it is propelled by one mule before and one
behind.

As long as these national peculiarities were
novel enough to excite curiosity, Mr. Burton
had something to relieve the monotony of his
life, which was very hopeless in the horticultural
line. By-and-bye it sank into great
sameness. The domestic changes were of
much the same kind as the Vicar of Wakefield's
migration from the blue bed to the brown:
for three or four months in the hot season, Mr.
Burton conveyed his mat up the mud staircase
which led from his apartments through a
trap-door on to the flat roof, and slept there.
When the hot weather was over, Mr. Burton
came down under cover. He felt himself
becoming utterly weary and enervated; and
probably wondered less than he had done on
his first arrival at the lazy way in which the
natives worked: sitting down, for instance, to
build a wall. Indifference, which their religion
may dignify in some things into fatalism,
seemed to prevail everywhere and in every
person. They ate their peas and beans un-
shelled, rather than take any unnecessary
trouble; a piece of piggism which especially
scandalised him.

Twice in the year there were great religious
festivals, which roused the whole people into
animation and enthusiasm. One in the
spring was the Noorooz, when a kind of
miracle-play was acted simultaneously upon
the various platforms in the city; the grandest
representation of all being in the market-
place, where thirty or forty thousand attended.
The subject of this play is the death of the
sons of Ali; the Persians being Sheeah, or
followers of Ali, and, as such, regarded as
schismatics by the more orthodox Turks,
who do not believe in the three successors of
Mohammed. This "mystery" is admirably
performed, and excites the Persians to passionate
weeping. A Frank ambassador is
invariably introduced, who comes to intercede
for the sous of Ali. This is the tradition of
the Persians; and although not corroborated
by any European legend, it is so faithfully
believed in by the Persians, that it has long
procured for the Europeans a degree of kindly
deference, very different from the feeling with
which they are regarded by the Ali-hating
Turks. The other religious festival occurs some
time in August, and is of much the same
description; some event (Mr. Burton believed it
was the death of Mohammed) being dramatised,
and acted in all the open public places.
The weeping and wailing are as general at
this representation as the other. Mr. Burton
himself said, "he was so cut up by it he could
not help crying;" and excused himself for what
he evidently considered a weakness, by saying
that everybody there was doing the same.

Sometimes the Schah rode abroad; he and
his immediate attendants were well mounted;
but behind, around, came a rabble rout to the
number of one, two, or even three thousand,
on broken-down horses, on mules, on beggarly
donkeys, or running on foot, their rags waving
in the wind, everybody, anybody, anyhow.
The soldiers in attendance did not contribute
to the regularity or uniformity of the scene, as
there is no regulation height, and the dwarf of
four feet ten jostles his brother in arms who
towers above him at the stature of six feet six.

In strange contrast with this wild tumult
and disorderly crowd must be one of the
Schah's amusements, which consists in listening
to Mr. Burgess (the appointed English interpreter),
who translates the Times, Illustrated
News, and, occasionally, English books, for
the pleasure of the Schah. One wonders what
ideas certain words convey, representative of
the order and uniform regularity of England.

In October, 1849, Colonel Shiel returned to
Teheran, after his sojourn in England; and
soon afterwards it was arranged that Mr.
Burton should leave Persia, and shorten his
time of engagement to the Schah by one-half.
Accordingly, as soon as he had completed a
year in Teheran, he began to make preparations
for returning to Europe; and about
March, 1850, he arrived at Constantinople,
where he remained another twelvemonth.
The remembrance of Mr. Burton's Oriental
life must be in strange contrast to the
regular, well-ordered comfort of his present
existence.

BREAD OF LIFE.

ALBEIT for lack of bread we die,
Die in a hundred nameless ways—
'Tis not for bread alone we cry,
In these our later days.

It is not fit that man should spend
His strength of frame, his length of years,
In toiling for that daily end—
Mere bread, oft wet with tears.

That is not wholly good or gain
Which seals the mind and sears the heart,
The life-long labour to sustain
Man's perishable part.

His is the need, and his the right
Of leisure, free from harsh control,
That he may seek for mental light,
And cultivate his soul;

Leisure to foster into bloom
Affections struggling to expand;
So shall his thought, with ampler room,
Improve his skill of hand.

And he should look with reverent eyes,
Sometimes, on Nature's open page;
Not solely are the wondrous skies
For school-man and for sage.

Earth's flower-hues blush, heav'n's star-lights burn,
Not only for the happy few;
To them the toiling man should turn,
For lofty pleasure, too.

But if ye take his blood for bread,
And drive him in one dreary round,
Since he and his must needs be fed,
Ye crush him to the ground.