SIR JOHN KIRK AT HOME. 
31 
Consul to present us, at one of the Sultan’s Friday 
levees. 
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, Gene¬ 
ral Matthews, who gives the order to present arms as 
the Consular party draws near. Then the Goanese 
band strikes up “ God save the Queen, 5 ’ 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 apart¬ 
ments 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 assist¬ 
ance 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 furni- 
