "is assigned for your residence; and I am to be honoured by having you as my guest as long as you remain at the abode of sovereignty." The minister also addressed letters to the mehmandar and to the secretaries of the Elchee, to inquire the exact time of his intended entry into Teheran, and to learn the hours at which he took his meals, the dishes of which he was fondest, and every other minute particular that could enable him to perform the task he had undertaken to his own satisfaction and that of the king, whom he represented as very anxious that every thing should be done to honour and please the British representatives. From the Barber's Bridge to our next stage was nearly fifty miles. We crossed a salt desert,[104] which Hajee Hoosein informed me, as he handed me the long snake of the kelliân, was once a sea; but at the birth of Mahomed it dried up, and thus became one of the many miracles to testify the importance to the world of that auspicious event. The change of surface, from a crust of white clay impregnated with salt, to a stony plain, indicated that we had passed the desert. We immediately afterwards came to a rugged and broken road, through the most frightful precipices and ravines I had ever seen. "I wish these ravines had been made smooth at your prophet's birth," I said to my friend the Hajee, who continued riding along with me. "Here also," said he, in a half alarmed voice, "a miracle was effected, but it was not completed. This dreadful place is called the 'Valley of the Angel of Death.'[105] That terrific minister of God's wrath, according to tradition, has resting-places upon the earth, and this is one of his favourite abodes. He is surrounded by ghools, horrid beings, who, when he takes away life, feast upon the carcasses.