five o'clock
At the top of the hill , on a little open space where a reciter is declaiming with vigorous gestures the verses of Saadi , the adorable Persian poet , I abandon myself to the contemplation of the Transcaucasian capital . What I am doing here , I propose to do again in a fortnight at Pekin . But the pagodas and yamens of the Celestial Empire can wait awhile , here is Tiflis before my eyes ; walls of the citadels , belfries of the temples belonging to the different religions , a metropolitan church with its double cross , houses of Russian , Persian , or Armenian construction ; a few roofs , but many terraces ; a few ornamental frontages , but many balconies and verandas ; then two well-marked zones , the lower zone remaining Georgian , the higher zone , more modern , traversed by a long boulevard planted with fine trees , among which is seen the palace of Prince Bariatinsky , a capricious , unexpected marvel of irregularity , which the horizon borders with its grand frontier of mountains . It is now five o'clock . I have no time to deliver myself in a remunerative torrent of descriptive phrases . Let us hurry off to the railway station . There is a crowd of Armenians , Georgians , Mingrelians , Tartars , Kurds , Israelites , Russians , from the shores of the Caspian , some taking their tickets -- Oh !