I have been in for
many months; the rows of shops, the saloons, drug-stores, barber-shops,
and, above all, the hotels--how we appreciate it all after the bazaars
and wretched serais of Persia!

We patronize a barber-shop, and find the tonsorial accommodations equal
in every respect to those of America. One of the chairs is occupied by a
Cossack officer. He is the biggest dandy in the way of a Cossack we have
yet seen. Scarce had we thought it possible that one of these hardy
warriors of the Caucasus could blossom forth in the make-up that bursts
upon our astonished vision in this Baku barber-chair. The top-boots he
wears are the shiniest of patent leather from knee to toe; lemon-colored
silk or satin is the material of the long, gown-like coat that
distinguishes the Cossack from all others. His hair is parted in the
middle to a hair, and smoothed carefully with perfumed pomade; his
mustache is twirled and waxed, his face powdered, and eyebrows pencilled.
A silver-jointed belt, richly chased, encircles his waist, and the
regulation row of cartridge-pockets across his breast are of the same
material. He wears a short sword, the hilt and scabbard of which display
the elaborate wealth of ornament affected by the Circassians. During the
forenoon we take a stroll about the city afoot, but the wind is high, and
clouds of dust sweep down the streets. A Persian in gown and turban steps
quietly up behind us in a quiet street, and asks if we are mollahs. We
know his little game, however, and gruffly order him off. The houses of
Baku are mostly of rock and severely simple in architecture; they look
like prisons and warehouses mostly--massive and gloomy.

Everywhere, everywhere, hovers the shadow of the police. One seems to
breathe dark suspicion and mistrust in the very air. The people in the
civil walks of life all look like whipped curs. They wear the expression
of people brooding over some deep sorrow. The crape of dead liberty seems
to be hanging on every door-knob. Nobody seems capable of smiling; one
would think the shadow of some great calamity is hanging gloomily over
the city. Nihilism and discontent run riot in the cities of the Caucasus;
government spies and secret police are everywhere, and the people on the
streets betray their knowledge of the fact by talking little and always
in guarded tones.

Our stay at the hotel is but a few hours, but eleven domestics range
themselves in a row to wait upon our departure and t