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                         THE KINGDOM OF GEORGIA

                      NOTES OF TRAVEL IN A LAND OF
                         WOMEN, WINE, AND SONG

              TO WHICH ARE APPENDED HISTORICAL, LITERARY,
                AND POLITICAL SKETCHES, SPECIMENS OF THE
             NATIONAL MUSIC, AND A COMPENDIOUS BIBLIOGRAPHY

                           By OLIVER WARDROP

                      WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS

                                 LONDON
               SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON
                                Limited
          St. Dunstan's House, Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C.
                                  1888

                                   TO

                      PROFESSOR JAMES BRYCE, M.P.,

                       These Notes are Dedicated
                            (By permission),

             WITH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE AND PROFOUND RESPECT.

PREFACE.

There were four of us--two Frenchmen, an Italian, and an Englishman. We
had ridden from Damascus to Baalbek, and had seen the ruins;
after dinner, we were lying on heaps of cushions on the floor, in
a hostelry little known to Europeans. For some minutes the bubbling
of our narghilés was the only sound that broke the stillness of the
night. Then the ex-cuirassier spoke out in a strong voice--the voice
of a man accustomed to command--"Gentlemen! I propose that we solemnly
pass a vote of censure on the late M. de Lamartine." "Bravo!" was
our unanimous cry; and the vote was carried, nemine contradicente. A
rider was added, to the effect that poets should be discouraged from
writing books of travel.

"Surely a strange proceeding!" says the reader. Let me explain. We had
been shut up in Damascus for a long time by heavy snow-storms which
blocked the roads; the most interesting book we had was Lamartine's
"Voyage en Orient," and we had read the long description of Baalbek
over and over again, until we almost knew it by heart. Need I say that
the reality disappointed us? If we had never read Lamartine's book,
we should have been delighted with the place; but having read it,
we wanted the poet's eyes in order to see the temples as he saw them.

But what has all this to do with Georgia? Simply this: the following
pages are not written by a poet, and, gentle sir, if you ever pass a
vote of censure on the writer of them, it will not be for the reason
that he has painted things and places in a rose-coloured atmosphere.

In publishing these notes I have had but one object--to excite the
curiosity of my fellow-countrymen; the means of gratifying this
curiosity are indicated in the bibliographical section. Georgia is
practically unknown to the British public; well-educated people know
that the country is famous for its beautiful women, but they are
not very sure whether those charming creatures live under Persian,
Turkish, or Russian rule, while not one person in a thousand knows
that the Georgians and Circassians are distinct peoples.

If you suggest that Transcaucasia is a good place for a holiday, you
meet with a look of blank astonishment--it is just as if you had said
the Sooloo Islands, or Vladivostok. When you explain that Georgia is
now a part of the Russian Empire, you hear stereotyped remarks about
police and passports. The intending visitor need have no anxiety on
this score; even in Moscow a foreigner is seldom or never put to any
inconvenience, in the Caucasus he almost forgets that he has such a
thing as a passport.

There is no reason why Georgia should not become as popular a resort
as Norway or Switzerland. It is not so far away as people imagine--you
can go from London to Tiflis, overland, in a week; it is at least
as beautiful as either of the countries just named; it has the great
advantage of being almost unknown to tourists; there is none of the
impudent extortion which ruffles our tempers nearer home, and it is,
after all, a cheaper place to travel in than Scotland. All these
circumstances ought to have an influence on the holiday-maker in
search of health and recreation.

The botanist, the geologist, the archæologist, the philologist
will all find there mines of rich materials yet unknown to their
respective sciences. The mountaineer knows the country already,
through Mr. Freshfield's excellent book; the sportsman knows it too,
thanks to Mr. Wolley. Artists will get there a new field for the brush,
the pencil, and the camera. But, after all, Georgia's chief attraction
lies in its people; the Georgians are not only fair to look upon, but
they are essentially a lovable people; it is a true proverb that says,
"The Armenian's soul is in his head, the Georgian's in his eyes;"
to live among such gay, open-hearted, open-handed, honest, innocent
folk is the best cure for melancholy and misanthropy that could well
be imagined.

The language will occur to most people as a difficulty. Either
Russian or Georgian carries the traveller from the Black Sea to the
Caspian, even Turkish is pretty well known; in the larger towns one
can always find hotels where French or German is understood, and
where interpreters can be hired. Those who have travelled know that
a very slight knowledge of a language is sufficient for all practical
purposes, and such a knowledge of Georgian could be picked up in a week
or so; Russian is more difficult, both in grammar and pronunciation. It
may be a consolation to some, to know that a lady, Mme. Carla Serena,
who travelled alone, and spent a long time in the wildest part of
the Caucasus, could not speak a dozen words of Russian or Georgian.

Let me clearly repeat what I said in the first paragraphs of this
preface: in the following plain, matter-of-fact record of travel my
aim has not been to give immediate pleasure, but rather to show how
and where pleasure may be obtained. Autumn is the best season for a
visit, and spring is the next best time.

My hearty thanks are due to Mr. W. R. Morfill, for his kindness in
reading through the chapters on the history and literature of Georgia.

O. W.

Oxford, September, 1888.

NOTE.

In transcribing proper names I have tried to preserve the original
orthography as far as possible.

      a    should be pronounced   as in father.
      e    should be pronounced   like a in made.
      i    should be pronounced   as in machine.
      u    should be pronounced   as in rude.
      ch   should be pronounced   as in church.
      kh   should be pronounced   like ch in Scottish and German.
      s    should be pronounced   as in sun.
      z    should be pronounced   as in amaze.
      g    should be pronounced   as in gun.
      y    should be pronounced   as in yellow

CONTENTS.

                                                                PAGE
    Batum to Tiflis                                                1
    Tiflis                                                         8
    The Georgian Military Road between Tiflis and Vladikavkaz     34
    The Kakhetian Road--Tiflis to Signakh                         69
    Signakh                                                       78
    A Trip across the Alazana                                     83
    Signakh to Telav, and thence to Tiflis                       100
    The History of Georgia                                       113
    The Language and Literature of Georgia                       136
    The Political Condition of the Kingdom of Georgia            155

    APPENDIX.

    Bibliography                                                 171
    Statistics                                                   197
    Specimens of Georgian Vocal Music                            201

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

A few illustrations and the map at the end of the volume are not
available in the scan-set used to prepare this ebook. Several other
illustrations still contain the perforated library markings.

    Tiflis                                        Frontispiece
    Maps of Transcaucasian Railway
        and Military Road                       To face page 1
    A Georgian Wrestler                                     30
    Saint Nina                                              40
    Ananur                                                  46
    Dariel Fort and Ruins of Tamara's Castle                62
    Dariel                                                  64
    Vladikavkaz                                             66
    An Arba                                                 73
    A Street in Signakh                                     80
    Georgian National Costume                               84
    The City Wall, Telav                                   108
    Queen Tamara                                           114
    Irakli II                                              124
    Rustaveli                                              139
    Prince Ilia Chavchavadze                               150
    Prince Ivané Machabeli                                 153
    Bishop Gabriel of Kutaïs                               154
    Map of Georgia                                  At the end.

THE KINGDOM OF GEORGIA.

BATUM TO TIFLIS.

One morning in April, 1887, after a five days' passage from Odessa,
we entered the harbour at Batum.

Batum (Hôtel Imperial, Hôtel de France, Hôtel d'Europe) is a town
of 10,000 inhabitants, mostly Georgians; it consists of an ancient
Asiatic quarter, dirty and tumble-down looking, and a European one
only seven years old. Its situation at the foot of the mountains is
lovely beyond all description. The place has a decidedly "Far West"
look about it, everything seems half-finished; the streets are broad
and, with a few exceptions, unpaved, the depth of the mud varies from
three or four inches to half a yard, heaps of rotting filth furnish
food for numerous pigs, and in the best thoroughfares ducks find
convenient lakes on which to disport themselves.

I took an early opportunity of presenting myself at the British
Vice-Consulate, a small, two-storey cottage, the lower half of which
is of brick, the upper of corrugated iron sheets. Mr. Demetrius
R. Peacock, the only representative of British interests in the
Caucasus, is a man whose services deserve fuller recognition. It would
be hard to find a post where more diplomatic tact is required, yet he
contrives to make himself respected and admired by all the many races
with which he is in daily contact. Mr. Peacock was born in Russia,
and has spent most of his life in that empire, but he is nevertheless
a thorough Englishman. In Tiflis I heard a good story about him. On
one occasion the French Consul-General jokingly said to him, "Why,
Peacock, you are no Englishman, you were born in Russia." To which
our representative replied, "Our Saviour was born in a stable, but
for all that He did not turn out a horse."

Although Batum is not very attractive as a town, it is at any rate
far preferable to Poti or Sukhum, and it has undoubtedly a splendid
future before it. Even at the present time the exports amount to
nearly 400,000 tons, chiefly petroleum, manganese ores, wool, cotton,
maize, tobacco, wine, fancy woods, &c. It is essentially a city of
the future; and its inhabitants firmly believe that it will yet be a
powerful rival of Odessa in trade, and of the Crimean coast-towns as a
watering-place. At present we should hardly recommend it to invalids;
the marshes round about are gradually being drained; but they still
produce enough malaria to make the place dangerous to Europeans;
the drinking-water, too, is bad.

The harbour is fairly well sheltered, but rather small; yet, to the
unprofessional eye, there seems no reason why it might not easily be
enlarged if necessary. The entrance is protected by a fortification
in the form of an irregular rectangle, lying on the S.W. corner of
the bay, behind the lighthouse. The earthworks, about seventy or
eighty feet high, and lined with masonry, cover a piece of ground
apparently about 300 paces long by 180 paces broad; a broad-gauge
railway surrounds the fortress. When I was there the work was being
pushed forward very rapidly, and preparations were being made to fix
a heavy gun close to the lighthouse--at that time there were only
about a dozen guns of small calibre in position.

In the town there is absolutely nothing to attract the stranger's
attention; a few mosques and churches, petroleum refineries, half a
dozen European shops, some half-finished public buildings, and the
embryo of a public garden on the shore serve as an excuse for a walk;
but if the traveller happens to hit upon a spell of wet weather,
he will soon have seen all he wants to see of Batum, and will get
out of its atmosphere of marsh gas and petroleum as soon as possible.

The only daily train leaves at eight o'clock in the morning; the
station, although it is a terminus of so much importance, is a wretched
wooden building, a striking contrast to the one at Baku, which would
not disgrace our own metropolis. The railway skirts the sea for about
thirty miles, and on the right lies a range of hills covered with a
luxuriant growth of fine forest-trees and thick undergrowth gay with
blossoms; in the neighbourhood of the town there are already many
pretty villas. The rain of the previous few weeks had made the woods
wonderfully beautiful, and the moist air was heavy with fragrance;
I never saw such a wealth of plant life before. At Samtredi, where
the lines from Batum and Poti meet, we leave Guri and Mingreli
behind us and enter Imereti. On the left we now have a fine broad
plain, and near us flows the Rion, the ancient Phasis. The country
is far more thickly populated than Guri or Mingreli, or any other
part of Trans-Caucasia, but it could easily support a much larger
number if the ground were properly worked. I was amazed when I saw,
for the first time, five pairs of oxen dragging one wooden plough,
but the sight of this became familiar to me before I had lived long
in Georgia. At the roadside stations (I need hardly say that our
train stopped at all of them) I saw some fine faces--one poor fellow
in a ragged sheepskin cloak quite startled me by his resemblance to
Dante Alighieri. From the station of Rion, on the river of that name,
a branch line runs northward to Kutaïs, none other than the Cyta in
Colchis whence Jason carried off Medea and the Golden Fleece.

Kutaïs (Hôtel de France, Hôtel Colchide, Hôtel d'Italie) is a
beautiful town of 25,000 inhabitants, almost all Georgians. The
ruins of an old castle on the other side of the river show where
the town stood a century ago, and from this point the best view of
Kutaïs is obtained. Abundance of good building-stone, a rich soil,
and plenty of trees, render the capital of Imereti a charming sight;
its elevation of about 500 feet makes its atmosphere cool and bracing
compared with that of the coast-towns. The traveller who wishes to
become acquainted with Georgian town-life cannot do better than stay
in Kutaïs a month or two. About five miles off is the monastery of
Gelati, built in the tenth century, and renowned as the burial-place
of the glorious Queen Tamara. From Kutaïs a journey may be made to
Svaneti, the last Caucasian state conquered by Russia, and even now
only nominally a part of the Tsar's dominions; Mr. Wolley's book,
"Savage Svanetia," will give the intending visitor some idea of the
sport that may be had in that wild region. The road across the Caucasus
from Kutaïs to Vladikavkaz is much higher and wilder than the famous
Dariel road, and I much regret that I had not time to travel by it.

Pursuing our journey from Rion to the eastward we soon reach Kvirili,
which is about to be connected by a branch line of railway with
Chiaturi, the centre of the manganese district; at present all the ore
is carried down to the main line, a distance of twenty-five miles,
in the wooden carts called arbas. Passing through glens of wondrous
beauty, adorned with picturesque ruins of ancient strongholds, we
at length arrive at the mountain of Suram, 3027 feet above Black Sea
level, the watershed which separates the valley of the Kura, with its
hot summers and cold winters, from the more temperate region drained
by the Rion. The railway climbs very rapidly to the summit of the pass,
but it comes down still more rapidly; there is a slope of one in twenty
for a distance of a thousand feet; at the bottom is the town of Suram
with its fine old castle. We now follow the course of the Kura all
the way to Tiflis, passing Mikhailovo (whence a road runs to Borzhom,
the most fashionable summer-resort in Trans-Caucasia) and Gori, a
good-sized town, near which is the rock city of Uphlis Tsikhe. It is
half past nine at night before Mtzkhet, the ancient capital of Georgia,
is reached, and at a quarter past ten we enter Tiflis, ten hours from
Kutaïs, and fourteen hours from Batum. Our journey is not yet ended,
however, for it takes half an hour to drive from the station to the
fashionable quarter of the town where the hotels are situated.

TIFLIS.

The best hotels are Kavkaz, Rossiya, London; all pretty good. If
the traveller intends to make a prolonged stay, he can easily find
furnished apartments and dine at a restaurant (e.g. the French
Restaurant d'Europe, opposite the Palace). The best plan of all is
to board with a Georgian family; but without good introductions it
is somewhat difficult to do this. Although beef only costs 1-1/2d. a
pound and chickens 2d. each, living is dear in Tiflis; the necessaries
of life, except house-rent and clothing, are cheap, and one need not,
like Alexandre Dumas, pay three roubles for having his hair cut, but
the "extras" are heavy, and if the visitor is not disposed to spend
his roubles with a free hand and a light heart, he will meet with a
poor reception, for the Georgian hates nothing more than meanness,
a vice from which he firmly believes Englishmen to be free.

Tiflis takes its name from the hot medicinal springs, for which
it has been famous for fourteen centuries at least; in Georgian it
is called Tphilisi, which philologists assert to be derived from a
root akin to or identical with the Indo-European tep; the meaning
of Toeplitz and Tiflis is thus the same. In the fifth century king
Vakhtang Gurgaslan founded Tiflis, and began to build the Cathedral
of Sion, which still stands in the midst of the city. The castle,
situated on a high, steep rock, near the Kura, is older than the city
itself, and its construction is attributed to the Persians. Tiflis
has shared in all the triumphs and misfortunes which have befallen
Georgia, and the history of the capital would only be a repetition
of the history of the nation.

The city is built on both sides of the Kura, at an elevation of 1200
feet, between two ranges of steep, bare hills, which rise to a height
of 2500 feet, and hem it in on all sides, thus it lies at the bottom
of a deep rock basin, and this accounts for the terrible heat which
renders it such an unpleasant dwelling-place in July and August. The
river Kura is crossed by several fine bridges, the best of which is
named after Prince Vorontsov, who during his governorship did great
things for Trans-Caucasia, and gained for himself the lasting gratitude
of all the peoples committed to his care. The population of 105,000
consists not only of Georgians, but of Russians (civil servants and
soldiers), Armenians (traders and money-lenders), Persians, Tatars,
and a few Europeans, viz. Germans (colonists from Suabia), Frenchmen
(milliners, hotel-keepers), &c. Although the English residents might be
counted on one's fingers, it seems a pity that her Majesty's Consulate
should have been closed in 1881; surely Great Britain has in Georgia
interests at least equal to those of France, Germany, Belgium, and
the other nations which have representatives in Tiflis.

The effect which Tiflis produces on the mind of the stranger is
perfectly unique; its position, its surroundings, the varied nature
of its street-life, the gaiety and simplicity of its social life, all
combine to form a most powerful and most pleasurable impression. If
the reader will mentally accompany me, I shall take him through some
of the more interesting quarters, and endeavour to give him some idea
of the place. First of all, starting from the fashionable district
called Salalaki, let us climb the rocky road which leads to the ruins
of the castle, whence we obtain the finest view of the city. The best
time to enjoy the panorama is evening, and in summer no one would
ever think of making the toilsome ascent much before sunset. From
these crumbling walls one looks over a vast expanse of house-tops and
church spires, through the midst of which winds the muddy Kura. At
our feet lies the old town, a labyrinth of narrow, crooked streets,
stretching from the square of Erivan down to the waterside, where
stands the Cathedral of Sion. Quite near at hand the river becomes
very narrow, and advantage of this circumstance has been taken by
building a bridge, which leads to the citadel of Metekh (now used as
a prison) and the large Asiatic quarter called Avlabar. On this side
of the river, forming a continuation of the range of hills on which
we are standing, rises the Holy Mount (Mtatsminda), and perched
high up near its summit is the pretty white church of St. David,
behind which rises a wall of bare, black rock; half-way between it
and the river is the Governor's palace, with its extensive gardens,
just at the beginning of the Golovinskii Prospekt, a long boulevard
with fine shops and public buildings; between the boulevard and the
river lies the Municipal Garden, named after Alexander I. Turning
our eyes towards the other side of the Kura, beyond Avlabar, we see,
on the hill facing St. David's, a large block of buildings used
as a military depôt, arsenal, and barracks, and still farther on,
on the river bank, is a thick green belt which we recognize as the
gardens of Mikhailovskaya Street, ending in the splendid park called
Mushtaïd. Crossing the ridge, we now turn our back on the city and
descend into the Botanical Garden, situated in a sheltered ravine,
a delightful place for an evening stroll; on the opposite side of
the ravine is a Tatar village with a lonely graveyard.

The Erivan Square is the great centre of activity; in its midst is the
Caravanserai, a vast rectangular building full of shops, not unlike
the Gostinoï Dvor, in Petersburg, but poorer. From that corner of
the square in which is the Hôtel du Caucase, runs Palace Street,
all one side of which is occupied by the Caravanserai of the late
Mr. Artsruni, a wealthy Armenian, and behind, in a fine garden,
is the Georgian theatre; both the garden and the theatre belong
to the Land Bank of the Nobles, an institution which deserves the
attention of all who are interested in the Iverian nation. The bank
was founded in 1874 in order to aid farmers to work their lands by
advancing them money at the lowest possible rate of interest; all
the profits are spent in the furtherance of philanthropic schemes
and in the encouragement of national education. It is a significant
fact that the more intelligent members of Georgian society should
have chosen this mode of activity in preference to any other, but
the reason of their choice is apparent; from the bitter experience of
the last hundred years they have learnt that although munificence is
one of the noblest of the virtues, extravagance and ostentation are
hurtful, and they have, therefore, wisely determined to do all they
can to improve the economic condition of the country. The public
meetings of the shareholders give an opportunity for discussion
and speech-making, and it is in this "Gruzinskii Parlament" (as the
Russians have nicknamed it) that Prince Chavchavadze has gained for
himself the not unmerited title of the "Georgian Gambetta." I was
an occupant of the Ladies' Gallery at one of these assemblies, and
I shall never forget the impression produced upon me by the sight of
these handsome, warlike Asians in their picturesque garb, conducting
their proceedings exactly in the same order as British investors
do every day in the City of London. Try and imagine the heroes of
the Elizabethan Age at Cannon Street Hotel discussing the current
dividend of the S.E.R., and you will have some idea of my feelings.

Only those who have lived the life of the people in Trans-Caucasia know
what a terrible curse the money-lending community are. A local proverb
says, "A Greek will cheat three Jews, but an Armenian will cheat three
Greeks," and the Georgian, straightforward, honest fellow, is but too
often cruelly swindled by the artful children of Haïk. When the fraud
is very apparent the Armenian often pays for his greed with all the
blood that can be extracted from his jugular vein. During my stay in
Tiflis, a certain wild young prince, Avalov, had made himself popular
by slaughtering a few Armenians; his latest exploit made so much stir
that a prosecution was talked of; but Avalov was no dweller in towns,
he spent his time merrily out in the greenwood, and it would have
needed a company of Kazaks to arrest him. While the authorities were
deliberating, the prince sent a polite message to say that if they
tried to make matters unpleasant for him, he would, with God's help,
devote the remainder of his natural life to running amuck of every
"salted" Armenian (a reference to their habit of salting children as
soon as they are born) that crossed his path. Another young nobleman
got three years' imprisonment for "perforating" an insulting usurer,
and the cruelty of the sentence was much spoken of; a lady said to me,
"Just fancy, that fine young fellow imprisoned among common criminals
for killing a rascal of an Armenian," as who should say for killing
a dog.

Let it be clearly understood that I say nothing against the Armenian
nation; I have the strongest admiration for their undoubted literary
and administrative talent, and for the energy with which they resist
all attempts to destroy their national spirit. The Armenian not being
a money-lender or trader, is a citizen of which any country might
be proud; but the usurer, whether he be Jew, Armenian, or Briton,
is a most despicable character, and, unfortunately, the peculiar
conditions under which the Armenians have lived for many centuries
have necessarily made Shylocks of a large percentage of them.

Continuing our walk, we emerge from Palace Street into the
wide Golovinskii Prospekt, which takes its name from Golovin,
a former governor of the Caucasus. On the left lies the palace,
a fine modern building in the European style, and on the right is
the Caucasian Museum, in which the student will find geological,
zoological, ethnographical, entomological, botanical, archeological,
and numismatic collections of the highest interest. On the walls of
the staircase are several large pictures, the most interesting of
which are, a portrait of Queen Tamara, copied from the painting at
Gelati, and "The Arrival of the Argonauts in Colchis," the figures
in which are all portraits, the Grand Duke Nicholas Mikhailovich
being represented as Jason. There is also a very large collection
of photographs, comprising all that is worth seeing in the Caucasus
and in Persia. In the same block of buildings is the Public Library,
in which will be found most of the literature relating to the country,
and a fair number of books on general subjects.

The library is at the corner of the Prospekt and Baronovskaya Street,
and turning down the latter, the first turning on the right brings
us to the Post Office, facing which is a girls' grammar school. The
traveller who happens to pass that way when the lessons for the day are
over (and he might do worse if he likes to see pretty young faces),
will be surprised, unless he has been in Russia, to see that all
the children are dressed alike, regardless of age, complexion, and
taste; he will be still more surprised when he hears that if one of
these uniforms is seen out after 5 p.m., the fair wearer is severely
punished, it being the opinion of the Tsar's Minister of Education
that school-girls, and school-boys too, should after that hour be at
home preparing their tasks for next day. The school accommodation is
lamentably inadequate; in the government of Tiflis there are only
about 280 children at school for every 10,000 of the population,
in the government of Kutaïs only 250.

Returning to Golovinskii Prospekt, we pass on the right the Staff
Headquarters of the army of the Caucasus, the best restaurant in the
city, some good shops, and then arrive at the Aleksandrovskii Garden,
which slopes down to the river bank; its shady walks are thronged every
evening when a military band performs. Near its extreme corner, and
almost on the waterside, is the Russian theatre; although the house
is a small one and only used as a makeshift until the new theatre
is finished, it is a very pleasant place to spend an evening; good
companies from Petersburg and Moscow play during the season, and I
saw some of the stars of the profession there. Unfortunately, there is
a preference for translations of French and German pieces with which
the European is already familiar, but Russian plays are not totally
ignored. I once saw a version of "Le Monde où l'on s'ennuie" which
was in the smallest details of gesture and property a photographic
reproduction of the comedy as I have seen it on the classic boards
of the Théâtre Français--but there was one startling innovation,
Bellac was described on the programme as an abbé (sic!). The great
charm of the Tifliskii Theatre is, however, its open air crush-room,
a fine large garden where a band plays between the acts, and where
refreshments may be partaken of and smoking indulged in.

The new theatre on Golovinskii Prospekt is a handsome edifice which
was still unfinished at the time of my visit. The farther you get from
the Erivan Square the less aristocratic does the Boulevard become,
the only other building of note in that part of it being the Cadets'
College; the opening of the new theatre will, however, make a great
difference, and in a few years the dirty little beershops on the left
will doubtless disappear, and Golovinskii Prospekt will be one of the
finest streets in the world. Its situation is a splendid one, and is
not unworthy of comparison with that of Princes' Street, Edinburgh;
the Holy Mount, rising black and steep to a considerable height, and
adorned with the pretty white church of St. David, might not inaptly be
said to be to Tiflis what the Castle Hill is to the modern Athens. At
the end of the Boulevard is the posting-station, whence we can return
to our starting-place by tram-car. All the main thoroughfares of the
city are now laid with tram-lines, the construction of which is due
to a Belgian company which is paying very good dividends.

Thursday afternoon is the best time for visiting the Church of
St. David, for a service is then held and large numbers of women
attend. Proceeding from Salalaki along Laboratornaya, which is
parallel to the Boulevard and is the most select street in Tiflis,
we reach the street of the Holy Mount (Mtatsmindskaya), a steep,
roughly-paved thoroughfare which leads up to St. David's Place, and
a winding mountain path takes us thence to the church. St. David
was a Syrian monk who came to Georgia in the sixth century, and
lived a hermit's life among the woods which at that time covered the
hill. Tradition says that the daughter of a wealthy man who lived near
there, finding herself in an interesting condition, thought the best
way of getting out of the difficulty would be to accuse the saint of
being the cause of this state of affairs. The holy man, naturally,
objected, and having made his accuser appear in an assembly of the
people, he proved his innocence by making the unborn child say audibly
who was its father. Whereupon, in answer to the prayers of the saint,
the child was converted into a stone, which the damsel brought forth
immediately. This stone was made the foundation of a church. David then
asked that a spring of living water of fructifying virtue might be made
to flow; this fountain is still visible, and its water is largely used
by married ladies; the climb of twenty minutes from St. David's Place
is so toilsome that even the most bitter Malthusian would hasten to
quench his thirst there; as far as I know, it is the only water in
Tiflis fit for human consumption. Every pious lady who visits the
shrine carries a stone or brick up the hill with her, and it is from
these that the church was built and is still kept in repair. There
is another interesting custom in which maidens and matrons alike take
part; after adoring the picture of the Virgin, the suppliant silently
walks round the building three times, unwinding as she goes a reel of
thread, fit symbol of the boundlessness of her love and veneration for
the Immaculate Mother of God. Then picking up one of the pebbles with
which the ground is covered, she rubs it against the plastered wall,
and with beating heart waits to see if it will stick--if it does,
then her prayer has been heard, the lass will have a sweetheart,
the wife will have a son. The church is of modern construction, but
its design differs in no respect from the ancient Byzantine style,
specimens of which may be seen all over Georgia. The interior is
like that of any other Greek church, and on the walls there are some
quaint but rather crude pictures. The mass is, of course, in Georgian,
and the choral service strikes rather strangely on Western ears,
although not wanting in melody.

Just below the church is a monument bearing the inscription in Russian:
"Aleksandr Sergeyevich Griboyedov, born January 4th, 1795, killed in
Teheran, January 30th, 1829. Thy mind and thy deeds will never die in
the memory of Russia, but why did my love outlive thee?" The story of
Griboyedov's life is a sad but interesting one. By birth, education,
and talents he was fitted to become one of the most brilliant members
of Russian society, but he was early infected with the restless
critical spirit of the century, and at the age of seventeen he had
already thought out the plot of his great comedy Goré ot uma, which
is a bitter satire on the fashionable life of his day. In 1812 his
patriotism led him to join in the national defence, but he never saw
active service; like his brother officers he enlivened the monotony
of barrack life with the wildest dissipation and folly; for instance,
we read that he galloped up two flights of stairs and into a ball-room,
that he took advantage of his position as organist in a Polish church,
to strike up a well-known comical tune in the midst of high mass. But
he soon abandoned this unsatisfactory life, went to Petersburg in
1815, turned his attention to dramatic literature, and produced some
successful pieces. In 1818 we find him in Persia as secretary to
the embassy at Tavriz; there he led a solitary life and studied the
Persian language, he read all the poetical literature of the country,
and himself wrote Persian lyrics. In 1823 he took a year's leave of
absence, and employed much of the time in revising his great work; it
was his aim to make his verse "as smooth as glass," and he sometimes
re-wrote a phrase a dozen times before it pleased him. When it was
at length finished, the severe censure prevented its representation,
and it was many years after the poet's death before the full text of
the play was heard in Russia. After taking part in a war against the
Caucasian Mountaineers, the Persian war gave him an opportunity of
exhibiting a bravery bordering on recklessness, and when Erivan had
been stormed it was through his skilful diplomacy that Russia obtained
such favourable terms of peace, although the British Minister aided
Persia with his counsels. In 1828 he left Petersburg with the rank
of ambassador at the Persian Court. Before leaving he expressed to
his friends the most gloomy forebodings, he was sure that he would
not return to Russia alive. At Tiflis, however, he found temporary
relief from his mournful feelings in the society of Nina Chavchavadze,
daughter of Prince Alexander Chavchavadze, the poet, a lady whom he
described as a "very Madonna of Murillo;" he married her, and she
went with him as far as Tavriz, he promising to come back to her as
soon as possible. He had no sooner reached Teheran, than his enemies
at the court of the Shah began to excite popular feeling against
him, and an incident soon occurred which gave some excuse for an
attack on the embassy. An Armenian prisoner who had risen to the
dignity of chief eunuch in the Shah's household, and two women, an
Armenian and a German, from the harem of a powerful personage, fled
to the Russian ambassador and asked him to assist them to return to
Russian territory. Griboyedov insisted that, according to the treaty
of peace, all prisoners had a right to freedom, and he refused to give
up the refugees. On the 30th of January, 1829, a mad, yelling crowd of
100,000 men made an attack on the embassy. Griboyedov, sword in hand,
led out his handful of horsemen and was immediately killed; only one
member of the embassy escaped death. It was Griboyedov's wish that he
should be buried in Georgia, and they chose this romantic spot which
the poet had loved so much during his stay in Tiflis. The beautiful
Nina remained faithful to her husband's memory, and mourned for him
eight-and-twenty years, until she was carried up the winding path to
share his grave.

The view from the churchyard is a splendid one; the whole city, with
its wonderful diversity of form and colour, lies at your feet; on
the right you can see far along the Kakhetian road, and on the left
the great highway to Vladikavkaz follows the winding course of the
Kura. In the evening we often climbed to the top of a bare crag not
far from the church, carrying with us a large earthenware flagon of
wine, a roast leg of mutton, fruit, cucumbers, and other delicacies,
and spreading out our cloaks on the ground lay there making merry,
singing and telling tales until long after midnight; the lights of the
town below us seemed like a reflection of the bright stars above us,
and the music and laughter of many a jovial group came up the hillside
to mingle with our own.

After descending the hill, we cross the Boulevard at the publishing
office of Kavkaz, the official organ, and skirting the Alexandrovskii
Garden, soon reach the finest bridge in the town, Vorontsovskii Most,
from which we get an interesting view of the waterside part of the
Asiatic quarter; most of the houses have balconies overhanging the
river, and one is involuntarily reminded of the Tiber banks at Rome. On
the other side of the bridge, in a small square, is a statue of Prince
Vorontsov, Governor of the Caucasus, from 1844 to 1854. During my
stay the good people of that district were astonished one morning to
see the Prince's head surmounted by a tall, well-worn sheepskin hat,
such as the Lesghians wear; the effect was exceedingly ridiculous,
and the youthful revellers who, at considerable risk of breaking
their necks, were the authors of the joke, were well rewarded for
their pains by the laughter of all who passed that way, for your
Georgian is a merry fellow.

Turning to the right, we traverse Peski, a quarter very different
from Salalaki. Here we see small open-fronted Oriental shops in which
dark Persians ply their trades, making arms, saddlery, jewellery,
selling carpets, and doing a hundred other things all before the eyes
of men and in the open air. There is a strange confusion of tongues
and dresses; a smart little grammar-school girl rubs shoulders with
a veiled Mussulman woman, and occasionally you see the uniform of
a Russian officer elbowing his way through a crowd of Lesghians,
Armenians, Georgians, Persians; through the midst of all this
confusion runs the tram-car. We are not beyond all the influences
of civilization, for, besides the tram-way, we see on a sign-board
the legend "Deiches Bir" (? Deutsches Bier), over the picture of a
flowing tankard.

We cross the narrow bridge and pay a visit to the baths. Perhaps
the reader knows something of the so-called Turkish bath, and
imagines that the baths of Tiflis are of the same sort? There is
certainly some similarity between the two, but there are profound
differences; the treatment to which the visitor is subjected at a
Turkish bath in Constantinople is not to be compared with what the
Persian shampooer puts you through in Tiflis. He goes through a whole
course of gymnastics with you, during which he jumps on your chest,
on the small of your back, doubles you up as if you were a fowl ready
for cooking, and, besides removing every particle of your epidermis,
performs sundry other experiments at which the novice stares aghast. At
the end of it all you make up your mind that it is not so terrible
as it looks, and as you feel wonderfully refreshed you resolve to
return again before long. The water is of a heat of about 100° Fahr.,
and is impregnated with sulphur and other substances which give it a
healing virtue; it is to these springs that Tiflis owes its existence,
and they have always been of much importance in the daily life of
the people. Formerly it used to be the fashion for ladies of rank to
hire baths and dressing-rooms for a whole day, spending the time in
perfuming themselves, staining their finger tips, dressing the hair,
and performing a dozen other ceremonies of the toilette, concluding
with dinner, but the growth of European habits has rendered this
custom less common.

The Cathedral of Sion is, as we said before, as old as the city
itself, but, of course, it has suffered considerably at the hands of
destroyers and restorers. Its style is the same as that of all the
other churches in Georgia, and it doubtless served as a pattern for
most of them. The inside has been tastefully decorated in modern times,
and produces a pleasing effect, although it seems small to anybody
who is familiar with the cathedrals of Europe. In front of the altar
is the Cross of St. Nina, formed of two vine branches bound together
with the saint's hair; this cross has always been the most sacred
relic in Georgia. There is also a modest tomb, which contains the
body of Prince Tsitsishvili, a Georgian who was appointed Governor
of the Caucasus by Alexander I., and who, after a glorious career,
was foully murdered outside the walls of Baku by the treacherous khan
of that city.

From the cathedral the way to the European quarter leads through
the so-called Armenian Bazar, one of the most interesting parts of
the city. Old arms, coats of mail, helmets and shields, such as are
still used by the Khevsurs up in the mountains, silver ornaments and
many other interesting trifles, may be purchased here, but nothing of
great value is offered for sale, and the jewellery, with the exception
of filigree work from Akhaltsikhe (which is hard to get and very
expensive) is not very good. On the birthday of the Tsarevich, I was
walking down to the cathedral in order to be present at High Mass,
when I saw an incident thoroughly characteristic of the arbitrary
proceedings of the Russian police. A burly gorodovoi, clad in white
uniform and fully armed, was forcing the Asiatic shopkeepers in the
bazar to close their premises in order to do honour to the son of
the autocrat. I remembered how I had seen the Turkish soldiery in
Jerusalem perform a similar task a few months before, when the young
Prince of Naples entered the Holy City; it is true that the Turks
went a step further than the Muscovites, for they drove the people
out into the main street, and refused to let them go home until the
evening, but the idea was the same in both cases. The best native
tailor of Tiflis lives in this neighbourhood, and I had the honour
of having a Circassian suit made for me by him; it fitted like a
glove. I may say that, although a great many people in Tiflis wear
European dress, in the country it is almost unknown. I found that
for travelling there is nothing better than the Circassian garb;
it stands a great deal of rough usage, and always looks respectable.

Mushtaid is the finest promenade in the city. It is situated at the
west end, and is approached by the Mikhailovskaya, a long, straight
street, with fine gardens on either side of it. Some of the best
restaurants in the city are in these vine-shaded gardens, and one
of them is devoted to wrestling matches. It was my good fortune to
be present at a famous contest in which the Kakhetian champion,
Grdaneli, fought a certain bold Imeretian professor of the fancy
art. The performance was highly interesting, and it was gratifying to
learn from the bills that the proceeds were to be for the benefit of a
young man who wanted to study at Petersburg, but had not the necessary
means. The inner ring was formed of country gentlemen and officers,
all sitting cross-legged on the ground; behind them, tier above tier,
were at least a thousand spectators, breathless with expectation. A
primitive band, consisting of a drum and a zurna (an instrument which
sounds like the bagpipes), played a warlike air, to the sound of which
the heroes danced round the arena amid the frantic applause of the
crowd. Both men were fine fellows, but Grdaneli was a very Hercules,
and withal amiable-looking; he was the favourite, and justified his
reputation of being invincible by utterly demolishing the Western man
in a very short space of time. Every incident of the battle called
forth from the bystanders loud yells of praise and encouragement
which might have been heard miles off.

The two best clubs have summer quarters in Mikhailovskaya Street, by
the waterside--the Kruzhok (near the Vera Bridge) and the Georgian
Club (nearer Vorontsovskii Bridge); both have concert-rooms and
gardens attached to them, and the famous dance called Lesginka may
be seen there with its accompaniment of hand-clapping. The costumes
worn by both sexes are picturesque and rich, and one meets people of
all nationalities including political exiles from Poland, Russian
officers and officials, German professors and representatives of
many other races besides Georgians. All arms must be left at the
entrance. Georgian music is very unlike our own, and at first it
strikes the European as loud, wild, discordant, positively unpleasant,
but when one is accustomed to it, it is very agreeable. Before I
had heard many of the national melodies, I was very much astonished
when an accomplished lady told me that her reason for preferring the
Georgian Club to the Kruzhok was, that at the former Asiatic music
was performed; but I can now understand her liking for the music of
her country. In the Appendix I have written down a few melodies which
will not, I think, grate harshly on English ears.

The beauty of the Georgian women has been called in question by some
travellers, but these are nearly all men whose acquaintance with the
people has been extremely limited. The favourite observation of these
critics is a stereotyped phrase about "undeniably good features, but
want of animation." Surely Alexandre Dumas the elder knew a beautiful
face when he saw it; he says: "La Grèce, c'est Galatée encore marbre;
la Géorgie, c'est Galatée devenue femme."

Mushtaid, the town garden, owes nearly all its charms to nature,
the walks and open spaces are neatly kept, but nearly the whole
area is a forest in the recesses of which we may lie undisturbed
for hours, looking down on the turbid waters of Kura and listening
to the rustling of the leaves above and around. Every evening its
avenues are crowded with carriages and horsemen; beautiful faces,
tasteful toilettes, gay uniforms all combine to form a charming
picture. Fancy fairs are occasionally held, at which the visitor may
mingle with all the social celebrities, lose his money in raffles,
buy things he doesn't want--in short enjoy himself just as if he were
at home. But I doubt whether many frequenters of bazaars in England
have seen such an acrobatic feat as was performed in Mushtaid last
summer; an individual in tights hung himself by the neck on the upper
end of an inclined wire, stretched over the heads of the spectators,
and slid down it at lightning speed, firing half a dozen pistol-shots
as he went. No week passes without a popular fête of some kind,
for the Georgians are as fond of gaiety as any nation in the world.

From the above brief sketch the reader will see that Tiflis is
a city where one can live for a long time without suffering from
ennui. Although the immediate neighbourhood looks bare and uninviting,
there are, within a few miles, many beautiful spots well worth a
visit. The climate has been much abused by some writers, and it must
be admitted that during the months of July and August the heat is very
trying, but in my opinion Tiflis is a healthy place; since the great
plague of ninety years ago it has been pretty free from epidemics,
and although fever and dysentery kill a good many people every year,
the victims are nearly all residents of low-lying parts of the city,
where no European would live if he could help it. During the warm
weather there are often storms, characterized by all the grandeur that
might be expected in a region of great mountains so near the tropics;
after one of these the steep streets become foaming torrents. The
sheltered position of the city protects it from the terrible gusts of
wind which make the plain to the eastward almost uninhabitable, and
the storms seldom cause any more serious damage than broken windows
and flooded houses. Hitherto all the town water was obtained from
the Kura, and delivered to the consumer from bullock-skins, but a
well has now been dug a little below St. David's, whence the dwellers
on the right bank will get a supply of a liquid which is not tepid,
not opaque, not evil-smelling, and not semi-solid.

THE GEORGIAN MILITARY ROAD BETWEEN TIFLIS AND VLADIKAVKAZ.

The part which rivers have played in the history of civilization is
well illustrated by this road. The Aragva, flowing southward from
Gudaur, and the Terek, running northward from it, have formed the
highway along which countless crowds of Asiatics have penetrated into
Europe. Between the two streams there is a distance of some ten miles,
forming a huge but not insurmountable barrier, the virtual removal of
which did not take place until our own times. It was General Yermolov
who, in 1824, succeeded in making the road practicable for troops of
all kinds; but from the poet Puskhin's "Journey to Erzerum" (1829),
we learn that there was still room for improvement. The traveller had
to go with a convoy of 500 soldiers and a cannon, he dare not lag
behind for fear of the mountaineers, provisions and lodgings were
scarce and bad, the roads were impassable for carriages, the rate
of speed was sometimes only ten miles a day. When we read Pushkin's
account, and the one given by Lermontov, in "A Hero of Our Times,"
we can only ask ourselves, "What was the road like before Yermolov?"

During the wars with Kasi-mullah and Shamil, it became indispensable
to effect great improvements, and, at length, about five-and-twenty
years ago, under the governorship of Prince Bariatinskii, the road was
finished, and is now one of the finest in the world, besides being
one of the highest--the Simplon is only 6147 feet above sea-level,
while the Dariel road is nearly 2000 feet higher. The total distance
from Tiflis to Vladikavkaz is 126 miles, and the distance can be done
comfortably in less than twenty hours. During the summer 1150 horses
are kept in readiness at the stations, in the winter the number is
reduced by about 300. Two stage coaches start from each end every
day, but as they run during the night also, much of the beauty of
the scenery is lost by those who avail themselves of this mode of
conveyance; besides, it is difficult to get an outside seat unless you
book it a long time in advance. It is far better to travel by troïka,
as you are then free to stop when you like and as long as you like, and
you get an uninterrupted view of the country through which you pass.

About the middle of June, having previously obtained a
formidable-looking document by which Alexander Alexandrovich,
Autocrat of all the Russias, commanded all postmasters to supply me
with horses immediately on demand, I set out on my journey over the
frosty Caucasus, accompanied by a young Russian friend. The troïka had
been ordered for four a.m., but, of course, it did not turn up till
half-past five. For the information of those who have never been in
Russia, I may say that a troïka is a team of three horses harnessed
abreast in a vehicle of unique construction called a teliezhka. The
form of the cart is like a longitudinal section of a beer barrel; it is
large enough to contain an ordinary travelling trunk; it is of wood,
has neither sides nor springs, and there are four wheels; the seat is
made by slipping a piece of rope through a couple of rings on either
side, and laying your cloak and a pillow on the rope; the driver sits
on the front edge of the cart; the whole affair is invariably in the
last stage of decay. The shafts are so long that the horses cannot
kick the bottom out of the thing, and the horse in the centre has his
head swung up in a wooden frame. The driver is always asleep or drunk,
or both, but he never lets the reins fall, and at regular intervals
mechanically applies the whip to his steeds; he only wakes up when
there is a shaky bridge to cross, and, regardless of the notice
"Walking pace!", first crosses himself and commends his soul to the
saints, then gallops over the creaking structure at racing speed.

As we clattered down the steep rocky streets which lead to the
Boulevard, I had not much time to look round; all my attention
was necessary to preserve myself from falling out of the cart,
the jolting was terrible. However, by the time we had got to the
outskirts of the town the road became much smoother; the driver got
down and released the clappers of the bells above the middle horse's
head, and we rattled along merrily to the tune of eight miles an
hour. Just outside the city an imposing cruciform monument marks the
spot where the late Tsar's carriage was overturned without injuring
his Majesty. Passing the Sakartvelo Gardens, where the good people of
Tiflis often dine in vine-covered bowers by the river-side, we cross
the Vera, an important tributary of the Kura, and then enter a broad
plain which continues for many miles to the westward.

On the other side of the Kura we see Mushtaid; a little farther
on is the pretty German colony of Alexandersdorf, with its poplar
avenues, neat houses, and modest little white church. All the German
colonies in the Caucasus seem to be exactly alike, and they do
not in any respect differ from German villages in the fatherland;
the colonists altogether ignore the people of the country in which
they have settled, and, although they make a comfortable livelihood,
their isolated condition and the absence of all European influence
must make their lives very narrow and joyless. Some of these colonies
were founded in order to set before the native peasantry examples
of good agriculture and farm management, but this worthy object has
not been attained, and the Teutons are looked upon with feelings
generally of indifference, sometimes of positive ill-will. High on
the hills behind the colony stands the white monastery of St. Antony,
a favourite place for picnics. In the cliffs on the left of our road
are numerous holes, variously conjectured to be troglodyte dwellings
(like those at Uphlis Tsikhe), rock tombs, places of refuge in time
of war, provision stores, &c. Before us we see the road winding up
between the hills in a northerly direction, and after crossing the
Transcaucasian railway and then the Kura we arrive at the post-house
of Mtzkhet, not far from the village of that name.

Mtzkhet, if we are to believe local traditions, is one of the
oldest cities on earth, for the story goes that it was founded by a
great-grandson of the patriarch Noah. Be that as it may, there are
unmistakable signs that a Greek or Roman town existed here at a remote
date, and antiquaries generally agree in identifying Mtzkhet with the
Acrostopolis of the Romans, the headquarters of Pompey after he had
defeated Mithridates and subdued Iberia and Albania. No better spot
could have been chosen, for its position at the junction of the Aragva
and the Kura commands the two great roads of the country and makes it
the key of Transcaucasia. Mtzkhet, the ancient capital of Georgia,
was always a place of much importance in the annals of the kingdom;
now it is a wretched village of some hundreds of inhabitants. It was
here that St. Nina began her work of converting the nation, and we
propose to give a brief account of the legends relating to this event.

Tradition says that at the beginning of our era there lived in Mtzkhet
a wealthy Jew named Eleazar, who frequently made journeys to Jerusalem
on business. On the occasion of one of these visits he became possessed
of the tunic of our Lord, which he brought home with him as a present
to his daughter. She, expecting a valuable gift, ran out to meet him,
and with an angry expression snatched from his hands the precious
relic, of which she little knew the worth; she fell dead on the spot,
but no force could take the garment from her hands, so it was buried
with her, and from her grave there soon grew up a tall cedar, from
the bark of which oozed a fragrant myrrh, which healed the sick. Now
about three centuries later, that is in the third century of our
era, St. Nina was born in Cappadocia. When she was twelve years of
age her parents proceeded to Jerusalem, and gave themselves up to
religious work, leaving the maiden under the care of a devout old
woman, who taught her to read the Scriptures. Nina was very anxious
to learn what had become of Christ's tunic, and said to her teacher,
"Tell me, I pray thee, where is that earthly purple of the Son of God
now kept?" To which the venerable matron replied that it had been
taken to a heathen land called Iveria, far away to the northward,
and that it lay buried there in the city of Mtzkhet. One night the
Blessed Virgin appeared to the damsel in a dream, and said to her, "Go
to the Iverian land, preach the Gospel of the Lord Jesus, and He will
reward thee. I will be thy guard and guide," and with these words she
handed to her a cross made of vine branches. When Nina awoke and saw
in her hands the wondrous cross she wept for joy, and after reverently
kissing the holy gift she bound the two loose sticks together with her
own long hair. This cross has always been the palladium of Georgia,
and is still preserved in the Sion Cathedral at Tiflis. Now it so
happened that at this time seven-and-thirty maidens, fleeing from
the persecutions of Diocletian, left Jerusalem to spread the good
tidings in Armenia; St. Nina went with them as far as Vashgarabada,
and then pursued her journey alone. As she was entering the city of
Mtzkhet, the king of Georgia, Marian, with all his people, went out
to a hill in the neighbourhood to offer human sacrifices to idols,
but in answer to her prayer a mighty storm arose and destroyed
the images. She took up her abode in a cell in the king's garden,
and soon became well-known as a healer of the sick. At length the
queen fell ill, and St. Nina, having made her whole in the name
of Jesus, converted the Georgian court to Christianity, and in 314
A.D. baptized all the people of the city. Over the spot in the royal
garden where her cell had been, the king built the Samtavr church,
which still exists, and lies to the left of the post-road. It was
then revealed to St. Nina that the tunic, the object of her search,
lay buried under a cedar in the middle of the town; the tree was cut
down and the robe was found in the hands of the dead girl. On the
spot where the cedar stood King Marian built, in 328, the Cathedral
of the Twelve Apostles; the cedar was replaced by a column, and this
column is said to drip myrrh occasionally, even in these degenerate
days of ours. The sacred garment was preserved in the cathedral until
the seventeenth century, when Shah Abbas sent it as a present to the
Tsar of Russia, Mikhail Fedorovich. It was solemnly deposited in the
Cathedral of the Assumption at Moscow, where I saw it last autumn.

Having evangelized Kartli, St. Nina proceeded to Kakheti, where she
met with the same success, and died at Bodbé, near Signakh; her tomb is
in a monastery overlooking one of the finest landscapes in all Kakheti.

The Cathedral of the Twelve Apostles is the chief place of interest in
Mtzkhet. The original church was of wood, but in 378 it was replaced
by a stone edifice, which stood until the invasion of Tamerlane. The
existing church was built in the fifteenth century. A stone wall, with
ruined towers, encloses a rectangular piece of ground, in which stands
the cathedral, a fine building about seventy paces long by twenty-five
paces broad. It is in the Byzantine style, and the interior is divided
into three parts by two rows of columns. Here lie buried the last
kings of Georgia and their families, the patriarchs of the church,
and other illustrious persons.

The post-house at Mtzkhet was a pleasant surprise to me, but I found
nearly all the stations on this road equally comfortable; in many
of them there are bed-rooms, a dining-room, a ladies' room, and one
can get white bread and European food. Those who have travelled on
post-roads in Russia will readily understand my surprise.

Leaving Mtzkhet, our road follows the Aragva along a smooth valley
between forest-clad hills; the scenery reminded me very much of
some of the dales of Thelemarken in Norway. The soil is rich and
well cultivated, and here, as elsewhere, we saw a whole herd of
oxen dragging one wooden plough. This valley is one of the most
feverish places on the whole road, and the people attribute this to a
yellow weed (Carlina arcaulis), of which there is a great abundance;
strange to say, other places where the plant flourishes have the same
unpleasant reputation for unhealthiness, the explanation is doubtless
to be found in the fact that this weed grows best in a damp soil.

Tsilkani is the next station, but there is no village there. While
waiting for horses we saw in the yard a camel; there are plenty of
these amiable animals in Tiflis, but I did not think they went so
far north as the Aragva.

The scenery continues to be of the same character as far as the
station of Dushet, some distance from the garrison-town of that name,
which lies in rectangular regularity on the hillside, like a relief
map; it is a place of some military importance on account of its
position at the entrance of the narrow part of the valley, but it is
as uninteresting as any Russian provincial town. Near it is a lake,
said to cover a Caucasian Sodom; the traveller looks at the lake with
more attention than he would bestow upon it if it were in Switzerland,
for lakes, like waterfalls, are very rare in the Caucasus. Soon
after leaving Dushet we climb a rather steep hill--the wilder part
of the road is about to begin. On our left is a huge, antique-looking
edifice with towers and battlements, which we feel sure has a romantic
history, but we are disappointed to learn that the place is only a
modern imitation. At a pretty spot on the river-bank near here I met
on my return a party of about fifty prisoners on their way to Siberia;
they were, as a rule, honest enough looking fellows, and I could not
help feeling pity for them when I remembered how many cases I knew of
in which innocent men had been ruined in mind and body, by exile for
crimes with which they had no connection. The road crosses a range of
green hills, and passing through scenery very like that of Kakheti,
descends to the Aragva again at Ananur, the most picturesque village
on the whole road, although the surrounding landscape is tame compared
with that to the northward.

Ananur lies in a pretty little valley, amid well-wooded hills. At
the southern end of the village, perched on a rising ground, is a
partly ruined wall with towers and battlements, within which are
two churches, one of them still used for divine service, the other
a mouldering heap of moss-grown stones. The post-house is at the
farther end of the village, and while the horses are being changed
we have time to return to the ruins, about a quarter of an hour's
walk; by the roadside are several little shops in which furs of all
the wild animals of the country may be bought for a trifle; there
is also a small barrack. We now climb up to the citadel, and as we
enter we cannot help thinking of some of the scenes of blood which
have taken place here, even as late as a century and a half ago,
when Giorgi, the Eristav (or headman) of Aragva, defended the castle
against the Eristav of Ksan. When the place had been taken and all
the garrison slain, Giorgi and his family fled to the old church,
thinking that no Christian would violate the right of sanctuary,
but the conqueror heaped up brushwood round the building and burnt
it down; only one of the ill-fated family escaped alive.

The door by which we are admitted lies on the side farthest removed
from the road; it leads us through a square tower into the citadel
proper, which occupied a piece of ground about one hundred paces
long and forty paces broad; formerly it used to stretch down to the
very bank of the river, where a ruined tower may still be seen. On
entering we see immediately on the left the ruined house of the
Eristav Giorgi; straight in front of us is a well-preserved tower,
on the left of which may be seen the ruins of the old church, on
the right is the modern church. The old church is, of course, quite
ruined; it is only about five-and-twenty paces in length by fifteen
paces broad. There still exist fragments of painting and carving which
would doubtless prove highly interesting to those who are acquainted
with the history of Byzantine art. The building is said to date from
the fourth century. There is also a small underground chapel which
is fairly well preserved.

The larger church was built by the Eristav Giorgi in 1704; it is
thirty paces long by twenty paces broad, and is an enlarged copy of
the older sanctuary; the stone of which it is built is yellowish. It
is a very fine specimen of Georgian architecture. Beautifully carved
in the stone, on each side of the building, is a gigantic cross of
vine branches (the cross of St. Nina). The decorative work is excellent
throughout, both in design and workmanship; but the figures of animals,
&c., are very poor indeed.

Ananur is connected with the darkest page in the mournful latter-day
history of Georgia. The Persians had taken Tiflis in 1795, and reduced
it to a smouldering heap of ruins. King Irakli, with a few servants,
had escaped almost by a miracle, and had taken refuge in the mountain
fastness of Ananur; abandoned by his cowardly, faithless children,
betrayed by his most trusted dependents and allies, sick in body and
weary in mind, the old man of seventy-seven was a sight sad enough to
make angels weep. "In the old, half ruined monastery of Ananur, in an
ancient cell which used to stand in the corner of the monks' orchard,
one might have seen a man dressed in a rough sheepskin cloak, sitting
with his face turned to the wall. That man, once the thunderbolt of
all Transcaucasia, was the king of Georgia, Irakli II. Near him stood
an old Armenian servant. 'Who is that sitting in the corner?' asked
those who passed by. 'He whom thou seest,' replied the Armenian, with
a sigh, 'was once a man of might, and his name was honoured throughout
Asia. His people never had a better ruler. He strove for their welfare
like a father, and for forty years kept his empire together; but old
age has weakened him, and has brought everything to ruin. In order to
prevent quarrels after his death, he determined to divide his kingdom
among his children while he still lived, but his hopes in them were
deceived. He who was chief eunuch of Tamas Khuli Khan when Irakli was
a leader of the Persian army, now marched against him in his feeble
old age. His own children refused to help him and their native land,
for there were many of them, and each thought he would be striving,
not for himself, but for his brother's good. The King of Georgia had
to ask the help of the King of Imereti, but if thou hadst been in
Tiflis thou hadst seen how shamefully the Imeretians behaved. Irakli,
with but a handful of men, fought gallantly against a hundred thousand,
and lost his throne only because his children pitilessly forsook him,
leaving him to be defeated by a wretched gelding. His ancient glory is
darkened, his capital in ruins, the weal of his folk is fled. Under
yon crumbling wall thou seest the mighty King of Georgia hiding from
the gaze of all men, helpless and clothed in a ragged sheepskin! His
courtiers, all those who have eaten his bread and been pressed to
his bosom, have left him; not one of them has followed his master,
excepting only me--a poor, despised Armenian.'"

From Ananur the road rises along the Aragva valley, which is well
cultivated, thanks to a fine system of artificial irrigation. On our
left, about a couple of versts from the station, we see high up on
a hill the ruined castle and church of Sheupoval, where a grandson
of the Eristav Giorgi shared the fate of the rest of his family;
the place was burnt down with all its inhabitants. As we pass along
the road we meet several pleasant-looking wayfarers, all armed with
long, wide dagger, and many carrying in addition sword and rifle; this
highway is, however, perfectly safe as far as brigands are concerned,
the carrying of weapons is merely a custom which means little more than
the use of a walking-stick in our country. Several handsome Ossets,
as they pass, courteously salute us with the phrase, "May your path
be smooth!" a peculiarly appropriate wish in such a region. When we
go through a little village, pretty children run out to look at us,
but they never beg, indeed I never saw or heard of a Georgian beggar,
although there is much poverty among the people.

All along the road, wherever there is a coign of vantage one sees it
topped by the ruins of a four-sided tapering tower, standing in the
corner of a square enclosure; every foot of ground has its history
of bloodshed and bravery, a history now long forgotten, save for the
dim traditions of the peasantry.

The stage between Ananur and Pasanaur (21 versts), is the longest on
the whole road, and, although it presents no engineering difficulties
such as those which were met with farther to the northward, it is,
nevertheless, a toilsome journey for the horses, as it rises about
1300 feet. I shall never forget the pleasant emotions I felt on
making the night journey from Pasanaur to Ananur; although there
was no moon, the stars shone with a brightness that is unknown in
northern latitudes, and lighted up the strange, beautiful landscape;
the glittering snow-peaks behind, the silvery stream at our side, the
green forests and the lonely ruins made up a picture of surpassing
loveliness and weirdness. Fort Gudomakarsk is soon visible, and we
know that the station is not far off. I may as well say that almost all
the so-called forts between Tiflis and Vladikavkaz are insignificant,
neglected-looking places, merely small barracks; they formerly served
to keep the mountaineers in order, but now there is really very little
necessity for maintaining a garrison in them.

Pasanaur (which in old Persian means "Holy Hill") is situated in a very
narrow part of the valley, amid thick woods. The station is a pretty
one, and, like that at Ananur, so comfortable that the traveller who
has to spend a night there need not be pitied. The only building of
interest in the village is a modern church in the Russian style of
architecture, which looks as if it had been painted with laundry blue;
for ugliness it can compare with any church in Muscovy.

To the eastward of Pasanaur live the Khevsurs, Pshavs and Tushes,
peoples probably having a common origin, and speaking a language akin
to Georgian. Their number is variously estimated, from twenty to thirty
thousand. They live in a very primitive way, and the Khevsurs still
clothe themselves in chain armour and helmets; this circumstance, added
to the fact that they have long been Christians, has given rise to
the supposition that they are descended from a party of Crusaders who
lost their way in trying to return to Europe overland, and settled in
these valleys. Their country is among the wildest in the whole range,
and their villages are perched high up among the rocks, like eagles'
nests. The Khevsurs live chiefly on the scanty products of agriculture;
the Pshavs and Tushes are pastoral peoples, in winter they drive
their flocks down into Kakheti, and when the snow among the mountains
begins to melt they return to their native valleys. All these tribes
are wild and brave to the highest degree; from the earliest times
they have formed part of the Georgian kingdom, and have distinguished
themselves in many a battle against the infidel. The Christianity of
this region is not so elaborate as that of Rome or Byzantium, but I
suppose it is quite as reasonable as that of the Russian muzhik or
the English farm-labourer; they have made a saint of Queen Tamara,
and they worship the god of war and several other deities in addition
to the God Christ. Irakli II. tried to reform their theology, but they
replied, "If we, with our present worship, are firm in our obedience
and loyalty to the king, what more does he ask of us?" There are now
many Orthodox Greek Churches in the villages, but the people totally
ignore their existence.

After leaving Pasanaur the road bends to the westward, leaving on
the right a high table-shaped mountain of granite which has for a
long time seemed to bar our progress; we still keep close to the
Aragva, and the scenery becomes bolder, and the soil more barren;
here and there we see high up on the face of the rock a cluster of
Osset houses; from the valley they look like small dark holes in
the cliffs. Pushkin has described them as "swallows' nests," and no
happier name could have been chosen.

The Ossets call themselves Ir or Iran, the Tatars and Georgians call
them Oss or Ossi. According to official accounts they number over
100,000, about half of them being on each side of the Caucasus. The
majority of them profess the Christian religion, but 15,000 are
Mahometans, and a considerable number are idolaters. Their traditions
say that they came from Asia across the Ural, and used at one time to
dwell in the plain to the north of the Caucasus, but were gradually
driven into the mountains by stronger peoples. In the reign of Queen
Tamara most of them embraced Christianity, and Tamara's second husband
was an Osset; they remained tributary to Georgia until the beginning
of the present century, and a traveller who visited Tiflis about a
hundred years ago says that Irakli's bodyguard was composed of Ossets
"who never washed." The Ossets were the first Caucasian people to
settle down quietly to Russian rule, and they have never given any
serious trouble, if we except their share in the Imeretian rising
of 1810. The stories about the Ossets being a Teutonic people are
as absurd as the assertion that there are in the Crimea Northmen who
speak Dutch. They live in a wretched manner, in houses built of loose
stones, without mortar; but their physique is good, and their faces
are handsome and engaging.

After another long climb of 1300 feet we reach Mleti. Here, indeed,
we have come to the end of the valley--we are at the bottom of a deep
well with sides as bare and steep as walls, on the top glitters the
everlasting snow. The engineering difficulties which we have hitherto
encountered are as nothing compared with those before us. To our
right rises a precipice over three thousand feet high, up which the
road climbs in a series of zigzags.

Soon after leaving Mleti we saw the sun set behind the silvery peaks
to the west, and within half an hour it was dark; our driver was
drunk and fast asleep, and we had occasionally to seize the reins in
order to keep the horses from going too near the fenceless edge of
the abyss. The distance to Gudaur is only fourteen and a half versts,
but nearly the whole ascent has to be done at walking pace; slowly we
rose up the hillside, gazing silently now up at the glistening chain
above us, now down into the gloomy valley behind us, where a fleecy
waterfall shone in the starlight; we saw no wayfarers all the time,
and no sound came to break the stillness of the summer night.

At last we reached the tableland at the top, and were soon in the
station-house of Gudaur, almost 8000 feet above sea-level. Although
there were only patches of snow here and there on the ground near us,
the air was very cool; only a few days ago we had been simmering in
Tiflis in a heat of over 100° Fahr., and now we saw the thermometer
down at freezing-point. I knew that as far as comfort went Mleti was a
much better place than Gudaur to spend the night at, but I was eager
to enjoy the delightful intoxication of the mountain air as soon and
as long as possible, and I did enjoy it thoroughly.

After a very rough and hasty supper and a short walk on the edge of
the plateau, we entered the common room, and wrapping ourselves up in
our burkas, sought out the softest plank on the floor, and were soon
sleeping the sleep of innocence. Several travellers arrived during
the night, for when we rose at dawn we found the room full. Leaving
our companions to snore in peace, we ordered the horses, and were
soon on our way to the pass.

On the grassy plain were feeding large flocks of goats and sheep,
the latter with strange, large, fatty protuberances on either side
of the tail. To the right is a remarkable-looking green hill of
pyramidal shape, and beyond it an old castle looks down from an
inaccessible crag. The scenery of the pass itself is imposing,
but it is seen to better advantage when one comes in the opposite
direction, i.e. from Vladikavkaz to Tiflis; in that case one leaves
a scene of the wildest desolation for the luxuriant beauty of the
Aragva valley and Kartli; on the northward journey it is, of course,
the reverse. The road sinks very rapidly to a depth of almost 2000
feet; the long snow-sheds remind us that even at the present day
a winter journey over the Cross Mountain is a serious undertaking;
traffic is often stopped for several days at a time by avalanches,
and in spring the rivers sometimes wash away the bridges and large
pieces of the road. At the foot of the mountain we meet the foaming
Terek, a river almost as muddy as the Kura, and following its course
reach a vast plain, on the east side of which stands Kobi.

Near Kobi station there are two villages; the larger of the two
lies under the shadow of a perpendicular rock on the one side, on
the other side it is flanked by a rugged crag, on the top of which
may be seen the ruins of a church and a castle. By the roadside are
curious monumental tablets, painted with hieroglyphs of various kinds,
among which the rising sun generally occupies the chief place. All
round Kobi there are numerous medicinal springs of all kinds, and
the station-house is intended to accommodate a few patients. There
may come a day when Kobi will be as fashionable as Kissingen, but in
the meantime it is not the sort of place that one would recommend to
an invalid.

On the score of originality nothing can be said against the environs
of Kobi; when we looked round we could not help thinking of the phrase
"riddlings of creation," which we have heard applied to the Scottish
Highlands; it does, indeed, look as if some of the materials left
over after the creation of our earth, had been left here in disordered
heaps, to give us some idea of chaos. The road now follows the course
of the Terek, and the scenery is indescribably grand; straight before
us lies snowy Kazbek in all its rugged wildness, here and there are
ruined towers, and about the middle of the stage a turn in the road
brings us to an aul, or village, of mediæval appearance, by the side
of which is a little copse, a rarity in this bleak district. The
basaltic rocks present many fantastic shapes and colours to the
eye; in several places I saw what looked like huge bundles of rods,
reminding me of the Giant's Causeway. Before reaching the station
we were met by children who offered for sale all sorts of crystals,
pieces of quartz and other pretty geological specimens.

Kazbek station is a very comfortable inn, where one can dine well,
and is to be recommended as a place for a prolonged stay. The mountain,
generally called Kazbek, rises from the valley in one almost unbroken
mass, reaching a height of 16,550 feet above sea-level; the Georgians
call it Mkhinvari (ice mountain), and the Ossets, Christ's Peak; Kazbek
is really the name of the family who own this part of the country,
and is wrongly applied to the mountain. This peak, like Ararat, enjoys
the reputation of being inaccessible, and our countrymen, Freshfield,
Moore, and Tucker, who climbed to the top, without much difficulty,
in June, 1868, were not believed when they told the story of their
ascent. On the mountain the sportsman can occasionally get a shot at
a tur (aurochs, Ægoceros Pallasii); but if he is unwilling to expose
himself to the necessary danger and fatigue, he can for a few roubles
buy a pair of horns at the station.

Those who invade the realm of the mountain spirit should not fail to
visit Devdorak glacier, the easiest way of making the ascent; there
they will see a place where the native hunters make sacrifices of tur
horns to propitiate the spirit, who might otherwise throw blocks of
ice down on their heads.

There is a popular legend to the effect that on the summit of Mkhinvari
is the tent of the Patriarch Abraham, within which, in a cradle held up
by an unseen hand, lies the child Jesus asleep; outside there grows
some wheat of wonderful size, beside the tree of life; round the
cradle are heaps of treasures. Under the reign of King Irakli II.,
a priest and his son started for the summit in order to see these
wonders; the boy returned alone, bearing samples of the material of
the tent, some big grains of wheat, &c., the soles of his boots were
covered with silver coins which had stuck to them--unfortunately it
was found that the coins were quite modern!

As is well known, Mkhinvari is generally identified with the story
of Prometheus, although the mountain does not correspond with the
description given by Æschylus. Early travellers even went so far as
to assert that they had seen the very chains with which the hero was
bound, and there is a local legend to the effect that a giant still
lies there in fetters. When I approached the mountain from Kobi I could
not help being reminded of Prometheus. I saw a gigantic black space
of irregular form with snow all round it; an imaginative mind found
in this irregular tract a considerable resemblance to the human shape.

No traveller should leave Kazbek without making a pilgrimage to the
monastery of St. Stephen, which stands on the top of an isolated
hill about 2000 feet above the station. At sunset the view is
wonderfully beautiful. Tradition says that the monastery was built
by three kings, but does not give their names; in any case the
building is of considerable antiquity. Service is held in the church
three times a year. The interior has been spoiled by that fiend the
"restorer." From the church you look over a wide, uninhabited valley
to the giant mountain, and on turning round you see the river Terek,
on the banks of which are the station and village; on either hand
stretch dark cavernous-looking valleys. Beyond the Terek is the home
of the Ingushes, a people who frequently carry off the cattle of their
more settled neighbours, and give the small garrison of Kazbek some
amusement in hunting them down.

After leaving Kazbek, we see on our right the manor-house of the
princely family from which the place takes its name, a family which
has produced, and doubtless will yet produce, sons which will be an
honour to Georgia; the house is a fine two-storey edifice, and there
is a pretty chapel attached to it. In a few minutes we reach the Mad
Ravine, so called from a torrent of terrible impetuosity, which has
formed one of the most serious obstacles to the construction of the
road. We now enter Dariel, the pass from which the road takes its name,
one of the grandest spots on earth.

According to philologists, Dariel is derived from an old Persian
word meaning gate (cf. Der-bend, Thuer, door, Slav Dver, &c.), and in
fact it was here that the ancient geographers placed the site of the
famous Caucasian Gates; but surely there is something to be said in
favour of the local tradition which connects the place with Darius
I. of Persia. As for the gates, it is, of course, impossible to say
definitely whether they ever existed or not, at all events there
are several points where it would not have been very difficult to
construct them.

At the entrance of the ravine, on the left bank of the Terek,
stands a high rock, on which may be seen the ruins of a castle,
said to have been founded in 150 B.C., but doubtless having a still
longer history. This castle is always associated with the name of
a certain wicked Queen Tamara, a mythical creation of the popular
fancy, and Lermontov has written a very pretty poem based on the
legend. It is said that this Tamara (not to be confounded with the
good Tamara), was very beautiful, and that she used to invite all the
handsome young men who passed that way to come up and live with her,
promising them all the delights that heart could wish for; after one
night of bliss the unfortunate gentleman was deprived of his head, and
was then thrown down into the Terek, which bore away his body. If the
legend is not wrong in saying that the river carried away the corpses,
the frolicsome monarch must have been comparatively constant during
the summer months, or else the pile of wantons would soon have become
large enough to frighten all the passion out of intending visitors, for
in the month of June, Terek would not float a respectably-sized cat.

By the road-side is Dariel Fort, a romantic-looking place with
old-fashioned battlemented towers; a few Kazaks are quartered here,
and must find the time hang very heavily on their hands. When you
reach this fort it looks as if it were impossible to go beyond it,
a mighty wall stretches right across the path; but the road follows
the course of the river, indeed it is built in the river-bed, and
winds along between awful cliffs whose summits are lost in the clouds,
and whose flanks are seldom or never touched by a ray of sunlight. We
sometimes hear of places where a handful of men could keep back an
army, this is one of them; a touch would send down upon the road some
of the heavy, overhanging masses of rock, and effectually close the
pass. About fifty years ago an avalanche fell here, from the glacier
of Devdorak, and it was two years before the rubbish was all cleared
away. When the new road is blocked by snow or carried away by floods,
the old road, high up near the snow-line, has to be used.

The scenery of this pass has been described by Pushkin, Lermontov, and
many others, but it is one of the few places that do not disappoint the
traveller, however much he may have expected. It must not be forgotten
that the road through this narrow gorge is the only passable one that
crosses the Caucasian range; there are, it is true, one or two other
tracks, but they are not practicable for wheeled carriages.

In the most gloomy part of the defile the road crosses by a bridge
to the left bank of the Terek, and a few versts farther on we emerge
into comparatively open ground at Lars. I had, as usual, given my
podorozhnaia (road-pass) to a stable-boy, with a request to get the
horses ready without delay, and was sitting drinking tea, when I was
astonished to hear behind me the long unfamiliar tones of my native
language; I was still more surprised when I saw that the speaker
was the starosta, or superintendent of the station (the Government
inspector, or smatritel, is the real chief). He told me that he had
seen from my pass that I was English, and had taken the liberty to come
and have a chat with me. He spoke English fluently, and has spent five
years in London, has travelled in the United States, and is altogether
a very pleasant fellow; he had only been at Lars a year and a half,
and during all that time had not seen an Englishman. We parted very
good friends, expecting to meet again when I returned from Vladikavkaz.

The village of Lars, north of the post-house, is inhabited, among
others, by some of the Tagaur Ossets, descended from Tagaur, an
individual who at a remote period was heir to the Armenian throne,
and fled to the mountains for fear of his younger brothers. Their
royal descent leads them to think themselves superior to the poor
folk among whom they dwell, and they are cordially disliked by the
latter. Just outside the village is one of the towers which are so
common all along the road; it doubtless yielded a handsome revenue
to its owner in the good old days when every traveller had to pay a
heavy toll for the privilege of passing one of these fortresses.

We still keep close to the Terek, which comes rushing down from Dariel
with a fall of one foot in every thirty. Pushkin, comparing the Terek
with Imatra, in Finland, unhesitatingly declares the superiority of the
former in grandeur. Of course the surrounding scenery in the two cases
is quite different, but as far as the rivers themselves are concerned,
I must dissent from the poet, for I know no part of the Terek worthy
of comparison with the fall of the Wuokses at Imatra, which is the
very materialization of the idea of irresistible, pitiless power.

Although the valley is now a little wider than it was a few miles
to the south, the scenery still has the same grandeur and sternness
until we pass between the rocks that come down close to either
bank of the river, and come out into the plain in which stands
Fort Djerakhovsk, a rectangular edifice, about 120 feet long,
which is fully garrisoned. We are not quite clear of the mountains,
however, until we have passed Balta, and have got within five versts
of Vladikavkaz. Before us stretches a smooth, green plain as far as
the eye can reach; the contrast is most striking; it is as if we had
been suddenly transported from Switzerland to Holland.

Vladikavkaz, 200 versts from Tiflis, lies at the foot of the Caucasus,
at a height of 2368 feet. The best hotel is the Pochtovaya, at
the post-station; the Frantsiya is also good. Vladikavkaz means,
in Russian, "master of the Caucasus" (cf. Vladivostok, Vladimir,
&c.--root vlad is akin to German walt-en, Gewalt); the Cherkesses
(Circassians) call it Kapkai, "gate of the mountains." It has
a population of over 30,000 souls, chiefly Russians, Cherkesses,
Georgians, Armenians, Persians, besides a strong garrison. A fortress
was built here in 1784, but the town never became a trading centre of
much importance until the war with Shamil; even now one is astonished
to see how little activity them is in a place through which nearly all
the overland traffic between Europe and Western Asia passes. Several
chimney stalks bear witness to the existence of industry, but the
only manufactory of any size is a spirit distillery. The silver work
of Vladikavkaz is renowned throughout the whole Caucasus, and is much
used for dagger hilts and sheaths, belts, &c.

The city is built on the banks of the Terek, which is here crossed by
several bridges; the best quarter is on the right bank, where there are
cool, shady gardens by the waterside, and a very respectable-looking
boulevard. A few of the streets are fairly well paved, and there are
one or two comfortable-looking houses with pleasant grounds; but on
the whole the place is not one that anybody would care to settle down
in. Were it not for the frequency with which one sees Asiatic costumes,
and hears Asiatic tongues, and the fact that the frosty Caucasus may
be seen, apparently perpendicular, rising to its loftiest points,
it would be easy to imagine oneself in some provincial town not 100
versts from Moscow, instead of being 2000 versts from it.

When you have lounged in the gardens, and on the boulevard, visited
the cathedral, which is still in course of construction, the market,
the military school, and the old fortress, you have obtained all the
diversion that is to be had in Vladikavkaz, unless you are fortunate
enough to find the little theatre open, and the best thing to be
done is to take the morning train to the Mineral Waters station (186
versts in nine hours) for the town called Five Mountains (Pyatigorsk),
about twenty versts from the railway, which for almost a hundred
years has enjoyed the reputation of being the most fashionable inland
watering-place in the Russian Empire.

THE KAKHETIAN ROAD--TIFLIS TO SIGNAKH.

A few days after my return from Vladikavkaz, I made preparations for
leaving Tiflis. It was near the end of June, and the unbearable heat
had driven away nearly all those who were free to go; all the highways
leading out of the city were crowded with carts and carriages of every
description, carrying household goods and passengers. My friends had
contracted with some Molokans (Russian heretics), belonging to the
colony of Azamburi, for the removal of their furniture to Signakh;
the carriers had promised to come to our house at four o'clock in the
morning, but it was nine o'clock before they put in an appearance,
and then their carts were half full of other people's goods, a direct
violation of the agreement. If any man ever needed the patience which
is proverbially ascribed to the patriarch Job, it is the man who has
business dealings with the Muscovite muzhik. You may assail him with
all the abuse which your knowledge of his language will permit, you
may strike him, you may calmly endeavour to persuade him with the most
lucid logic--it is all to no purpose; taking off his cap to scratch
his head, he looks at you with an assumption of childlike simplicity,
and replies with a proverb more remarkable for its laconism than for
its applicability to the matter under discussion. In this case we
wrangled for a long time, and then, being unwilling to risk a stroke
of apoplexy by getting into a rage, appealed to the majesty of the
law, represented by a stalwart policeman, at whose command the carts
were emptied forthwith, the contents being deposited on the roadside,
and our effects were soon put in their place, and the whole caravan
rattled down the hillside about two hours before noon. An hour later
a four-horse carriage with springs arrived, and the four of us,
my Georgian host, a Russian lady and gentleman, and myself, set out
for Kakheti.

After descending through the narrow streets which lie between the
Erivan square and the river, we crossed the busy bridge, and mounted
the steep bank on the other side, passing through the liveliest
part of the Persian quarter. By the time we had got clear of the
suburb called the Dogs' Village, with its camels and caravanserais,
we had overtaken the waggons; exchanging friendly salutations with
our volunteer baggage-guard, we were soon rolling along the smooth,
dusty road in the direction of Orkhevi. On our right, down by the side
of the Kura, lay Naftluk, with its beautiful vineyards and orchards,
and beyond it the road to Akstafa and Erivan; on the distant southern
horizon were the blue mountains of Armenia. On our left hand rose a
range of bare-looking hills of no great height.

The region through which the Kakhetian road passes is a flat,
waterless, almost uninhabited steppe; the winds which sometimes sweep
across it are so violent that it is the custom to seek shelter from
them by building the houses in the ground, with the roof on a level
with the road. Twenty years ago the "Society for the Re-establishment
of Orthodox Christianity in the Caucasus" obtained from the late Tsar
a large concession of land near Kara Yazi, and spent 370,000 roubles
on the construction of a canal for irrigation (Mariinskii Kanal);
the scheme was never completely carried out, and the results obtained
have not hitherto been such as to encourage the society, although a
few Nestorians, Assyrian Christians, have been induced to settle in
this unhealthy land. There are still unmistakable signs of the fact
that in ancient times all this steppe was watered from the Kura by
an elaborate system of irrigation, which must have made the country
very fertile; now the whole tract is an almost unbroken wilderness,
where the antelope wanders, unharmed by any hunter.

At Orkhevi there is nothing but the station-house, and those whose only
experience of posting has been derived from the military road between
Tiflis and Vladikavkaz, are likely to be unpleasantly surprised at the
primitive appearance of this traveller's rest. A bare, dirty room,
with two wooden benches and a table, the walls tastefully decorated
with official notices, among which the most prominent is one in four
languages warning farmers against the phylloxera, thereon portrayed
in all the various phases of its development. Such is my remembrance
of Orkhevi. The only refreshment obtainable is a samovar (tea-urn)
of boiling water, from which you can make your own tea if you have
the necessary ingredients with you. A former journey along this
road had already made me familiar with all the little discomforts
and privations which must be undergone by the visitor to Kakheti,
so I was not disappointed. None of the stations are any better all
the way to Signakh, and he who does not bring with him his own food
for the journey is likely to have a very good appetite by the time
he reaches his destination.

The sun had now reached the meridian, and beat down upon us with
terrible force, for our carriage was an open one; we were half-choked
with the dust, a thick white layer of which covered us from head to
foot; on either side lay bare, brown fields, baked hard as stone,
and deeply fissured; no water anywhere; the only thing which broke the
monotony of the scene was the occasional passage of a train of arbas,
laden with huge, bloated-looking ox-skins, full of wine. The arba is
the national vehicle of Georgia, and is said to have been used as a
chariot by the ancient kings; it is constructed entirely of wood;
there is not so much as a nail or pin of metal in it; the wheels
are generally made of one piece of timber, and for this reason the
arba is allowed to travel on the highways without paying the tolls
which are imposed on carts with tires; a pair of oxen draw the cart,
and the creaking of it may be heard afar off. Parched with thirst,
and almost stifled with dust, we were glad to reach Vaziani, where
we spread our cloaks under an oak-tree by the side of a spring,
and proceeded to make a good lunch, after which we slept for a while.

In the afternoon we left Vaziani, and soon passed through the
prosperous German colony of Marienfeld, with its neat, homely cottages,
shaded by fine poplar-trees. The vicinity of the river Iora makes
this a very fertile spot, cool and inviting even in the middle of
summer. A little before reaching Marienfeld we saw, on the left, the
road to Telav, and the Kakhetian hills now seem to slope down very
quickly to meet our road, but we know that we shall have to travel
many a weary verst before we reach them. In the evening, at about
six o'clock, we arrived at Azamburi, a Russian village not far from
the station of Sartachali. It had been agreed that we should spend
the night here, so we alighted at the postoyalii dvor, or inn.

Azamburi is exactly like any other Russian village, a long, dirty,
double row of wretched hovels. Each farmer has his house and buildings
arranged round a square courtyard, in the midst of which lie carts,
pigs, agricultural produce, and filth of all kinds. The inhabitants are
Molokans; some account of the religious opinions of these people will
be found in Mr. D. M. Wallace's well-known work on Russia; they have no
priests nor sacraments, neither smoke nor drink, do not swear, and pay
great reverence to the Bible, a copy of which may be seen on a shelf in
the living-room of every house. They are not at all attractive, either
in physiognomy or conversation; their awful stupidity and ugliness
are all the more powerfully felt from the contrast which the native
population presents to them. Their choice of a piece of ground for
colonization would be inexplicable did we not remember their peculiar
religious convictions; they have chosen the very worst place in the
whole plain; the only drinking water in the neighbourhood is very
bad, so bad that the tea made from it is almost undrinkable, even by
people accustomed to Kura water. Quite near the village are stinking,
stagnant marshes, which must make the place terribly unhealthy.

After dinner we went outside to smoke, for the Molokan will not suffer
the mildest cigarette in his house, and even in the depth of winter
the visitor who smokes must burn his weed in the open air. Returning
along the road for some little distance, followed by a crowd of
children, who, evidently, had never before seen a lady in European
dress, we mounted a little hill, whence we saw in the distance our
baggage-waggons slowly approaching. In re-entering the village we
overtook a farmer with an English reaping-machine; this man was less
taciturn than his neighbours, and of his own accord entered into
conversation with us; he was loud in his praises of the reaper, and
said that the man who invented a certain part of it (a patent screw,
I think) ought to be "kissed behind the ear." We tried to interest
him in a pet idea of our own, viz., that village communities should
buy machinery collectively, but we regret to say that we could not
make a convert of him.

It was nine o'clock before our young friend, Prince Giorgi, arrived
with the goods under his charge; and while we were at supper much
merriment was caused by his vain endeavours to check himself in
the use of the word chort (the devil!), a pet expression of his,
but strictly forbidden in the houses of all good Molokans. The night
being fine, although the air was cool, we made up our minds to sleep
outside rather than risk the onslaughts of the Molokan fleas, and we
chose for our bivouac a thrashing-floor about a hundred yards from
the house; here we lay down, wrapped in our burkas, and smoked and
chatted until we fell asleep. But we were not to have a quiet night;
we were roused by the attack of some ferocious dogs; we beat them off
several times, but the numbers ever increased, until all the canine
population of Azamburi was howling round us.

We were on foot at three o'clock, and, waking up the drivers,
got the horses harnessed and started for Kakabeti. In the early
morning air flitted beautiful birds with wings as brilliant as
those of butterflies, and butterflies as big as birds. It was not
so terribly hot as I had found it some weeks before, when I passed
through Kakabeti in the afternoon, but it was still close enough to
make us long for a breath of the mountain air. This region is swampy,
and the fevers make it uninhabitable.

Kakabeti offers nothing of interest. The same wearisome plain stretches
all the way to Kajereti, near which is the hospitable abode of one of
the Andronikov family. We spent four hours there, and did not leave
the station until an hour after noon. Passing the inviting-looking
post-road to Bakurtsikhe, on our left, we kept to the plain for
a while; then rapidly rising to the village of Nukriani, Signakh
came into view at the top of the hill, and the lovely woodlands
at our feet seemed all the more beautiful on account of the bare,
monotonous character of the parched plain where we had spent the
last two days. Descending by a zigzag road, we entered the town,
and, passing along the main street, through the market-place, soon
reached the very edge of the steep, high hill which rises from the
Alazana valley.

SIGNAKH.

Our new home turned out to be a very delightful place,--large, lofty
rooms, two balconies; at the back, vineyards and gardens stretching far
down the hillside. The view was more beautiful than any I had ever seen
or imagined. The house was built on the edge of a deep, narrow ravine,
the steep sides of which were covered with vines and mulberry-trees
all the way down to the Alazana valley, a smooth, fertile plain
thirty miles broad. On the opposite side of the ravine, to the left,
stood a very extensive fortification with ruined towers, a stronghold
of some importance during the war with Shamil; behind this could be
seen the Armenian church and the outskirts of the town. Straight in
front lay the grand Caucasian mountains, rising like a wait from the
plain, their glittering snow-clad tops dividing the dark forests on
their flanks from the deep blue of the summer sky. In the midst of
the plain flowed the silvery Alazana, in its winding course dividing
the cultivated land on this side from the virgin forest beyond. Along
the nearer edge lay scattered hamlets with their neat little white
churches; farther off might be seen a wood, which we always thought
of as that of the Sleeping Beauty. From the heights of Signakh it does
not look large, but it is six miles in diameter, and the underwood is
so thick that it can only be penetrated by cutting a path with axes;
it is full of all sorts of wild beasts and dangerous reptiles. In
the distance on the left may be seen the mountains on which Telav is
situated; to the extreme right a few huts on the river bank indicate
the position of the Alazana bridge, and beyond this begins the long
sandy steppe which stretches in unbroken barrenness to the Caspian.

Signakh is 100 versts to the eastward of Tiflis, and stands about 1000
feet above the plain of the Alazana. The population is over 10,000, the
majority being Armenian shop-keepers, usurers, &c. The name signifies
"city of refuge," and the place was founded and fortified in the last
century, in order to serve as a retreat for the country people in
times of Lesghian raids. The fortress consists of a very large piece
of ground enclosed by high walls, with towers at regular intervals,
and the whole city used to be within these walls. The post-road to
Bakurtsikhe runs through the stronghold, and about sunset all the
wealth and beauty of Signakh may be seen promenading on the highway,
for this is "the boulevard;" on Sunday afternoon wrestling goes on
merrily to the sound of the pipe and drum. At present the military
importance of Signakh is almost at an end, but if Russia should
ever find herself involved in a great war we might probably hear
something of the doings of the Lesghians in that region. The garrison
is very small.

The Club is the centre of all the social life of Signakh, and on
Saturday evenings there are informal dances, to which the stranger
looks forward as a welcome break in the monotony of provincial
life. The Gostinnitsa "Nadezhda" (Hope Inn), which we nicknamed
"Grand Hôtel de Kakhétie," is dirty and uninviting to a degree which
Europeans could hardly imagine possible; but it is the best hostelry
in the town. The Court-house is just opposite the inn, and I remember
spending a very interesting evening there on one occasion, watching
the trial of Georgians, Tatars, Armenians, by a Russian justice of the
peace in a gorgeous uniform. The cases were settled with a rapidity
to which the High Court of Chancery is a stranger.

Altogether, Signakh is a dirty but highly picturesque little town;
its streets are narrow, crooked, and ill-paved, the shops, as is usual
in the East, are small, open rooms, in which saddlers, tailors, and
smiths may be seen plying their respective trades; all round about
the town are beautiful hills covered with oak, walnut, and other
tall forest-trees. The only other place it reminded me of was Amalfi,
and even in this case the resemblance was but slight.

On one of the neighbouring hills, at Bodbé, is the Monastery of
St. Nina. This venerable relic stands in one of the finest pieces
of scenery in all Kakheti, and is surrounded by a thick forest,
which has from the earliest times been protected from destruction
by a popular tradition, declaring that he who breaks off a branch
therein will die within the same year. The monastery was originally
built by King Mirian immediately after the death of the apostle
of Georgia, and her tomb may still be seen in the present church,
which, according to an inscription on one of the walls, was restored
by a certain King Giorgi, after the country had been laid waste by
Tamerlan. In the sacristy are many old manuscripts, amongst which
there are doubtless some of great historical interest, but, as far
as I know, they have not yet been catalogued. On the occasion of my
visit to Bodbé I passed a wine-shop, where three or four Georgians
were making merry; they pressed me to stay and drink with them, but,
offering them my thanks, I begged to be excused on the ground of want
of time. On my return they came out, hat in hand, to the middle of
the road, and presented me with a goblet, which I could not refuse to
drain without giving serious displeasure to my kind entertainers. This
little incident is a very good illustration of the Georgian character:
when the Georgian is merry, everybody else must share his jollity or
he is unhappy. I have seen a squire quite unnecessarily leave a scene
of revelry for a minute or two in order to heap up food in his horse's
manger, so that the faithful beast might share in the universal joy.

A TRIP ACROSS THE ALAZANA.

BAKURTSIKHE--KARTUBAN--LAGODEKH.

By daily excursions among the sloping vine-clad hills I soon made
myself familiar with Kakheti, the garden of Georgia; at Kodalo I had
shared the munificent hospitality of the Andronikovs, at Bakurtsikhe
that of the Vachnadzes; but I had never been in the wild country beyond
the Alazana, and it was with pleasure that I accepted the invitation
of the Princes Vachnadze to accompany them on their yearly visit to
their estates at Kartuban, on the River Kabalo, at the foot of the
mountains on the other side of the plain.

Accordingly, on a certain bright summer morning our cavalcade might
have been seen winding down the steep main street of Signakh. The first
halting-place was to be Bakurtsikhe, seventeen versts from Signakh,
where we had been invited to meet a large company of Kakhetian squires
and ladies at dinner. Our path, for some miles after leaving the
town, lay in the dry bed of a torrent. The remembrance of the wild,
beautiful scenery of that narrow gorge still fills me with delightful
emotions. It was the scene of so many pleasant rides--in the fierce
heat of the noonday sun, in the cool of evening, after midnight on
stormy nights, when we had returned homewards drenched with rain, our
path illumined only by dazzling flashes of lightning. As we picked
our way among the stones we met many a courteous gentleman, most of
them clad in the same Circassian garb as ourselves, but not a few,
especially the older men, in the true national garb--a short tunic,
with long flaps of cloth hanging from the shoulders; a dress said to
resemble the ancient Polish costume. Each raised his tall papakh of
Astrakhan fur, and, with graceful bow, saluted us, after the manner of
the country, with the word Gamardjwéba, which is, being interpreted,
"I wish thee the victory," to which we answered Gaguimardjos--"May
God grant thee the victory." These salutations are as eloquent as a
dozen volumes of history. I never heard them without thinking of the
sad but glorious past of the Georgian kingdom, nobly holding its own,
unaided, and witnessing for Christ and His Cross against all the hosts
of Islam, performing prodigies of valour that would have added to
the fame of Greece or Rome. God grant thee the victory, brave Georgia!

Emerging from the glen, we joined the post road at Anaga, and our
impatient horses set off at a gallop. On we sped through the well-kept
vineyards of a Russian capitalist, Count Sheremetiev, who threatens to
ruin all the poor squires of the district by selling his wines under
cost price. At a little village, about half-way between Signakh and
Bakurtsikhe, two of us had far outstripped the rest, and were racing
neck to neck when my companion's horse cast a shoe; so leaving him at
a roadside smithy, I went on alone. The fierce summer sun stood high
in the blue arch of heaven; on my left were vine-clad crags; to the
right, beyond the river, rose the white peaks of the mountain wall
between me and Europe. But I thought not of Europe. I forgot kindred,
country, humanity--everything. My horse and I were one, and we were
merged in that great, living ocean of life--our mother earth. My pulse
beat in harmony with the heart of Nature herself, keeping time with
the rippling rills, the whisper of the wandering airs to the leaves
of the trembling trees. I had entered a blissful Nirvana, in which
all consciousness of self was swallowed up in the world's soul.

I had ridden half a mile beyond the point whence I should have ascended
by a bridle-path to our host's house, before the cool shade of a cliff
aroused me from my state of forgetfulness. It was on the summit of
this cliff that my friends had recently met their tenants to discuss
some little differences that had arisen between them. Honest folk
do not like law-courts--especially Russian law-courts--so the good
Kakhetians decided to settle their dispute in the old-fashioned,
orthodox manner. A couple of horses were killed, and a good many
men on either side were pretty severely hacked and bruised; but the
landlords came off victorious. They, nevertheless, agreed to grant
certain concessions to the farmers, so all left the field of battle
delighted with one another. It is only just to say that this case was
an exceptional one. The relations between the gentry and peasantry
are excellent; they are on terms of such affectionate familiarity
that the latter always address their prince by his pet name.

Soon after noon we were all enjoying the hospitality of our
friend. When I say hospitality, I am not using the word in its
conventional sense; a Georgian displays towards his guest such courtesy
and kindness as are unknown among European peoples. Other friends soon
arrived, and at three o'clock, the usual dinner-hour, a score of us
sat down to dine in a shady arbour on the hillside. The dishes were
purely Oriental; rich pilavi (rice cooked with fruits, pistachio nuts,
&c.), shishlik (a choice cut of mutton roasted on a silver skewer over
a yard long, on which it is served up), and many another delicacy,
the thought of which makes my mouth water even now. The wine deserves
special mention. Kakheti has one of the finest soils in the world
for grape-growing, and any kind of wine, including fine champagne,
can be produced there. Unfortunately, the people in general have
not yet become acquainted with the methods by which wine has to be
"manipulated" in order to make it at once agreeable to a European
palate. Some of the best brands are not, however, open to this
objection, and are largely sold in Petersburg and Moscow, but they
are not so well known as they deserve to be. Merchants discourage
the introduction of new wines, as our Australian and South African
fellow-subjects know to their cost; but the day will undoubtedly come
when Caucasian vintages will be known and appreciated.

The drinking habits of the Georgians are interesting. A toastmaster
(tolumbash) is always chosen, and it is his duty to propose the
health of each guest in turn. To those who do not drain their glasses
before the time for the next toast has arrived, the tolumbash cries
Alaverdi! to which the laggard replies, Yakhsheol, and immediately
finishes the draught, in order to escape the penalty of swallowing a
large hornful of liquor at a breath. These words are of Tatar origin,
and commemorate a brave Tatar named Alaverdi, who fell in a battle
between the Georgians and Persians. The glasses contain a quarter
of a pint, and the stranger who sits down with a score of friends
is somewhat apprehensive as to the condition in which he will leave
the table. Luckily, the wine is nothing but pure grape-juice, and a
person with a tolerably strong head can dispose of two or three quarts
of it without feeling much the worse. Each toast is accompanied by the
singing of a grand old song called Mraval djamier ghmerthma inebos (May
God grant thee many years), to which the person thus honoured must sing
the reply, Madlobeli vart (I thank you). I have transcribed the song
in the Appendix. The ladies drink water scarcely coloured with wine.

Our dinner lasted more than two hours, and concluded with some
miscellaneous toasts, among which those of England and her Queen were
received with the greatest enthusiasm. Then, after tea, the guests
amused themselves with music and dancing, and nightfall found us all,
young and old, chasing one another about on the hillside in the games
of cat-and-mouse and blindman's buff. It was past midnight before we
retired to rest; some of us lay on the low, carpet-covered takhti,
or divans, which in Georgia replace beds, while those who preferred
it slept out on the green, wrapped up in their cloaks.

It had been arranged that we should start for the Alazana on the
following morning at four o'clock, in order to escape the terrible
midday heat of the low-lying plains by the river-side; but when we
rose we found that a couple of the horses had disappeared, and this
delayed us for two or three hours. At length we started, and, waving
farewells to all our good friends at Bakurtsikhe, we proceeded down
the long slope to the plain. There were six of us, besides a servant,
and we were armed to the teeth, after the manner of the country, with
daggers, pistols, swords, and rifles--not an unnecessary precaution,
for we saw ploughmen with a double-barrelled gun slung over the
shoulder, and sword and dagger at the girdle, while a man stood at
the end of the furrow ready to give the alarm. These fertile lands are
only half tilled. The wild Lesghian marauders come down upon the farms,
and steal all that can be carried away, and in the event of a war they
would simply burn up the whole country to the very gates of Tiflis.

It was a weary journey down to the river-bank, and we did not reach
the ferry until noon. The ferryman lives in a hut a good way from
the river, and it was only after firing half a dozen shots in the
air that we succeeded in attracting his attention. That half-hour
of waiting among the reeds, with the sun right overhead, was the
warmest half-hour I ever spent. At length the ferry-boat, a long
tree-trunk with the inside burnt out of it, came across the stream,
and we took our saddles and bridles and laid them in it. The horses
had, of course, to swim, and it was a long and difficult task to get
them all over. The current is very strong, and it was a subject for
congratulation that none of them were carried away by it. Excepting at
the ferry, the banks are so steep that it is impossible to land. When
all had safely reached the other side we lay down under the shade of
the trees, and lunched off cucumbers and coarse bread, washed down
by the white Kakhetian wine, of which we carried a full sheepskin.

The hottest part of our day's work was over; instead of burnt,
shadowless plains we should now have the sunless forest to ride
through until we reached our halting-place for the night. But we well
knew that we should not be in clover for the rest of the day, for we
had often been told that this wood was infested by a horse-fly of a
very malignant character, and as we rode along the northward path
we had an opportunity of making the acquaintance of the insect in
question. Within a mile of the bank we were surrounded by swarms of
them, and the horses, becoming more and more restless, at last went
perfectly mad with pain, while the blood dripped plentifully from their
flanks. To think of holding them in by bit and bridle was out of the
question, the only thing to be done was to let them gallop ahead and to
keep a sharp look-out for the many boughs that overhung the scarcely
perceptible track. Although Georgia is not in the tropics, this was a
truly tropical forest with all its luxuriant and beautiful vegetation;
walnut and other fancy woods abound, but they are allowed to fall
and rot unutilized; the undergrowth on either hand is so thick as to
be impenetrable; on all sides are masses of strange, bright flowers,
making the air heavy with perfume, and birds of dazzling plumage sit
chattering on every tree.

About an hour before sunset we reached the river Kabalo, a swift,
shallow mountain stream, which we forded, and then rode up a fine
glade to the encampment of my friends' Tatar herdsmen. About a score
of families live there all the summer in large tents, which are not
altogether devoid of comfort; in the interior may be seen carpeted
divans, gold and silver ornaments are not uncommon, and the copper
household utensils are thoroughly artistic in shape and beautifully
engraved. We dismounted at the chief man's tent, and, lying down on
the greensward, waited impatiently for dinner. The fare was abundant
and good, as was to be expected in a country so rich in game and fish,
and we slaked our thirst with cool kumiss (fermented mare's milk). The
Tatars are fine, bold-looking fellows; there is in their faces a
look of wild freedom that is extremely attractive to one who has
spent the most of his life in cities. I believe that if I had stayed
a week or two in that camp on the Kabalo, I should have been content
to renounce civilized life altogether. A very houri, a gazelle of the
wilderness, a sixteen-year old maiden in red tunic and wide trousers,
with long dark hair in countless tiny braids and pretty little white
bare feet and ankles, cast timid glances in our direction, and lovely,
languorous eyes said as plainly as possible, "Fly to the desert! fly
with me" ... and many other things which the curious reader may find
recorded in the works of the late Mr. Thos. Moore.

At nightfall we rode away, accompanied by a few Tatars, to visit
the large herds of horses and cattle which feed near here, and
then proceeded to the little cluster of cottages where the Georgian
farm-labourers live, about a couple of miles higher up the river. We
were received by the steward, a Greek from Cilicia, and after chatting
merrily over our tea for a few hours, we spread our burkas on the
ground and slept as well as the clouds of fierce mosquitoes would allow
us to do, under the starlit sky, lulled by the music of the stream.

About an hour before dawn the cold aroused us all, and after a
bath in the icy waters of the Kabalo, and a hasty breakfast, we
visited the farm-buildings. Tobacco is the chief commodity produced,
but its cultivation is at present rather unprofitable; I saw three
hundred bales of the finest leaves of last year's growth lying in
the store unsold; it is quite equal to Turkish, and can be bought at
a ridiculously low price, but it is not yet known in Europe, even in
Russia "Batumskii tabak" has only recently been introduced, although it
is far superior to that which is grown on the Don. Georgian landowners
cannot afford to push the sale of their wares in Europe, but I am sure
that if English firms would send out buyers they would not regret it,
unless they dealt with the wily Armenian middle-man instead of the
Georgian producer. The fear of the Lesghian robber-bands prevents any
great outlay of capital in the development of such a district, and,
indeed, nobody in Georgia has much capital to spare, so the greater
part of the estate I am speaking of, hundreds of square miles in
extent, is a pathless forest.

By eight o'clock we were in the saddle. The path rises through thick
woodlands to the summit of a hill crossed by a narrow, rocky pass
which has an unpleasant reputation as being the haunt of brigands;
only a few weeks before, a party of travellers had been attacked there,
two of their number were wounded, and they were all relieved of their
purses, jewellery, and arms. We were within half a mile of the top when
we perceived a Lesghian prowling about a little in advance of us. We
halted, unslung our fire-arms and loaded, then extending for attack,
as far as the nature of of the country would allow, we went forward
at a quick walking pace. We soon caught sight of three more Lesghians,
but this was evidently the whole force, for they contented themselves
with looking at us from a distance, and seeing that the odds were
in our favour, they galloped away into the depths of the forest,
and left us to pursue our journey unmolested.

Climbing to the summit of the hill, we enjoyed a splendid view of
the Alazana valley from the opposite side to that whence we had been
accustomed to see it; behind us rose the white peaks of the Caucasus,
looking very near in the clear morning air. A little way off the blue
smoke rising from among the trees showed us where our friends, the
highwaymen, were cooking their breakfast. To the eastward, almost at
the foot of the hill, lay the Russian military colony of Mikhailovka,
to which we descended.

Mikhailovka is fairly prosperous compared with other Russian
colonies in Transcaucasia, but to a European it does not seem an
Arcadia; it is one wide, straggling street of poor, dirty-looking
farmhouses. The colonists have to struggle with fever and ague,
not to speak of Lesghians, and altogether do not seem to enjoy their
life very much. Mikhailovka is the point at which the military road
from Signakh turns to the eastward, and about five miles farther
on arrives at Lagodekh, the staff head-quarters of an army corps,
into which we rode about an hour before noon.

Lagodekh is a place of some size, with wide, clean streets and large
grassy squares, planted with fine trees, the houses are neat and
comfortable-looking. Swift mountain streams run through it and supply
delicious water. The public buildings comprise barracks, hospital,
stores, a fine church of red sandstone, a modest club-house, bazar,
&c. We made our way to the quarters of an officer of the 39th, whose
hospitality we enjoyed until evening. In spite of the terrible heat,
our host showed us everything worth seeing. The park is the great
attraction, it is beautifully kept, and contains a fine long avenue
of tall poplars; in the middle of it is a pavilion with the garrison
ball-room, and near the entrance may be seen a small cemetery where
there is a real, old-fashioned ghost, which, under the semblance of
a white lady carrying a cross, affrights the local Tommy Atkins every
year in the month of June. I commend this sprite to the attention of
the Psychical Research Society, and I am quite willing to proceed to
Lagodekh and spend a month there in investigating the matter--at the
Society's expense.

The troops suffer a good deal in the summer months, and there are
many casualties from apoplexy, dysentery, and other complaints.

Early in the afternoon we sat down to dinner, and did full justice to