But look at the rotund, fatuous Dastur. How busy he is! What a roaring trade he drives! Though he visits a dozen houses in swift succession, there is only one room for him at every house, and that is the well-stocked prayer-room, "the Mecca of his appetite." He lives in "a paradise of pies and puddings." He prays, eats, and sleeps; sleeps, eats, and prays. While muttering the meaningless prayer, his eyes are on the solids—"thesubstantials, Sir Giles, the substantials." The jargon he mutters is dry, "so he moistens his words in his cups." And when, with his inner man thus fortified, he proceeds to prayers, "his words are of marrow, unctuous dropping fatness." He is a droll fellow, this Parsi Levite, and laughs over the folly of those on whose substance he fattens. He has materials in him of a good divine and a scholar, but he is born in an atmosphere of hollow imposture and sham, and lives and dies a cheat and a charlatan. To this man is due the invention and perpetuation of the thick haze of superstition which envelops the pure and simple form of worship bequeathed to us by the Prophet-Priest of Iran.
The Mahomedan holiday of the year, if holiday it may be called, is the Mo'haram.
