d, one or two days'
rest is preferable to a longer period; one gets rested without getting
out of condition. We take a stroll through the bazaar in the morning, and
call in at the wine-shop of a Russian-Armenian trader named Makerditch,
who keeps arrack and native wine, and sample some of the latter. In his
shop is a badly stuffed Mazanderaii tiger, and the walls of the private
sitting-room are decorated with rude, old-fashioned prints of saints and
scriptural scenes. It is now the Persian New Year, and bright new
garments and snowy turbans impart a gay appearance to the throngs in the
bazaar, for everybody changed his wardrobe from tip to toe on
eid-i-noo-roos (evening before New Year's Day), although the "great
unwashed" of Persian society change never a garment for the next twelve
months. Considering that the average lower-class Persian puts in a good
share of this twelve months in the unprofitable process of scratching
himself, one would think it must be an immense relief for him to cast
away these old habiliments with all their horrid load of filth and
vermin, and don a clean, new outfit; but the new ones soon get as thickly
tenanted as the old; and many even put the new garments on over certain
of the old ones, caring nothing for comfort and cleanliness, and
everything for appearance. The Persian New Year's holiday lasts thirteen
days, and on the evening of the thirteenth day everybody goes out into
the fields and plucks flowers and grasses to present to his or her
friends.

Governors of provinces who retain their position in consequence of having
sent satisfactory tribute to the Shah, and ruled with at least a
semblance of justice, get presents of new robes on New Year's Day, and
those who have been unfortunate enough to lose the royal favor get
removed: New Year's Day brings either sorrow or rejoicing to every
Persian official's house.

The morning of my departure opens bright and warm after a thunder-storm
the previous evening, and Mr. Mclntyre accompanies me to the outskirts of
the city, to put me on the right road to Mijamid, my objective point for
the day, eleven farsakhs distant. The streets are, of course, muddy and
unridable, and ere the suburbs are overcome a messenger overtakes us from
the Prince, begging me to return and drink tea with him before starting.

"Tell the Prince, the sahib sends salaams, but cannot spare the time to
return," replies my companion, who knows Persian thoroughly. "You must
c