One of the prominent industries is the distillation of otto-of-roses in the Shipka district, where in summer the whole country is covered with blossom, an industry to which I will devote a chapter. Carpets, very similar to the dark crimson-and-blue Persian varieties, and goat-hair floor-coverings are made largely by the peasantry, who also weave by hand wonderfully fine gauzes, tissues, and dress-stuffs. Felt hats, blankets, pottery, and copies of antique filigree jewellery are also of peasant manufacture, and are really wonderfully done. The stranger has no idea, until shown this museum, of the rapid progress the country is making commercially. While passing round the museum I chanced to admire two pairs of very fine antique silver earrings of rare design worn by the Bulgarian peasants two centuries ago, whereupon the case was at once opened, and they were presented to me as a little souvenir of my visit. Sofia, being a brand-new city, is not, of course, quite perfect. It requires, among other things, a good system of drainage and the repavement of its streets. The latter work is to be commenced in a few months’ time. A good first-class hotel, too, is also badly required. At present the hotels, though clean, are poor and comfortless, and neither they nor the restaurants do credit to the go-ahead character of the progressive Bulgarians. All this, however, will soon be remedied, for I heard of schemes for new hotels with fine restaurants and winter-gardens. So in six months’ time the traveller may expect to be in the full enjoyment of them, for in Sofia they do not talk, but act. If you are anywhere in the Balkans and mention Sofia, you will be told, with a sigh of regret, “Ah! they have a club there. We haven’t.” I had heard this in Belgrade, in Sarayevo, in Ragusa, in Cettinje—in fact, everywhere throughout the Balkans; therefore, with some curiosity I entered the sacred portals of the much-talked-of club with my friend Colonel Hubert du Cane, the British military attaché, and was elected a member during my stay in the Bulgarian capital. It certainly is a most excellent and comfortable club—one of the best I know of on the whole of the Continent. The rooms are cosy and artistic, and the members are most diplomats, Cabinet Ministers, and high functionaries of the State. At lunch, representatives of most of the European Powers assemble at the long table and chat merrily, while at dinner, at the small table at the end, M. Petkoff,[1] the Premier; Dr. Dimitri Stancioff, the Foreign Minister; and several other members of the Cabinet, dine nightly at “the Ministers’ table.” ----- Footnote 1: M. Petkoff has, since the present work has been in the press, been assassinated while walking in the Boris Garden in Sofia. -----