Drawn up before his tawdry palace (a ricketty building of many storeys, of no style whatever, and of execrable taste) is a smart-looking regiment of the New Zanzibar army, the men in white uniform, with red and yellow caps, and the officers in white trousers and magnificently embroidered tunics. At their head stands their organizer and Commander-in-Chief, General Matthews, who gives the order to present arms as the Consular party draws near. Then the Goanese band strikes up “God save the Queen,” and we risk a sunstroke by walking through the serried ranks of soldiers with our helmets raised above our heads. In the entry to the palace more guards, Persian and Baluch, are assembled, and there are crowds of Arabs in gala costumes. Preceded by a kind of Master of the Ceremonies, we pass along corridors and apartments furnished in the Neo-Oriental (bastard French) style, and then ascend a strangely mean and poky staircase covered with scraps of faded kamptulicon. As we emerge on a small landing, coming up, as it were, from a stage trap, a tall, portly Arab leans over the stair-rail, and extends to each in turn a firm, plump hand. It is Sayyid Barghash come to greet his visitors half way; and though his cordial way of taking you by the hand and hoisting you up is merely a piece of formal courtesy, still it is of material assistance to you in emerging from the trap-like staircase. Preceded by the Sayyid, we are ushered into a long, narrow reception-room of Arab shape but later French decoration. Except for the fine Persian carpet which goes the whole length of the apartment, there is little to note that is pleasing to a critical eye. The furniture is red velvet and gilt wood. Round the walls are ranged medley assemblages of kitchen clocks, ormolu timepieces, aneroid barometers, thermometers, anemometers, telescopes, opera-glasses, musical-boxes, swords, spears, guns, pistols, toys of ingenious kinds, photographic albums, photographs glazed and framed and faded, and what not else. The upper end of the room, where the “Sultan” ordinarily sits, has a large mirror in the centre, and on either side of the mirror is a full-length oil painting of Sayyid Barghash. These two paintings are identical in every detail. They were manufactured in Paris. The Sayyid had a photograph taken of himself during his visit to London. It was in a sitting posture. He sent it to Paris with the order that it was to be enlarged standing, and then converted into two oil paintings. The Parisian artist, in no way at a loss, cut off the head of the sitting Sultan and stuck it on to the decapitated portrait of some Algerian Arab photographed erect. The combination was enlarged, and in due time gave rise to the two oil paintings in the palace at Zanzibar.