invitation to dine with the agent of the great
Greek commercial house of Ralli, in the capital
of Armenia. But great was my surprise and
disappointment when we sat down to dinner,
and straight before me on a dish I saw my
eternal black saucepan, with the "Istu" in it,
and my host looking at me curiously to see
what I would do with it. Seeing that I did
nothing, and that I appeared to entertain a
positive enmity towards this dish, or rather this
saucepan, my host's kind face wore a very
disconcerted look. "I am sorry," said he, "you
do not like the dinner, for I have nothing else
prepared. Fearing you might not like such
simple fare as I could offer you, I consulted
your own cook, who told me that you never ate
anything but this. Though I thought it an odd
taste, I did my best to gratify you."

"May the grave of his grandfather be denied,"
said I.

My servants have strange morals.

"Suppose," says one of them in a reasoning
tone, as we are halting near a mountain pass:
"Suppose any one were to kill me, or I were
to kill anybody—I want a horse, fine clothes, a
gun. Why should I not have them if I can
get the opportunity of taking them from
anybody else?"

"To be sure," cried his companions in chorus.
"Whose dog is anybody else?"

Marvellous vanity and ingenious lying are
the chief characteristics of Persian servants.
A servant who disappeared from his party on a
journey, created so much anxiety that search
was made for him, and he was at length found
halting in great comfort at a neighbouring
village. One villager was leading his horse to
water, a second was washing his feet, a third
was brushing his boots, and others were
preparing for him a sumptuous meal. He had
artlessly declared that he was an emissary of
the commander-in-chief. He was a little
confused by the sudden appearance of his master,
but soon became composed, and readily satisfied
the people that his master was a humble friend
who had ridden that day forty miles in the rain
for the purpose of showing him respect and
attention.

I conclude with a little incident which
matches the mistake related in Mr. Benjamin
Disraeli's Tancred, of the Eastern servants who
drank up all their master's blacking, supposing
it to be wine: One day, when I was travelling, the
baggage-mules and most of the servants had gone
on, and we saw them in the distance winding in
a long train towards a mountain pass. The morning
breeze brought the tinkling of their bells
faintly towards us. But suddenly Ameem, our
chief muleteer, cantered rapidly back. Some
devils, he said, had got loose among the
baggage, and were endeavouring to destroy it by
explosion. Harry told me demurely, however,
and with that wonderful command of
countenance peculiar to an English servant, " It's
some of them there porter-bottles a bustin'
again, sir, I dessay. They— the Pussians I
means—was all a prayin' round two on 'em as
went off yesterday, and would have it as they
was gin.* But I told 'em there worn't no gin
there, and that quieted 'em."
* Ghin — demon.

GIVING UP.

"HE who begins well, ends well," says
the adage of I know not what Roman sage,
and, great as may be the lesson it inculcates,
I fear not to assert, that in the converse
of the proposition there is far more teaching
and instruction. He who begins well does,
doubtless, much; but how little, after all, is his
merit in comparison with him who " leaves off."
Beginning has a dash of adventure about it.
One addresses himself to it as to an enterprise.
There is all the excitement of the unknown— in
peril, in pleasure, in difficulty, and in contrivance
—engaged in it. It is a new land wherein
our foot has never ventured, and we feel all the
palpitating ardour of a discoverer as we
approach it. Beginning, too, has its compensations
for non-success in its very essence. We
are doing something we have never done before.
It is an essay we are making, and no need for
discouragement if we be not adepts. We can
count upon the cheering counsels of others, too,
who have gone the same road before us, and
tell us that they, like ourselves, found all the
difficulties just as we find them; and, lastly
of all, there is an air of youth in a beginning
that attracts sympathy and conciliates good
will.

What a dreary thing is "leaving off"
compared with this! With what an involuntary
sigh do the words rise to your lips! I have left
off dancing, left off raquet-playing, left off my
cigar, my fishing-rod, my summer ramble to
Norway—left off that club, that set of men,
and so on. Have you not in those few gloomy
words been epitomising a biography? Is it not
chronicling in one brief phrase the long and
weary work of years upon you, and saying, " Non
sum qualis eram!" You doubtless try to do
the thing heroically, and with the self-gratulating
chuckle of a fellow who is rather proud of his
experiences, as though saying: " No! you'll not
catch me at those follies again!" but it won't
do. Conscience is wagging a finger at you all
this while, and whispering, " Don't try on that
humbug with me; make the best of it if you
can; but no boasting, no vainglory. I'll not
stand that!"

Perhaps, however, you are too wise, or have
too much good taste, to fall into this affectation,
and that you assume a sort of graceful sadness
in the announcement; half hoping a generous
disclaimer on the part of your friend, as he says,
"You too old! What nonsense, man! Time
enough, twenty years hence, to talk in this
fashion." Now and then that line will succeed;
it will do so when your friend is much older
than you, and who can plead his own cause out
of your brief, but don't trust it generally. The