the little thing wandering about the streets has
been kidnapped, but it is quite as likely that it
has tumbled down a hole and been lost, or
killed by the kick of a horse, or crushed under
the hoofs of a camel.

The Persian civil year begins at the time of
the vernal equinox, and is a joyous holiday
among all classes. It is the Persian festival
of the Noorose, which is to say new year, or,
literally, new day, and it arrives with the
equinoctial gales in March. It is not a
Mahomedan festival, but has come down to us from
the ancient Persians.

It is a great day at Tehran. The whole city
is in an uproar. Early in the morning the king
marches out of his capital, attended by his
ministers and nobles, and as many of his army as
can be assembled. A stately and decorous court
to outward appearance, but a very rabble of an
army. Bombastes Furioso headed no stranger
troops. The ceremonies of the day commence
with a review, in which the queer army tumble
about in a manner quite wonderful to see, and
the German instructors gallop nowhere in a great
state of fuss and perspiration, and shout
unintelligible orders to their clumsy squadrons. The
king looks on gravely, keeping time with a slight
movement of his handsome haughty head to the
thundering scream of the bands, as they go
howling and shrieking by. The German
instructors, finding they can do nothing with their
troops, leave them to charge about in such
disorder as they please, and determine to witch
his majesty with a little noble horsemanship on
their own private account. Then comes some
wheeling and circling about, learned in the
riding-schools of Hungary and Bohemia, to show what
the German instructors could do if they could
get anybody to understand them—which they
cannot. The king, however, who is a right royal
prince, orders a new horse and a present to be
given to each of them, sends them a kind message
or speaks a few gracious words. Everybody
seems very well satisfied; which is more than
could be expected in such a terrible dust, and
with such a boisterous wind.

The king, however, has some reason to be in
a good humour; for this is the day upon which
the tribute of the subject-tribes upon the frontier,
and the gifts of the governors of his
provinces, are laid at the foot of the throne. This
is no metaphor. The throne is placed, where the
throne of a Persian king should be—in a
magnificent tent, pitched in the open plain. The king
remains in camp several days, which are passed
in feasting and revel. Horse-races are among
the chief amusements, and the Shah, whose
favourite horses generally win every race, gives
presents to the fortunate riders. His majesty,
indeed, takes the opportunity of squaring up his
accounts with his courtiers at the Noorose, and
most of those who surround him receive a dress of
honour, or some kind mark of the royal favour.

The nobles, in their turn, make gifts to their
servants and dependents, and send presents of
tea, sugar, and sweetmeats to each other.
Every man who meets his friend on the morning
of the Noorose, kisses him—somewhat as the
Russians used, not very long ago, to kiss each
other in the pleasant Easter-time. All this
jollity and merriment lasts about a week, but
the first day is the most important.

The Europeans residing in Persia have a busy
time of it at the Noorose. They are trotting
about from morning till night, like dogs in a
fair, to comply with the customs of the country,
and pay uncomfortable visits to everybody, in
the tightest of clothing. They receive visits
themselves also in turn. Among other visitors
to them is the king's white elephant, and the
elephant's keeper, who expects a handsome
present for the trouble of calling upon them,
and stops at each of their doors with a gibing
crowd about him till he gets it. I am not quite
sure that it would be perfectly safe to refuse
the customary present to the king's white
elephant.

The elephant is by no means the only person
who expects a gift from Europeans at the
Noorose. Wandering beggars, who call
themselves dervishes, and most of whom pretend to
be mad, or put forth some other claim to sanctity,
plant themselves in the most convenient
place about the premises of the Europeans, and
make dismal noises by night till paid to go
away. This practice is sanctioned by law, and
their demands are usually very exorbitant. In
one case they were so high, that a British
minister, who was a north countryman—a
humorous gentleman and rather a tough
customer—determined to resist what he rightly
judged an impudent attempt at extortion. A
dervish planted himself in a dirty little tent in
the centre of his excellency's garden, just where
he was wont to take his afternoon's walk. The
fellow was offered a reasonable sum to go away,
but would not do so; so the canny Scot
determined to dislodge him without the ceremony of
any payment at all. To use force was of course
out of the question; but the diplomatist had a
genius equal to the occasion. He watched the
time when the impostor went into the dirty
little tent to over-eat himself and sleep. He
found that these occupations usually took the
saintly man about twelve hours out of the
twenty-four, during which he was invisible; and,
one reason why he was so fresh and noisy at
night was, that he snoozed away the day in sloth
and self-indulgence. So the minister got his
European servants together, collected materials,
and, in an incredibly short space of time, built
up a wall round the dirty little tent, and began
to roof it in, when the dervish rushed out with
an awful yell, and screamed for mercy, which
was granted to him upon the mild condition
that he would take himself off. This he did
with more speed than dignity, and his countrymen
—who have always a greedy appetite for a
practical joke—laughed at him very heartily.

That British minister was the only European
who had ever ventured to match himself against
a dervish, till I went to Persia and became a
humble rival to his fame. A dirty little rogue,