Chapter III: Part 3

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 the fare. My neighbour on the right was the brother of a charming lady whom I had met in Tiflis, and it so happened that he had that very day received from her a letter in which I was spoken of, for Englishmen are rare birds in these lands. This gentleman had wandering proclivities almost as strong as my own, and he informed me that he thought of travelling overland by Merv to India, "where the English pay private soldiers as much as the Russians pay a captain." After dinner we all slept for an hour, and then, the heat having slightly diminished, we started for Mikhailovka. A bear hunt was to take place on the following day, and we were urgently pressed to stay and take part in it, but we had to be back in Signakh within the next twenty-four hours, and were therefore obliged to deny ourselves this pleasure.

Before we were clear of Lagodekh somebody had the unfortunate idea of starting a wild gallop, but the spot was badly chosen, for a sudden turn in the road brought us to a river with a wide, stony bed. The leading horse threw his rider into the very middle of the stream, I was deposited on a heap of big stones on the other side; all the rest, warned by our mishap, escaped. It took over an hour to catch the runaway horses, and when we reached Mikhailovka I felt as if I had passed through a thrashing-mill, every bone was aching. Our camping-ground was under a large oak-tree, behind a peasant's house, and we lay there on the ground, a prey to the mosquitoes, until early morning.

At half-past four we were in the saddle, and after a stirrup-cup of Russian vodka, galloped down the smooth, well-kept military road towards the Alazana, occasionally glancing back at the beautiful hill country behind us. I felt all my many bruises with double force after the night's rest, and it was as much as I could do to keep my seat, not to speak of emulating the exploits of my companions, who were amusing themselves with shots at the hares and feathered game with which the country abounds. At length, at about eight o'clock, we reached the Chiauri Bridge, a shaky-looking wooden structure. There is a wretched little wine-shop, where we dismounted for breakfast. A fine fish of fifteen pounds' weight, with some of the coarse, indiarubber-like bread of the country, formed the solid part of the meal; I need not say what the liquid part of it was; we emptied our sheepskin and then fell back on mine host's supplies. The river, in summer at least, is sluggish and dirty, and has an evil smell of decaying vegetable matter, very suggestive of malarial fever; if our acquaintance with the Alazana had been confined to this portion of it, we should have been at a loss to understand the high praise which has been bestowed on it by all the sweet singers of Rustaveli's land.

We spent a couple of hours in rest and refreshment, and then started for home across the broad plain yellow with ripe grain. Noon saw us begin the toilsome ascent of the hills of Signakh, and an hour later we were lying on our balcony dreamily smoking cigarettes of Kartuban tobacco, while we mentally retraced every step of our delightful journey among the fair scenes which now lay spread at our feet.

SIGNAKH TO TELAV, AND THENCE TO TIFLIS.

My stay in Kakheti was so pleasant that I found it very hard to leave. My good friends there insisted that I should marry a Georgian lady and settle down as a country squire, to grow wine and drink it among them for the remainder of my natural life; when I finally decided upon the day for my departure they pressed me to stay, at least, until the vintage-time, but I still had much ground to go over, and I had made up my mind to return to England before winter set in.

One morning in July I said good-bye to Signakh, and set out in a post-cart for Telav. As far as Bakurtsikhe the road was quite familiar to me; it had never seemed so beautiful as it did when I said farewell to it. Then came Kalaki, which like Bakurtsikhe, is full of members of the Vachnadze family, and Gurdjani, one of the villages belonging to the Andronikovs. The Andronikovs are descended from a Byzantine prince who fled to Georgia during the reign of Queen Tamara; they have always been distinguished for bravery and munificence, the two virtues which are most appreciated in this country; in the present century they have produced a general worthy to rank with any who have ever served the Tsars. I may say, in passing, that it is astonishing to find what a large percentage of the great military leaders in the Russian army have been and are of Georgian birth. Another curious circumstance is that some of the best families in Georgia are of foreign origin; the Bagrats, the royal family, were once Hebrews, and claim to be descended from David, the son of Jesse; the Orbelianis, the second family in the kingdom, came from China; the Andronikovs, as we have just remarked, were originally Greeks.

Near Gurdjani is Akhtala, a muddy hollow in which are slime baths, resorted to by persons suffering from rheumatism, scrofula, and many other diseases; the baths are simply round holes full of mud, in the middle of which an evil-smelling gas slowly bubbles up; the largest bath of all is reserved for cattle. I need hardly say that all the bathing goes on al fresco, for nobody has thought of building a hydropathic establishment in this remote corner of the Caucasus. Akhtala has, of course, its legend. It is said that a farmer was once working in his vineyard on the Feast of the Transfiguration, when a passer-by asked him why he was not at church on so holy a day. The scoffer replied that he had seen enough of transfigurations, he and his wife had been transfigured into old people, and their children into men and women; the wayfarer, who was none other than our Lord, said, "Well, you shall see yet another transfiguration," whereupon the ground opened, and belched forth a liquid mass, which swallowed up the vineyard, with the sinner and all his household.

The road continues to run parallel to the Alazana, and the next station is Mukuzani, seventeen versts from Bakurtsikhe, near which is the flourishing town of Velistsikhe. All this region is a fertile, well-cultivated plain, and there are many villages renowned for their wines; the peasants of the Telav district are much wealthier than those near Signakh. Akuri, fourteen versts from Mukuzani, is the last station. The city of Telav is now visible on the top of a hill straight in front, and it has a very picturesque appearance.

About half a dozen miles beyond Akuri, in a beautiful valley, is Tsinondal, formerly the home of Prince David Chavchavadze, but now the property of Alexander Alexandrovich, Autocrat of all the Russias, for whom a vast palace was being built at the time of my visit. The Tsar would be far safer here than at Gachina, for there are no anarchists among the Georgians, and I cannot account for the rumour that it was proposed to exile a large number of the young nobles, in order to assure the monarch's safety during his sojourn in the Caucasus.

Tsinondal is famous as the scene of one of the most dramatic incidents of the war with Shamil, viz., the capture of Princesses Chavchavadze and Orbeliani in July, 1854. On account of rumours of Lesghian raids the Chavchavadze family had not left Tiflis for their estates until the month of July. They arrived safely at Tsinondal, and were soon joined by Nina Chavchavadze's sister, Princess Varvara Orbeliani, whose husband had just been killed while fighting against the Turks. They were but newly settled in their summer quarters, when Prince Chavchavadze received orders to go and take the command of a fortress some distance from home. Before leaving, he reassured his family by telling them that reinforcements were about to be sent to Telav, and that the Alazana was so high that the enemy could not cross it. In a few days the prince wrote to his wife to say that he was besieged by a force of five or six thousand Lesghians, but had no fear of the place being taken; if he thought it advisable for his family to leave Tsinondal, he would let them know.

Meanwhile the Lesghians were nearer than was imagined, and the flames from burning villages in the neighbourhood soon warned the family that no time was to be lost. First of all the peasants came and begged the princess to fly to the woods with them; then the gentry of the district offered their aid for the same purpose, but these offers were declined; her husband had told her to stay there, and there she would stay. At length, the advance of the enemy had proceeded so far in the direction of Tsinondal, that the princess consented to have all her plate and jewels packed up one night, ready for flight on the morrow; but it was too late. Soon after dawn the Lesghians were in the gardens of the castle. The family doctor and a handful of servants gallantly held the gate for a few minutes, but they were soon shot down, and the place was in the hands of the wild men of the mountains.

The women and children sought refuge in a garret, whence they heard the smashing of mirrors, pianos, and other furniture. A few Lesghians soon discovered the hiding-place of the terrified family, and each seized a woman or child as his share of the booty. As they bore away their prisoners the staircase broke under their weight, and all fell in a confused heap on the lower floor. Then there was a murderous fight for the possession of the ladies; their garments were torn to shreds, and some of them were wounded. The conquerors picked up the senseless victims from a heap of dead Lesghians, and forced them to mount on horseback behind them.

The passage of the Alazana was accomplished with great danger, and when they reached the other side the half-naked ladies were wet, chilled, and miserable. Strange to tell, Princess Baratov, a beautiful girl of eighteen, had not lost any article of dress, and was as richly attired as if she had been on her way to a ball. But poor Mdme. Drançay, the French governess, had nothing left but a chemise and a corset. A handful of Georgians attempted a rescue; the Lesghians mistook them for the skirmishers in advance of an army, and fled. Princess Nina Chavchavadze had an infant in her arms, and after riding for some distance she was so wearied that the baby fell and was trampled under the horses' feet. She would have leaped after it, but her captor held her fast, and another man coolly cut the child's throat.

Finding the number of prisoners too large, the Lesghians killed sixty of them on the road. All the villages on the way were burned, and their inhabitants butchered. Then they mounted through a thick forest and up among the mountains to Pokhalski, where Shamil was staying with an army of ten thousand men. There they were joined by a new prisoner, Niko Chavchavadze, who, with thirty Georgians, had held a castle for three days against five hundred Lesghians, and only surrendered when he had not a cartridge left. Shamil ordered the princess to write to Tiflis saying that all the prisoners would be handed over to Russia in exchange for his son, Djemal Eddin, and a fair ransom. In the meantime the ladies had to make themselves veils of muslin, and they lived in the harem of Shamil. They were, however, treated honourably, and they always had the highest respect for the great warrior and prophet.

Eight months elapsed before the negotiations were concluded, and on the 10th of March, 1855, the exchange took place at Kasafiurte. Djemal Eddin, Shamil's son, had since his early youth been held as a hostage at Petersburg. He was a most amiable man; had become perfectly Russian in his way of life, and spoke Russian, French, and German fluently; he was colonel of a regiment, and aide-de-camp to the Tsar. It was with deep regret that he left civilization to return to the wild life of his native mountains, and in 1858 he died of a broken heart.

Mounting the sloping Tsivi hills, the road enters Telav by the Boulevard, at one end of which is the inn; but on my applying for lodgings I was told that the house was under repair, and travellers could not be entertained. I was recommended to go to "The Club." At the Club the room offered me was so dirty and cheerless that I decided to make the post-house my headquarters. It was only one o'clock in the afternoon, and I determined to have an early dinner. In a town like Telav, thought I, it will be possible to get something to eat. I first addressed myself to the postmaster, who replied that boiling-water was the only refreshment he could offer me, but held out the hope that I might get dinner in the town. I wandered up and down the streets for an hour, hungry, thirsty, and hot, and then found a dirty eating-house where I refreshed myself with vodka, eggs, wine, and bread. It took three quarters of an hour to boil the eggs! I leave the reader to imagine whether my first impressions of Telav were favourable or not. I returned to the station and slept.

It was beginning to get cooler before I went to examine the objects of interest in the town. Telav, the capital of the ancient kingdom of Kakheti, lies in a very strong position on two hills, about 1400 feet above the Alazana. It was founded by King Grigal I., first king of Kakheti, destroyed by the Persians under Shah Abbas in the sixteenth century, and rebuilt by Irakli II. The present population is about eight or nine thousand. In going from the post-house to the centre of the town I passed through a gateway in the old wall, which used to surround the whole city, and is of great antiquity. On the left is the palace of Irakli II., now used as a grammar-school for young gentlewomen, and in it may be seen the room where the old hero died, on January 11th, 1798. There are a couple of interesting old churches, containing curious pictures and ornaments of a certain artistic value. The main street is well paved, and has a long arcade under which are the chief shops. Telav is much more cheerful than Signakh, although the population is smaller, and there are comparatively few Armenians. From a low bridge across the dry bed of a torrent, one gets a splendid view over the Alazana to the Caucasian range and the country of the Tushes.

When I had seen all the sights of Telav, I felt bored to death, and was just preparing to leave the Boulevard for a walk in the country, when a handsome boy of fourteen, in a cadet's uniform, ran up and welcomed me effusively. It was young Prince M----, whom I had met in Tiflis. He was soon followed by his father, a retired colonel, who has done good service for the great white Tsar, and has been wounded more than once. Although I had only seen him once or twice before, he reproached me for not coming to take up my quarters at his house, and repeatedly urged me to stay a few days with him. But I had made up my mind to leave for Tiflis early on the following morning. We took a walk in the park called Nadikari, given to the town by the Vakhvakhovs, and enjoyed enchanting views of the Alazana dale and the mountains. Returning to my friend's house, we supped, and sat over our wine until past midnight. When I left for the post-house the grey-headed warrior and his pretty son embraced me and wished me every good thing. They insisted upon sending with me a servant who carried wine and bread for my journey.

At four o'clock on the following morning I left my wooden couch, and seated myself in the stage-coach for Tiflis. I only had two companions, an Armenian trader of the most objectionable description, and a Georgian schoolmaster on his way to Odessa for a holiday. The latter was a very jolly fellow, and intelligent withal. He was an ardent champion of the doctrines of the First Revolution, and of the modern principle of nationality. He soon entered into conversation with me. My unmistakably foreign accent immediately roused his curiosity, and when I told him that I was English he steadfastly refused to believe me, asserting that I was a Mingrelian. The road passes through a few villages, and then, as it mounts by the side of the river, the houses become scarcer. On the right are many square holes in the face of a steep cliff; they are said, like those between Tiflis and Mtzkhet, to have been used as places of refuge in time of war, and they are approached from a monastery on the top of the hill. On the left is the monastery of the Mother of God, a favourite resort of the people of Telav. The track then runs along the bottom of the valley, on the right bank of the river Turdo, amid rich woodland scenery.

It takes a long time to mount to the summit of Gambori. This winding road had only recently been opened to traffic, and there is no posting yet. The best means of conveyance is the daily coach, and it is a slow and uncomfortable vehicle. I had been advised to make a good meal at Gambori station, and, as the coach waits there for half an hour, I entered the dukhan, or wine-shop, with this object in view. Alas! nothing was to be had but vodka, tobacco, and matches! Beyond Gambori the scenery becomes quite English-looking for a time. There is abundance of game of all kinds, and I saw two fine deer run across the road behind us. Climbing to a grassy knoll, bare of trees, we arrived at length at the Pass of Gambori, deservedly called Cold Mountain (6044 feet above sea level, and thirty-four versts from Telav), and, leaving Kakheti behind us, descended into the valley of the Iora and the province of Kartli. Passing the ruined castle of Verena, built in the fifth century by King Gurgaslan, we enjoy an ever-changing view of indescribable loveliness all the way to Lager.

Lager, as the name indicates, is a military post, and is of some importance on account of its position, about half-way between Tiflis and Telav; it is the summer quarters of a brigade. The garrison was not at that time very large, but there was some talk of increasing it; indeed, we met a couple of hundred men and half a dozen guns only a few versts beyond the village. The heat was terrible, and we could not help pitying the poor soldiers, who were cursing and sweating as they toiled up the mountain side. The radical schoolmaster began to descant on the advantages of universal disarmament, but he was interrupted by a good little peasant woman from the Russian colony at Lager, who replied that it was certainly very hard, but "if we had not a large army the English would come and make slaves of us all."

The next station was Udjarma, a fortress of great importance from the third century to the fifteenth, but now an uninteresting place, chiefly remarkable for the fact that the village graveyard is on the top of a very steep, isolated hill. From this point the road becomes dull; it crosses a bare, windy plain, and is as wearisome as the Signakh road, which it meets near Vaziani. The white church of St. David's was soon seen glittering in the sun; then Orkhevi was passed, and not long after sunset we entered Tiflis, hot, dusty, tired, and hungry, after our journey of 70 versts. I spent two days in Tiflis, where the heat had by that time become stifling; then I regretfully doffed my Circassian garb, and again submitted to the bondage of the stiff linen collar. On the afternoon of the third day I was in Baku.

THE HISTORY OF GEORGIA.

Georgian history may be said to begin with Pharnavaz, the first king of the country, who reigned in the third century B.C. It is to him that the invention of the ordinary civil alphabet is commonly attributed. From this remote date down to the present time we have an almost unbroken narrative, the trustworthiness of which is proved by its agreement with the annals of other lands. Those who are specially interested in the early history will find in the sequel such bibliographical references as will enable them to satisfy their curiosity; but the present sketch will be confined to the more modern period, beginning in the eleventh century A.D.

In 1089 David II., of the Bagratid line, descended, if we are to believe tradition, from David the Psalmist (note the harp and the sling in the royal arms of Georgia), as well as from Pharnavaz, came to the throne. During the reigns of his immediate predecessors the land had been mercilessly laid waste by the Seldjukid Turks; but the successes of the Crusaders, and the temporary decline of the Mahometan power in the East, enabled him to raise his country to a very high position. Having boldly attacked the Turks, and driven them out of every part of his dominions, he set himself to rebuild cities, fortresses, and churches, purged the state and the church of many abuses, and liberally encouraged education. These deeds have won for him the name of David the Renewer. Georgia enjoyed prosperity for the next hundred years, and then came the zenith of the national glory.

In 1184 Queen Tamara succeeded her father, and reigned twenty-eight years, the happiest and most glorious period in the history of the country. The queen had the good fortune to be surrounded by wise counsellors and brave generals, but it is chiefly to her own virtues that her success is to be ascribed. The military exploits in which she was engaged spread her fame throughout the whole of Asia. Erzerum, Dovin, Trebizond, Sinope, Samsun, Kars, and Ani saw the triumph of the Georgian arms, the renowned Rokn Eddin was signally defeated, and the Persians were terror-stricken by her expedition to Khorassan.

Yet she did not neglect home affairs; she was the orphan's mother, the widow's judge. Religion was the moving force in everything that she did; when a large booty was captured, a portion of it was always set aside for the Blessed Virgin, and churches soon sprang up in every village. She daily spent much time in prayer, and made garments for the poor with her own fair, queenly hands. There is a tradition to the effect that she every day did as much work as would pay for her food, and although this is probably an exaggeration, it serves to show what the character of the queen was.

Her literary talents were of no mean order; when she had won a battle, she could, like Deborah, tell forth her triumph in a sweet, glad song to the Lord of Hosts, and one, at least, of these psalms is still preserved; but it is chiefly as the inspirer and patroness of poets that she is famous. Such fragments of her correspondence as we have before us reveal the fact that she was no mean diplomatist. One of them especially breathes forth a noble spirit of fearless faith. Rokn Eddin had raised an army of 800,000 men, and was preparing to march against Georgia. Before setting out he sent an ambassador to the queen, asking her to renounce Christianity and become his wife, and concluding the letter with the threat that if she would not submit, he would come and make her his mistress. The ambassador who proposed such insolent terms would have been killed by Tamara's courtiers if she had not protected him. She wrote back calmly, expressing her trust in God, and declaring her determination to destroy Rokn Eddin and his infidel hosts. She finishes with a truly womanly touch: "Knowing how careless your men are, I do not return this by your messenger, but send one of my own servants with it."

Not contented with driving the Mahometans out of her own land, she sent ambassadors to the Christian communities in Alexandria, Libya, Mount Sinai, Jerusalem, Cyprus, Greece, and Rumania, to offer them help if they needed it; and in order to secure orthodoxy in the theology of her people, she commanded that a great disputation should be held between the doctors of the Georgian and Armenian Churches.

Her private life was not free from trouble. Three years after her accession she was prevailed upon to marry a Russian prince, Bogoliubovskoi, who had been driven out of his dominions in Muscovy. This individual conducted himself towards his consort in a shameful manner, and, after enduring his indignities for a long time, she complained to the ecclesiastical authorities, who granted her a divorce. She had no children by her first husband, so the nobles of the kingdom pressed her to marry again, in order that she might have an heir. Her beauty and her fame brought her suitors from the most distant lands. Mahometans renounced their religion for her, and there were many that died for love of her. She chose Prince David Soslan, an Osset, who, by his bravery and devotion, proved himself worthy to possess such a pearl among women, and she bore him a son, called Giorgi Lasha, in 1194, and a daughter, Rusudan, in 1195. Bogoliubovskoi, although he had been treated far beyond his deserts, twice invaded Georgia, but without success.

In 1212, wearied by her continual campaigns, and sorrow-stricken at the death of her husband and her greatest general, Tamara died, and left the throne to her son, Giorgi Lasha, at that time eighteen years of age. The young king was no sooner crowned than Ganja revolted, and this was soon followed by a still greater calamity, the invasion of Genghis Khan. Giorgi led 90,000 troops against the Mongols, but was defeated. In the meantime the Shah of Persia had asked for the hand of the beautiful Rusudan, and the Shah of Shirvan made a like demand. Giorgi promised his sister to the latter, but he died in 1223.