Strangely enough, this garish mixture of colour does not offend the eye, toned down as it is by the everlasting twilight shed over the mimic palace and garden by overhanging branches of cypress and yew.

An expanse of smooth-shaven lawn, white beds of lily and narcissus, marble tanks bubbling over with clear, cold water, and gravelled paths winding in and out of the trees to where, a hundred yards or so distant, a sunk fence divides the garden from a piece of ground two or three acres in extent,--a perfect jungle of trees, shrubs, and flowers.
Here, from about 4 p.m.till long after sunset, you may see the Shirazi taking his rest, undisturbed save for the ripple of running water, the sighing of the breeze through the branches, and croon of the pigeons overhead.

Now and again the tinkle of caravan-bells breaks in upon his meditations, or the click-click of the attendant's sandals as he crosses the tiled floor with sherbet, coffee, or kalyan; but the interruption is brief.

A few moments, and silence again reigns supreme--the perfection of rest, the acme of _Dolce far niente._ From here my way usually lay homewards, through the dusky twilight, past the city gates and along the now deserted plain.

A limestone hill to the south of Shiraz bears an extraordinary resemblance to the head of a man in profile.