In the whole Beiram procession, Dr Wagner declares, there were, besides

Riza Pasha, but two handsome men amongst all the Turks of the higher

class there present. Of the numerous array of officers and soldiers, it

was but here and there that he saw one tolerably well-made, and athletic

figures were still more rarely observable. Worse than any looked the

debilitated Sultan, cramped in his tight coat, oppressed by his heavy

epaulets and gold lace, his diamonds and his plumes, and leaning

languidly forward on his fine charger. What a contrast with the portrait

of the Emperor Nicholas, which Dr Wagner saw when visiting the summer

seraglio of Kadi-Köi! Opposite to a divan upon which Abdul Meschid was

wont to repose—whilst his tympanum was agreeably tickled by the harmony

of half-a-dozen musical boxes, playing different tunes at the same

time—stood two costly porcelain vases, whereon were painted likenesses

of the Emperor and Empress of all the Russias. They were presents from

Nicholas to the Sultan. “The Emperor’s gigantic and powerful frame and

martial countenance were admirably portrayed. The painter had given him

a mien and bearing as though he were in the act of commanding his

grenadiers. As a contrast, I pictured to myself the Turkish monarch

reposing his feeble frame upon the luxurious velvet divan; the harmless

ruler who prefers ease in his harem to a gallop at the head of his

troops; the trill of his musical boxes, and the flutes of dancing

dervishes, to the clatter of cuirasses and the thunder of

twelve-pounders.” Russia and Turkey are well typified by their rulers.

On the one hand, vigour, energy, and power; on the other, weakness,

decrepitude, and decline. What wonder if, as Dr Wagner relates, the

young Archduke Constantine, when visiting the city that bears his name,

gazed wistfully and hopefully from the lofty gallery of the Galata tower

on the splendid panorama spread before him, as though dreaming that, one

day, perhaps, the double eagle might replace the crescent upon the

stately pinnacles of Stamboul!

After passing in review several of the most remarkable men in Turkey,

Reschid Pasha, Omar Pasha the Renegade, Tahir Pasha, the fierce old

admiral who commanded the Turkish fleet at Navarino, and who—never well

disposed towards Christians—regarded them, from that disastrous day

forward, with inextinguishable hatred, Dr Wagner speaks of the

representatives at Constantinople of various European courts, briefly

retracing some of the insults and cruelties to which, in former times,

the ambassadors of Christian sovereigns were subjected by the arrogant

Porte, and noting the energy and success with which Great Britain alone,

of all the aggrieved powers, and even before the empire of the seas had

become indisputably hers, invariably exacted and obtained satisfaction

for such injuries. He remarks with admiration upon the signal reparation

extorted by Lord Ponsonby in the Churchill case, and proceeds to speak

in the highest terms of that diplomatist’s able successor.

“The most prominent man, by his political influence, as well as by his

spirit, character, energy, and nobility of mind, in the diplomatic world

of Pera, was and is, to the present day, the Englishman Stratford

Canning. With external advantages, also, Nature has endowed this man

more richly than any of his colleagues, whether Turks or Franks. He is

of a very noble figure, and possesses that innate, calmly dignified

majesty which characterises Britannia’s aristocracy. Totally free from

affectation or theatrical manner, he has a thoughtful brow, marked with

the lines of reflection and labour, and fine deep blue eyes, whose

meaning glance seems to reveal a host of great qualities, and to tell,

at the same time, that with the highest gifts of a statesman is here

combined a warm, a generous, and a sympathetic heart.”

Dr Wagner was presented to Sir Stratford Canning by a German friend, and

the ambassador seems completely to have won his heart, partly by the

admiration he expressed of Circassia’s heroic struggle against the

overwhelming power of the Czar, and by his sympathy with the Nestorian

Christians of Djulamerk—at that time persecuted and cruelly handled by

Beder Khan—but still more by the general liberality of his views, and by

his un-diplomatic frankness of speech and manner. The Doctor pays a warm

tribute to his high qualities, and to his success and diplomatic

triumphs at Constantinople; and Dr Wagner’s eulogiums are, in this

instance, the more to be valued that he does not often bestow them upon

our countrymen, but more frequently dwells upon their less amiable

qualities. As a philanthropist and man of high honour, he says, Sir

Stratford Canning is really a rarity in old Byzantium, where, for so

many centuries, tyranny and servility, corruption and lies, have

established their seat. And he proceeds to exhibit the less favourable

side of the character of the diplomatic corps at Constantinople, bearing

with particular severity upon an Austrian envoy, concerning whom he

tells some good stories—one, amongst others, of a diamond ornament,

which brought great ridicule and discredit upon the internuncio. When

Ibrahim Pasha was driven out of Syria, the Sultan, in token of his

gratitude, ordered the court jeweller to manufacture costly diamond

ornaments for the ladies of the British and Austrian ambassadors. Lady

Ponsonby (we abridge from Dr Wagner) duly received hers, but Count

Stürmer intimated, on behalf of his lady, that she would prefer ducats

to diamonds. The cunning Austrian well knew that upon such occasions the

jewellers were wont to take large profits. So he had it mentioned at the

seraglio, by one of his dragomans, that the ambassadress was no lover of

trinkets, but would willingly receive their value. To this there was no

objection, and the pleasant sum of half a million of piastres was

transferred from the Sultan’s treasury to the internuncio’s strong box.

If the Austrian flattered himself that the transaction would be unknown,

he was terribly mistaken. Pera is the Paradise of evil tongues, and next

day the ambassadress’s dealings in diamonds were the talk of the town.

Count Stürmer had many enemies and no friends; even his attachés had

little attachment for him; the story was too piquant to be lost, and it

was repeated with a thousand good-natured embellishments and

commentaries, until it came round to the ears of the person principally

concerned. Thereupon, the wily ambassador devised a plan to outwit the

gossips. The finest diamond ornaments in the best jeweller’s shop in the

bazaar were ordered to be sent to the Austrian embassy, on approval. An

order for diamonds had been received from Vienna. The jeweller,

anticipating a prompt sale and good profit, hastened to send the best he

had. Meantime a number of the members of the different embassies were

asked to dinner. At dessert, Count Stürmer led the conversation to the

Sultan’s generosity and gallantry to ladies, and, turning to the

Countess, asked her to show their guests the beautiful set of diamonds

she had received as a present from his Highness. Great was the company’s

admiration of the costly jewels—far greater their astonishment at this

ocular refutation of the current tale which had transformed the

brilliants into piastres. They had thought the sources of their

information so sure! The ambassador noted and enjoyed their confusion.

But, clever as the trick was—in political matters its author had never

exhibited such ingenuity and inventive talent—its success was but

temporary. The sharp noses of the Pera gossips smelled out the truth.

Having served their purpose, the jewels were returned to the jeweller,

and one may imagine the shout and halloo that resounded through the

drawing-rooms, coffee-houses, and barbers’ shops of Pera and Galata,

when the real facts of the case were at length verified beyond a doubt.

The admission made by Dr Wagner in another place, that the hotel of the

Austrian internuncio was remarkable for its hospitality, and was the

chief place of meeting in Constantinople for foreigners and natives of

distinction, should perhaps have induced him to take a more indulgent

view of Count Stürmer’s dealings in diamonds. Go where you will, says a

French proverb, you shall always be welcome if you take with you a

fiddle and a frying-pan. Dinners and dances are amongst the most

important of diplomatic duties; and the Austrian may have thought he

could better dispense with diamonds than with these. At his hotel,

during one of Dr Wagner’s visits to Constantinople, that singularly

successful soldier of fortune, General Jochmus, was a constant guest.

This fortunate adventurer, of insignificant family at Hamburg, who has

been indebted, for his remarkable rise, partly to his gallantry and

talents, partly to extraordinary good luck, and who has passed through

half-a-dozen services, always with more or less distinction, began his

career in Greece, afterwards joined the Anglo-Spanish Legion, passed

thence into the native Spanish army with the rank of general, quitted it

on account of an insult received from a French tailor settled in Spain,

and for which the feeble and _Afrancesado_ Christino government dared

not give him the satisfaction he justly demanded, and, at the time

referred to by Dr Wagner, was Ferik-Pasha in the Turkish

service—subsequently to become Imperial minister under the brief rule of

the Archduke John. His skill as a chess-player, Dr Wagner informs us, is

still more remarkable than his military talent. When in command of the

Turkish army in Syria, at the time that Ibrahim Pasha and his Egyptians

were about to retreat through the desert, Jochmus, entering

Damascus—long a stronghold of chess—challenged the best players in the

place to a match, and carried off the victory. From this officer, and

from other Europeans of high rank in the Turkish service, Dr Wagner, who

loves to speculate on the political future of the East, and on the

probable or possible infringements of Russia upon the territories of her

weaker neighbours, gathered opinions, valuable although very various, as

to the military power of Turkey, and her means of resistance to

Muscovite aggression. The Doctor entertains a very high respect for the

power of Russia, strikingly illustrated by the recent crisis, when, with

one army guarding Poland and another warring in the Caucasus, she was

able to lend a third—not far short of two hundred thousand men—to the

neighbouring empire, which was on the point of being overturned by an

insurgent province. In his second volume he talks ominously of the

result of an anticipated conflict between an Anglo-Indian and a Russian

army, predicting victory to the latter, even whilst recognising the

justice of the high encomiums passed by another German writer on the

corps of British officers in India. “An impartial and competent observer

and judge of most of the armies of Europe, Leopold von Orlich, who has

written a valuable book of travels in India, assures us that that

numerous body of officers (eight hundred and twenty staff officers, and

five thousand five hundred of inferior rank) has not its equal in the

world with respect to military spirit and efficiency, and that he never

witnessed in any army so much mutual self-devotion as amongst the

officers and soldiers of the British Indian host. Thirst for action,

high spirit, self-confidence and practical good sense, are the special

characteristics of the English officers.” Than this, nothing can be

truer. Dr Wagner proceeds to theorise on the probable defection of the

Sepoys, in the event of a Russian army showing itself on our Indian

frontier. Theories referring to such remote and improbable contingencies

we need hardly be at the pains to combat; and, indeed, were we to take

up the argumentative cudgels every time that Dr Wagner’s frequent

political digressions hold out temptation so to do, we should get to the

end of our paper and have got never a step from Constantinople. Our

present object being the general examination of a book of travels, we

prefer accompanying the Doctor on board the Austrian steamer Stamboul,

bound for Trebizond. Thence his road was by land, south-eastward to

Erzroum, travelling with Turkish post-horses—not in a carriage, but in

the saddle and with baggage animals—at first through a garden of azaleas

and rhododendrons, of geraniums and ranunculuses; afterwards through an

Alpine district, over dangerous mountain-paths, unequalled, he declares,

for the hazards of the passage, by anything he ever met with in the

European Alps. Whilst traversing these bridle-roads, which are often

scarcely two feet broad, with precipices of giddy depth now on the right

hand and then upon the left, travellers keep their saddles and trust to

the good legs, prudence, and experience of their horses. Dr Wagner

witnessed more than one accident. A pack-mule fell over a precipice, but

escaped with the fright and a few bruises. A Turkish official had a very

narrow escape. His horse slipped upon a wet rock, fell, and lay where he

fell. The Turk found himself with half his body under the horse, the

other half hanging over a gulf which gaped, in frightful profundity, at

the edge of the road. “I had passed the dangerous spot,” says the

Doctor, “but one minute before him; I heard the fall, looked round, and

saw the Turk just below me, in that horrible position. The horse lay

with the saddle turned towards the precipice, down which it seemed

inevitable that, at the first effort to rise, he and his rider must

fall. But the animal’s fine instinct saved both itself and its rider.

Snorting, with dilated nostrils and ears erect, the brave horse gazed

down into the chasm, but made not the slightest movement. The Turk

remained as motionless; he saw the peril and dared not even shout for

aid, lest he should scare his horse. The utmost caution was necessary in

approaching him. Whilst the Pole and I quickly alighted and descended to

his assistance, the Turk’s companions had already got hold of his bridle

and coat skirts, and soon horse and man stood in safety upon their six

legs.”

The Pole here referred to—John Saremba was his name—accompanied Dr

Wagner from Constantinople as a sort of guide or travelling servant, and

was his stanch and faithful follower during very long and often

dangerous wanderings. He spoke Turkish and Italian, could cook a good

pilau, and handled his sabre, upon occasion, with dexterity and effect.

The story of his eventful life, which he related to his employer after

dinner at Gumysh Haneh, a town between Trebizond and Erzroum, whilst

their companions enjoyed the _Kef_, or Oriental idleness after meat, is

unquestionably the most interesting digression of the many in Dr

Wagner’s book. Wonderful to relate, Saremba, although a Pole and a

refugee, claimed not to be either a count or a colonel. His father had

been a glazier in Warsaw, and brought his son up to the same trade. When

the Polish revolution broke out, in November 1830, young Saremba entered

the service as a volunteer, was present at the battles of Grochow,

Praga, Iganie, Ostrolenka, but neither received wounds nor obtained

promotion. It is rare to meet a Pole who has not been at least a

captain, (the Polish army lists of that period being now out of print.)

Saremba admitted that he had never attained even to a corporal’s worsted

honours. After the capture of Warsaw, his regiment retreated upon

Prussian ground. Their hope was that the Prussian king would permit

their passage through his territory, and their emigration to America.

This hope was unfulfilled. They were disarmed; for a few weeks they were

taken good care of; then they were sent back to Poland, there to be

drafted into various Russian regiments, or sent, by troops, to the

interior, or to Caucasus. The latter was Saremba’s lot. Incorporated in

a Russian regiment of the line, and after many changes of garrison, he

found himself stationed at the camp of Manglis, in the neighbourhood of

Teflis.

In Saremba’s company there were sixteen Poles besides himself. Seven of

them had fought in the revolutionary war; the others were recruits,

enlisted since its conclusion. One of the number was married. Their

treatment by the Russian officers was something better than that of the

other soldiers, Russians by birth. This proceeded from no sympathy with

the Polish cause, but from an involuntary feeling of compassion for men

superior in breeding and education to the Russian boors, and who were

condemned for political offences to the hard life of a private soldier.

More dexterous and intelligent than the Russians, the Poles quickly

learn their duty, and would monopolise most of the chevrons of

non-commissioned officers, had not the colonels of regiments

instructions on this head from the Czar, who has little confidence in

Polish loyalty. Saremba was tolerably fortunate in his commanding

officer; but the latter could not always be at his subaltern’s elbow,

and the poor Poles had much to put up with—bad food, frequent beatings,

and extra duty, as punishment for imaginary offences. When to these

hardships and sufferings was added the constant _heimweh_—the ardent and

passionate longing after home, which has often driven Swiss soldiers, in

foreign services, to desertion, and even to suicide—no wonder that every

thought of the Poles was fixed upon escape from their worse than

Egyptian bondage. There is peculiar and affecting interest in Saremba’s

narrative of this portion of his adventures, which Dr Wagner gives in

substance, he says, but, as we are disposed to believe, pretty nearly in

the Pole’s own words.

“When off duty, we Poles often assembled behind the bushes of the forest

that encircles the camp of Manglis; sang, when no Russian was within

earshot, our national Polish airs, which we had sung, during the

revolution, in the ranks of our national army; spoke of our homes, of

days gone by, and of hopes for the future; and often, when we thought of

all we had lost, and of our bitter exile in a wild foreign land, we all

wept aloud together! Well for us that none of our officers witnessed

that. It would have gone hard with us.

“We formed innumerable plans of flight into Turkey, but, lacking any

accurate knowledge of the country, we for a long time dared not come to

a positive resolution. Meanwhile, we took much trouble to acquire the

Tartar tongue, and to extract information from the inhabitants

concerning the way to Turkey. One of our comrades helped a Tartar

peasant in the neighbourhood of Manglis to cultivate his fields,

receiving no payment, in order to make a friend of him, and to question

him about the country. The Tartar soon divined his project, and

willingly lent himself to facilitate our escape. Flight to Persia would

have been easiest; but the Tartar would not hear of that, for he was a

Sunnite, and detested the heretic followers of Ali. He advised us to fly

to Lasistan, as easier to reach than Turkish Armenia. My comrade was

compelled to promise him that, once beyond the Russian frontier, we

would adopt Islamism. The Tartar minutely explained to him the bearings

of the heavens, taught him the names of all the mountains and rivers we

should have to cross, and of the villages in whose vicinity we must

cautiously conceal our passage. Should we find ourselves in extreme

difficulty or danger, he advised us to appeal to the hospitality and

protection of the nearest Mollah, to confide to him our position, and

not to forget to assure him of our intention to become good Mussulmans

as soon as we were on Turkish territory. After we had quite made up our

minds to desert at all risks, we required full three months for

preparation. Wretched as was our pay, and scanty and bad our rations, we

husbanded both, sold our bread and sought to accustom ourselves to

hunger. Some of us were mechanics, and earned a few kopeks daily by work

in our leisure hours. I worked as glazier for the Russian officers. Our

earnings were cast into a common fund. The summer drew near its end:

already the birds of passage assembled and flew away in large flocks

over the high mountains of Manglis. We watched their flight with longing

and envy. We lacked their wings, their knowledge of the way.

“More than once we faltered in our resolution. Some Russian deserters,

who had been captured and brought back to camp by Cossacks, when

attempting to desert into Lesghistan, were condemned to run the gauntlet

thrice through a thousand men, and we Poles were compelled to assist in

flogging the poor wretches almost to death. Deep and painful as was the

impression this made upon us, hope and the ardent longing for freedom

were yet more powerful. We fixed the day for flight. Only one Pole of

our company, who was married to a Cossack’s widow, and had a child by

her, detached himself from us and remained behind. With knapsacks

packed, and loaded muskets, we met, at nightfall, in the forest. There

we all fell upon our knees and prayed aloud to God, and to the blessed

Virgin Mary, that they would favour our design, and extend over us their

protection. Then we grasped each other’s hands, and swore to defend

ourselves to the utmost, and to perish to the last man sooner than

submit to be taken back to camp and flogged to death by the Russians.

“We were fourteen men in all. Some had suffered from fever; others were

debilitated by bad nourishment. But the burning desire for liberty, and

dread of the fate which awaited us in case of failure, gave vigour to

our limbs. We marched for thirteen nights without intermission. By day

we concealed ourselves in the forests; during the darkness we sometimes

risked ourselves in the vicinity of the roads. When the provisions we

had in our knapsacks were exhausted, we supported ourselves partly with

the berries we found in the woods, and partly with half-raw game.

Fortunately, there was no want of deer in the woods. Towards evening we

dispersed in quest of them, but ventured to fire at them only when very

near, in order not to squander our ammunition and betray our

hiding-place to the Cossack piquets. For this latter reason we dared not

light a fire at night, preferring to suffer from cold, and to devour the

flesh of the slain beasts in a half-raw state.

“After our thirteen nights’ wanderings, we had reached the neighbourhood

of the river Arpatschai, but did not rightly know where we were. From

the high and barren mountain peaks on which we lay, we beheld, in the

far distance, the houses of a large town. We knew not whether it was

Russian or Turkish. Without knowledge of the country, without a compass,

without intercourse with the inhabitants, whom we anxiously avoided,

because we constantly feared discovery and betrayal, we roamed at random

in the mountains, ignorant what direction we should take to reach the

frontier. Latterly the chase had been unproductive, and we suffered from

hunger, as well as from fatigue and severe cold. We saw a herd of wild

goats upon the heights, but all our attempts stealthily to approach them

were unsuccessful; with extraordinary swiftness they scoured across the

fields of snow which covered those lofty mountains, and we lost a whole

day in a fruitless pursuit. The sharp mountain air, the toilsome march

on foot, increased our hunger. Driven almost to despair, we resolved to

run a risk and approach the first village we saw, calling to mind the

oath we had taken to defend ourselves to the last drop of our blood, and

rather to put each other to death than to fall alive into the hands of

the Russians.

“On the upper margin of the forest we discovered the minarets of a

Tartar mosque. At dusk we cautiously approached and fell in with two

Tartars, cutting bushes. From them we learned that we were about thirty

versts from the town of Gumri, where the Russians were building a great

fort. The frontier was but a short day’s journey distant, and the long

blue line which we had seen from the mountain tops was really the river

Arpatschai, whose farther bank is Turkish. We did not conceal from the

Tartars our condition and design. The state of our uniforms, all torn by

the brambles, and our wild hungry aspect, would hardly have allowed us

to be taken for Russian soldiers on service, and they had at once

recognised us for what we were. Mindful of the advice of the old Tartar

at Manglis, we told them it was our firm resolution to become good

Mahometans as soon as we got to Turkey. We adjured them, in the name of

Allah and the Prophet, to send us provisions from the village, into

which they themselves advised us not to venture. According to their

account, there was a Cossack post in the neighbourhood, and the banks of

the Arpatschai were, they assured us, so strictly watched by Russian

piquets, that there was little hope of our getting across the frontier

in that direction.

“At a rapid pace, the Tartars returned to their village. One of our

party, well acquainted with the Tartar tongue, followed them, concealing

himself behind the bushes, in order to overhear, if possible, their

conversation, and to satisfy himself whether they were honest people, in

whom we might confide. But the Tartars exchanged not a word upon their

way home. In an hour they came to us again, bringing three other men,

one of whom wore a white turban. As they passed before some brushwood in

which our comrade lay concealed, he heard them in animated conversation.

Following them stealthily through the thicket, he caught enough of their

discourse to ascertain that they were of different opinions with respect

to the line of conduct to be adopted with respect to us. One of them,

who, as we subsequently learned, had served at Warsaw in Prince

Paskewitch’s Oriental body-guard, would at once have informed the

Cossacks of our hiding-place. But the man in the white turban sought to

restrain him, and wished first to speak with us.

“The Tartars found us at the appointed place. The White Turban was a

Mollah, a fine grey-haired old man with a venerable countenance. To him

we frankly confided the history of our sufferings and the object we had

in view. After hearing us, he remained for some time buried in thought.

To our great surprise one of the Tartars now addressed us in broken

Polish, and told us that he had been at Warsaw. At this we were so

overjoyed that we were near embracing the man. But the comrade we had

sent out to reconnoitre had rejoined us. He seized the Tartar furiously

by the beard, upbraided him with the treacherous advice he had given to

his countrymen, and threatened to kill him. The old Mollah interfered as

peacemaker, and assured us of his assistance and protection, if it were

seriously our intention to escape into Turkey and become converts to the

creed of Mahomet. We protested that such was our design, although we

mentally prayed to our God and to the Virgin to forgive us this

necessary lie, for our design was to escape from the Russian hell, but

not to become faithless to our holy religion. Before the Mollah

departed, he had to swear by his beard and by the Prophet that he would

not betray us. We made the others take the same oath. The

ex-life-guardsman we proposed keeping as a hostage. But the Mollah

begged us not to do so, and to trust to his word, which he pledged for

the man’s silence. Above all we wanted provisions. The Tartars had

unfortunately come empty-handed. The pangs of hunger almost drove us to

accompany them into the village. But the Mollah warned us that we should

there find families of Armenian peasants, who would certainly betray us

to the Russians. Fluctuating between hope and fear, we saw them depart.

The Mollah’s last advice was to be vigilant during the night, since our

presence might have been observed by others, who might report it to the

Russians.

“Two heavy hours went by. Night had set in, and the stillness was broken

only by the occasional howling of the village dogs. As the distance to

the village was not great, and as the Mollah had so positively promised

to send us food immediately, our suspicions were again aroused, and we

mutually reproached each other with having been so foolish as to trust

to the oaths of the Tartars and with having suffered them all to depart,

instead of keeping the Mollah and the Warsaw man as hostages. Taking our

muskets, we stationed ourselves upon the look-out. Our apprehensions

were not unfounded. Soon we heard through the darkness the neighing of

horses and distant voices. Those of our comrades who were strongest on

their legs went out to reconnoitre, and came back with the terrible

intelligence that they had plainly distinguished the voices of Russians.

Meanwhile the noise of horses’ feet died away; once more all was still

as the grave; and even the vigilant dogs seemed sunk in sleep.

“Before the first grey of morning appeared, one of the Tartars whom we

had met the day before, in the wood, came to us, with three others whom

we had not yet seen. They brought us a great dish of rice, and half a

roasted lamb; also bread and fruit. Our presence in the neighbourhood,

they said, had been disclosed to the Russians by an Armenian of the

village. The Cossack captain had sent for the Mollah and threatened him,

but the old man had revealed nothing. The Cossacks did not know our

exact hiding-place, and one of the Tartars had led them in a wrong

direction. As we were already considered as Mahometans, no Tartar would

betray us, unless it were that man who had been in Warsaw, and who was

an object of contempt with the people of the village on account of his

dissolute and drunken habits.

“Our fierce hunger appeased, our spirits and courage revived, and we

decided to continue our march at once. The Tartars advised us not to

cross the Arpatschai, which was too closely guarded by the Russian

frontier piquets, but to move more northwards, across the mountains of

Achalziche, in which direction we should find it far easier to reach

Turkish territory. We bade them a grateful farewell. But with the first

beam of morning we heard the wild hurra of the Cossacks and saw them in

the distance, galloping, accompanied by a number of Tartar horsemen, to

cut us off from the valley. We drew back amongst the bushes, and fired a

full volley at the nearest group of horsemen, as it tried to force its

way into the thicket. Two Cossacks and a Tartar fell, and the rest took

to a cowardly flight. We retreated forthwith to the mountain summits

whence we had so recently descended, and did not even wait to search the

fallen men. Soon a single horseman rode towards us, waving a green

branch. We recognised one of the Tartars who had brought us food. He

said that the Mollah was at the old place in the wood, and wished to

speak with us. We had nothing more to fear from the Cossacks. They took

us to be twice as numerous as we really were, had returned to their post

and sent to Gumri for reinforcements, which could not arrive before

evening. Observing that we harboured mistrust, the man offered to remain

as a hostage. I and three of my comrades went to the appointed place.

The others remained on the mountain, with the Tartar in custody. The

Mollah was really waiting for us, with two of the men who had

accompanied him the previous evening. We learned, to our astonishment,

that the Tartar whom we had shot was the same old soldier who had been

at Warsaw and had spoken Polish to us. We held this to be a judgment of

God. For, notwithstanding his oath, the man had betrayed our

hiding-place to the Russians, who were already aware of our vicinity.

The other villagers had been compelled to mount and follow the Cossacks,

but, at the first volley, gladly joined the latter in their flight.”

The Mollah gave the unfortunate Poles directions as to the road, and as

to how they should act if they fell into the hands of the Pasha of Kars,

who was well disposed towards Russia, and might deliver them up through

fear or greed of gain. All that day they toiled over the rude mountain

peaks, and next morning they were so lucky as to kill a wild goat; but

on those barren heights not a stick of wood was to be found, and they

had to eat the flesh raw. After a few hours’ rest they continued their

arduous journey. It was bitterly cold, the snow fell in thick flakes,

and a cutting wind beat in their faces. Towards evening, guided by a

light, they reached the wretched huts of some poor Russian frontier

settlers, who were cooking their food over fires of dried cow-dung. From

these people they obtained meat and drink, gave them the few kopeks they

had left, which they knew would not pass current in Turkey, and

departed, their flasks filled with brandy, and bearing with them the

best wishes of their poor but hospitable entertainers. Their march next

day was through a dense fog, which covered the high ground. They could

not see ten paces before them, and risked, at every step, a fall over a

precipice. On the other hand, they flattered themselves that they could

pass the frontier—there marked by the mountain chain—unseen by the

Russian troops. To guard against smuggling and the plague, as well as

against military desertion and the flight of the natives into Turkey,

the frontier line had latterly been greatly strengthened. But, once on

the southern slope of the mountains, the fugitives had been assured,

they would meet no more Cossacks and would be on Turkish ground.

Accordingly they gave themselves up to unbounded joy at being out of

Russia and of danger.

“How great was our horror,” continued Saremba, “when, on descending into

the valley, the fog lifted, and we found ourselves close to a post of

Cossacks. It was too late to retreat. We marched forward in military

order, keeping step as upon parade. The stratagem succeeded. The Cossack

sentinel took us for a Russian patrol. We surrounded the house, made

prisoners of the sentry and of seven half-drunken Cossacks, and learned

from them that in the fog we had missed our way over the frontier. The

piquet was thirty men strong, but two and twenty had marched that very

day on patrol duty. The report of our flight had been received from

Gumri, as well as information that the Cossacks should be reinforced by

a detachment of infantry. The sentry had taken us for this expected

detachment. We were well pleased with the issue of our adventure. The

contents of the Cossacks’ larder revived and strengthened us, and we

packed the fragments of the feast in our knapsacks. We also took their

horses, and finally, at their own request bound them hand and foot; for,

now that they were sober, they trembled for the consequences of having

allowed themselves to be surprised and unresistingly overpowered. They

anticipated a severe punishment, and consulted together how they should

best extenuate their fault. The dense morning fog was a good

circumstance to plead, and so was our superiority of numbers, and also

the expectation of a Russian infantry piquet from Gumri. But when all

was said, the poor fellows were still pretty sure to get the stick. At

their request we fastened the door of the piquet-house before marching

away with our booty. That afternoon we crossed the mountains, and

reached, without further adventure, a Turkish military post.”

The sufferings and disasters of these fourteen hardy Poles were not yet

at an end. After their arms had been taken from them, their arrival was

reported to the Pasha of Kars, to whom the Russian commandant at Gumri

forthwith sent a threatening letter, demanding the bodies of the

fugitives. Four days of anxious suspense ensued, during which orderlies

rode to and fro, carrying the correspondence between the Pasha and the

commandant, and at last the Poles were told that their only chance to

avoid being delivered up was instantly to become Mahometans. In this

perplexity they accepted the secret offer of the son of a Lasistan bey

to aid their flight into the Pashalik of Trebizond. They started in the

night with a caravan of armed mountaineers. On the first day they were

divided into two parties, which were separated from each other. On the

second day, four, out of the six who were with Saremba, disappeared,

although they entreated to be left together. Finally, when Saremba awoke

upon the third morning, he found himself alone. Thus torn from the true

and steadfast friends in whose brave companionship he had faced and

surmounted so many perils, his courage deserted him; he wept aloud, and

cursed his fate. There was good cause for his grief when he came to know

all. The rascally Turk who had facilitated their flight had sold them

into slavery. For six months Saremba toiled under a cruel taskmaster,

until fever robbed him of his strength; when his owner, Ali Bey, took

him to Trebizond, where the Pole had invented the existence of a brother

who would pay his ransom. There he obtained the protection of the French

consul, was forwarded to Constantinople, married a Greek woman, and

managed to eke out an existence. Of the thirteen comrades who had fled

with him from Manglis he had never seen or heard anything, and tears

fell upon the honest fellow’s weather-beaten moustache as he deplored

their probable fate—that of numbers of Polish deserters, who drag out a

wretched existence, as slaves to the infidel, in the frontier provinces

of Asiatic Turkey.

Dr Wagner found his follower’s narrative so striking, and so

illustrative of the characteristics of the inhabitants of the

trans-Caucasian frontier, that he at once wrote it down in his journal;

and he did quite right, for certainly Saremba’s adventures equal, if

they do not exceed, in interest, any of the Doctor’s own.

After Gumysh Haneh, the next town on the road to Erzroum is Baiburt,

once noted for its inhabitants’ fanaticism and hatred of all Europeans.

Poverty, misery, and the visit of the Russians in 1828, have broken

their spirit, and humbled them to the dust. Theirs was the last effort

of resistance against Paskewitch, but all their fierce fanaticism did

not qualify them to cope with the well-drilled Russian troops. “Is it

true,” asked Saremba, with a little irony in his tone, of a

white-bearded Turk, in the expression of whose hard and furrowed

features something of the old spirit was still plainly to be read—“is it

true that the _Moskof_ has come as far as this?” “_Geldi!_” (he came)

was the old man’s laconic but melancholy reply. At Baiburt the traveller

has a foretaste of the impoverished, decayed, half-ruined towns which

extend thence through the whole of Asiatic Turkey to the Persian

frontier, and to whose deplorable condition Erzroum constitutes the sole

exception. Journeying south-east from Baiburt to the latter city, the

first day’s march brings the traveller, by the usual caravan road, to no

regular halting-place for the night. At Baiburt Dr Wagner parted from

his Turkish travelling companions, and proceeded with only Saremba and a

horse-guide, “a man of most horrible physiognomy, who professed to be a

Turk, but whose long distorted visage, great crooked nose, bushy brows,

dingy complexion, puffy turban, and ragged clothes, gave him more the

look of a Kourd or Yezidee. The fellow spoke a Turkish,” continues the

Doctor, “of which I understood nothing, and my servant, although well

acquainted with the language of Stamboul, but little. He was very

taciturn, and replied to the questions I occasionally put to him by

croaking out inarticulate guttural sounds, something between the cry of

a screech-owl and the snarl of a jackal. Then he twisted his ugly face

so strangely, and grinned and ground his teeth in so hyena-like a

fashion, that I was reminded of that horrible Texas Bob, whom Charles

Sealsfield, in his Cabin-Book, has so graphically sketched.”

The most unsuspicious and confiding of men, Dr Wagner here remarks, will

become mistrustful, and prone to suspect evil, before he has been long a

resident or rambler in the East, and will acquire a habit of constant

caution and vigilance in a country where all classes, from the Pasha to

the horse-keeper, lay themselves out to plunder and overreach Europeans.

The Doctor had been for three years wandering in Oriental lands, where

he had encountered some perils and innumerable attempts at imposition.

He was much upon his guard, and kept a sharp eye upon his hyena-looking

guide, especially when the latter, under pretence of conducting him to

quarters for the night, struck off from the road, and led him over crag

and fell, through rain and darkness, into a wild, cut-throat district,

where he every moment expected to be handed over to the gentle mercies

of a band of Kourd brigands. Putting a pistol to the fellow’s ugly head,

the Doctor swore he would shoot him at the first sign of treachery. The

Turk said nothing, but presently—“Here is the village,” he quietly

remarked, as he led the drenched travellers round the angle of a mass of

rock, whence they perceived the lights of the village of Massat, where

Hamilton had passed a night some years previously, and where they soon

were comfortably seated by a fire, and supping on a very tolerable

pilau; whilst Dr Wagner was fain to atone for his ill-founded suspicions

by a double _bakshish_ to his uncouth but trustworthy guide. The next

day, the Doctor, whilst riding over the mountains with loaded pistols in

his belt, and a double gun across his shoulders, fell over a precipice

nearly a hundred feet high. The soil of a narrow ledge, softened by the

rain, had given way under his horse’s feet. Man and beast rolled over

and over five or six times in the course of the descent. Fortunately

there were no rocks in the way—nothing but soft earth. They reached the

bottom bruised and bleeding, but without broken bones, and were able to

continue their march.

The journey from Erzroum to Persia, through the Alpine district of

Armenia, is usually made with a caravan or with post-horses—more rarely

in company with a Tartar in the employ of the Turkish government, who

rides courier-fashion, changes his horse every four or five leagues,

goes at a gallop, never rests for more than an hour, rides many horses

to death, and performs the distance from Erzroum to Tabriz (nearly a

hundred leagues) in the extraordinarily short time of two days and a

half. Dr Wagner had no taste for travelling in such true Tartar fashion.

Would he go post? There are no postmasters in Turkey, nor post-horses,

nor posting-stables, nor even postilions, properly so called. Posting in

the East has nothing in common with European posting. But on

presentation of a firman from the Sublime Porte or the Pasha of the

province, every town or village is bound to supply the traveller with

the needful horses, and with a horse-guide, at moderate charge. The

expense is greatly augmented by the necessity of being accompanied by a

Turkish cavass. Without such escort the journey from Erzroum to the

Persian frontier is unsafe, and, even with it, all danger is not

removed; for in the neighbourhood of the Alpine passes of Armenia lurk

the lynx-eyed Kourds, watching for prey. Less daring and dangerous than

they were, they are still sufficiently audacious. When pursued by the

Pashas—who occasionally make expeditions, at the head of bodies of the

Nizam soldiery, to chastise them, and to wrench from them their

booty—they take refuge upon Persian ground, send a present to the Sardar

of Tabriz, and are suffered to pasture their flocks amongst the

mountains of Azerbijan, until they again give way to their predatory

propensities, and are threatened or pursued by the Persian authorities.

Over the rugged summits of the Agri Dagh they then fly to Russian

territory, where the gift of a horse to the Cossack officer in command

usually procures them tolerance upon the grassy slopes of Ararat. When

driven thence, for a repetition of their lawless raids, they have still

a last refuge in the high mountains of Kourdistan, where they purchase

the protection of a chief, and whose inaccessible fastnesses defy

Turkish pursuers.

“Not long before my departure from Erzroum,” says Dr Wagner, “Mr Abbott,

the English consul at Teheran, had fallen into the hands of Kourd

robbers, and, with his travelling companions, had been stripped to the

shirt, inclusively. It was a serio-comic affair. They were attacked near

Diadin. Mr Abbott, a man of great personal courage, fired a pistol at

the first Kourd who rode at him with his long bamboo lance, and

missed—fortunately for him, for had he killed or wounded him, his own

life would assuredly have paid the penalty. Two vigorous lance thrusts,

which fortunately pierced his _burka_, not his body, cast the courageous

Briton from his horse. His Oriental servants and companions had no

portion of his combative spirit, but laid down their arms, terrified by

the jackal-like yells and hideous figures of the Kourds. The robbers

were tolerably generous, after their manner. They took away horses,

baggage, and clothes, stripping their victims stark naked, but they left

them their lives. And if Mr Abbott had a taste of lance staves and

horse-whip, that was only in requital of the pistol-shot. His Armenian

servants, who resisted not, received no injury. Amidst the infernal

laughter of the Kourds, the naked travellers set off for the nearest

village, where they were scantily provided with clothes by compassionate

Armenians. Consul Brant at Teheran made a great noise about this

business, and the Pasha had to make compensation. But the Kourds

retreated southwards to the high mountains, and there, in inaccessible

hiding-places, laughed alike at the British consul’s anger, and at the

Turkish Pasha’s threats.”

With such a warning before him, Dr Wagner preferred adopting the safest,

and at the same time the most convenient, although the slowest mode of

travelling in those regions—namely, per caravan. Almost weekly a

commercial caravan starts from Erzroum for Tabriz. It consists of from

300 to 900 horses, laden chiefly with English manufactures, also with

Bohemian glass, furs, and cloth from the Leipzig fair, and even with

toys from Nuremberg. If the convoy be particularly valuable, the Pasha

sends with it a cavass, who rides a head, a horse’s tail at the end of

his long lance, as a warning to predatory Kourds not to meddle with that

which is under the high protection of the _muschir_ of Erzroum. But the

caravan’s own strength is its best protection. There is a man to every

three or four horses, armed with a gun, often with sabre and dagger

also; and the Armenians, although tame enough in general, will fight

fiercely for their goods, or for those intrusted to their care. Of

course there is no security against nocturnal theft, at which the Kourds

are as skilful as North-American red-skins, or as the Hadjouts of the

African Metidja.

A rich Armenian, by name Kara Gos, (Black-eye,) led the caravan to which

Dr Wagner annexed himself. Half the 360 horses comprising it were his. A

considerable rogue was Kara Gos, who asked the Doctor double the fair

price for the use of six horses, a place under the principal tent, and

daily rations from his kitchen. When the Doctor pointed out the

overcharge, Kara Gos turned away in silence and in dudgeon, and spoke no

word to him during the whole journey. Dr Wagner made his bargain with

another Armenian, one Karapet Bedochil, and the journey was prosperously

accomplished in twenty-seven days from Erzroum to Tabriz. This was

rather slow work—scarcely twelve miles a-day on an average; but Dr

Wagner was well pleased to have leisure during the long hours of

repose—rendered necessary by hot weather and scanty pasturage—to pursue

his geological researches, to go shooting, and to collect rare insects

and beautiful Alpine plants. He took interest, also, in observing the

habits and intelligence of the horses of the caravan. These were as

disciplined as any Russian soldiers, and understood their duty almost as

well as their human masters. When, at two in the morning, the

Karivan-Baschi gave the signal to march, they responded by a general

neighing, snorting, and tinkling of the bells hung to their necks.

Notwithstanding the thick darkness, every horse found his right place,

his owner, and his groom, and stood motionless till pack-saddle and

bales were placed upon his back. The load duly balanced, he instantly

started off of his own accord. The march was in file, two abreast. The

oldest and most experienced horse took the lead, seemingly proud of the

distinction, and displaying an instinct almost amounting to reason. No

danger was there of _his_ going astray, or shying at some oddly-shaped

rock, dimly seen through the twilight, or at a corpse upon the road, or

even at the passage of camels, to which horses have a special antipathy.

If stream or torrent barred the way, he halted, unbidden, until the

nearest horseman had sought out a ford, and then calmly entered the

water, his example giving confidence to his followers. These caravan

horses love society, soon attach themselves to their companions, whether

biped or quadruped, but are very inhospitable, and do not easily admit

strange horses to their company. They dislike separation from the

caravan, just as cavalry chargers often object to leave the ranks.

Karapet Bedochil gave up his best and youngest horse to Dr Wagner for

the journey. This was a well-shaped brown mare, of excellent paces, and

easy to govern, so long as her habits were respected. But it took some

time to accustom her to quit the caravan, and carry Dr Wagner on his

rambles off the road.

“To ride in the rank and file of a caravan,” says the Doctor, “is

wearisome enough. When morning dawned, and the first sunbeams illumined

the green Alpine plateau, I loved to ride up some rising ground by the

wayside, to contemplate the landscape, and to enjoy the picturesque

aspect of the Kourd camps, and of the long-line of the caravan. My horse

did not share my enjoyment. Much spurring did it cost me to habituate

him to even a few minutes’ separation from his friends. Love of society,

and aversion to solitude, are amongst the most striking and affecting

characteristics of these animals. At times I remained behind the

caravan, when I found an interesting spot, where the geological

formation or the mountain vegetation invited to examination and

collection. My horse, well secured near at hand, kept his gaze immovably

fixed upon the vanishing caravan. When the last straggler had

disappeared, he still pricked up his ears so long as he could hear the

bells. When these were no longer audible, he drooped his head, and

looked inquiringly and reproachfully at his botanising rider. If it cost

me trouble to detach him from the caravan, he needed no urging to rejoin

it. Suddenly displaying the fire of the Oriental courser, he galloped

with winged swiftness, till the bells were once more heard, and broke

into loud and joyous neighings on again joining his friends.”

The gregarious and sociable propensities of Armenian horses are a great

obstacle to the designs of the Kourd thieves, who at nightfall prowl

around the camp. To lessen the difficulty they come mounted upon stolen

caravan horses, which they train to the work. A noose is flung round the

neck of a grazing horse, and whilst one thief pulls the animal along,

another drives it with a whip. The Armenian horse-keepers fire their

guns to give the alarm, and mount their best horses to pursue the

marauders. If they overtake them, they at first endeavour to obtain

restitution by fair words or by threats. Only at the last extremity do

they use their firearms, for they have a not unfounded fear of Kourd

vengeance for bloodshed.

Less dreaded, and far less frequent than these depredations, are attacks

upon caravans by wolves. These occur scarcely once in ten years, and

then only in very severe winters, when long frosts keep the flocks from

the pastures. Under such circumstances, the wolves, spurred by extreme

hunger, sometimes overcome their natural cowardice, and make a dash at a

caravan, breaking suddenly into the column on the march, pulling down

horses, and tearing them in pieces, before there is time to drive them

away with bullets. But these cases are of extremely rare occurrence. It

more often happens that, in summer, a single wolf will sneak down upon

the grazing caravan horses, whose instinct, however, soon detects his

approach. They form a circle, heads inwards and heels out, and if the

wolf does not succeed, at a first spring, in fixing upon one of their

throats, his best plan is to decamp, before he gets shot. The attacks of

these wolves are always nocturnal. From other beasts of prey the

caravans between Erzroum and Tabriz have nothing to fear. The jackals

are weak and timid, and content themselves with dead horses; and bears

are few in number, and confine their feeding to sheep and goats.

Southwards from Tabriz to Teheran, and thence to Ispahan, the danger

increases. Kourds are replaced by Turkomans; wolves by panthers and

tigers. But even from these, so far as Dr Wagner could gather from

repeated conversations with caravan leaders, the peril is trifling,

except far south, towards Shiraz, or eastwards in the deserts of

Khorassan, where tigers are more numerous and aggressive.

Of other animals accustomed to follow caravans, the Doctor particularly

mentions ravens and carrion birds, which in winter consume the

excrement, in summer the carcasses, of horses. In Armenia and Persia, he

recognised an old friend whom he had often seen hovering over the

expeditionary column which he had accompanied to Constantina. The

white-headed vulture (_Vultur fulvus_) floated in the air at a

prodigious height above the caravan, and as often as a horse fell dead,

dozens of the loathsome birds lowered their powerful pinions, and sank

plumb-down upon the carrion. The beasts of the caravan, even the dogs,

were pretty good friends with these obscene creatures; or at least, from

the force of habit, usually endured their proximity. Dr Wagner

speculates on the possibility of some eccentric sympathy between the

horse and his future coffin. He often saw the little carrion kite

(_Cathartes percnopterus_,) when it had gorged itself with the flesh of

some dead animal, settle down, its feathers all puffed out, upon a

horse’s back, there to digest its copious meal—a process which the

horse, by his immobility, seemed studiously to avoid disturbing. Grouped

together in the great heat, from which they sought to shelter their

heads under their neighbours’ bellies, the horses stood, each one with

his plumed and impure rider. “Sometimes,” says the Doctor, “I saw ravens

sitting in the same confidential manner upon the backs of horses and

dromedaries. In North Africa I observed similar intimacy between kites

and cows, ravens and swine. Dr Knoblecher relates that in the Nile

districts of Central Africa he often saw waterfowl, particularly herons

and ibises, sit upon the backs of elephants. Only to one kind of animal

has the Armenian caravan-horse a natural hatred and strong

aversion—namely, to the camel, who, on his side, detests the horse. Even

in caravans composed of both kinds of beasts, long accustomed to each

other’s presence, this antipathy endures. Horses and camels, if left in

any degree to their own free will, go separately to pasture. Long habit

of being together restrains them from hostile outbreaks, but I never

witnessed, during the whole period of my Oriental travels, an example of

even a tolerably good understanding between them.”

On the 20th of June—so cold a morning, that, in spite of cloak and

mackintosh, Dr Wagner was half-frozen—the caravan reached the Kourd

village of Yendek, and encamped in a narrow valley, the mountains around

which had been reckoned, a few years previously, amongst the most unsafe

in Kourdistan, a caravan seldom passing unassailed. Towards evening a

Kourd chief came into camp. “He wore no beard, but thick and long

moustaches—as formerly the Janissaries—a huge turban, a short _burka_,

very wide trousers. He had his horse shod by one of our Armenians, took

a fancy to Karapet-Bedochil’s pocket-knife, and asked him for it as a

keepsake. He did not pay for the shoeing, and rode off, with small

thanks, amidst the courteous greetings of all the Armenians—even of our

haughty Karivan-Baschi. I afterwards laughingly asked the _Kadertshi_

why he had not demanded payment from the Kourd for the shoes and his

work. ‘Laugh away!’ was his reply; ‘if ever you meet that fellow alone,

you won’t be quite so merry.’ The Kourd, who was armed with pistols,

gun, and sabre, certainly looked the very model of a captain of

banditti.”

Before reaching Persian territory, where the risk from robbers

diminishes, some pack-horses were cleverly stolen by the Kourds; and two

men, who were sent, well mounted, to overtake the thieves and negotiate

for the restoration of the property, returned to camp despoiled of

clothes and steeds. Ultimately, the Pasha of Erzroum extorted the bales

from the Kourds, who are too prudent to drive things to extremities.

But, for the time, Kara Gos had to pursue his journey minus his

merchandise, and greatly cast down at the loss, which he merited for his

griping effrontery, and for the poltroonery with which, a few days

before, he had deviated from his direct road on the rude demand of some

Kourds, who sought to pick a quarrel with him—a sort of wolf-and-lamb

business—for riding through their pastures. He forgot his loss, however,

when reckoning at Tabriz the full sack of sounding gold tomauns received

for carriage of goods; and in the joy of his heart he even condescended

to speak to Dr Wagner, and to extend to him his forgiveness for having

refused to be imposed upon, so that they parted in amity at last.

Tabriz, in size the second, in population the first city of the Persian

empire, was the limit of Dr Wagner’s travels in an easterly direction.

Thence he made excursions; and finally, turning his steps southwards,

made the circuit of that extremity of Lake Urumia, and so got back to

Bayasid in Turkish Armenia; so that he visited, in fact, but a nook of

Persia—including, however, one of its most important cities and some

rarely-explored districts. His first visit at Tabriz was to Mr Bonham,

the English consul-general, with whom he found a Maltese physician, Dr

Cassolani—then the only European medical man resident in the place—who

offered him, in the kindest manner, an apartment in his house. Here Dr

Wagner interpolates a gentle stricture on British hospitality in Asia.

Mr Bonham, he says, “was certainly also very obliging, but seemed less

hospitable; and although he had a very roomy house and a very small

family, he, like his colleague, Mr Brant at Erzroum, was not fond of

putting himself out of his way. I confess that I have not formed the

most favourable opinion of English hospitality in the East. My letters

from Lord Aberdeen and Sir Stratford Canning had not the effect which

might have been reasonably expected from the high position of those

statesmen. In Russian Asia, less exalted recommendations generally

procured me a friendly and truly hospitable reception. On better

acquaintance, and after repeated interviews, the dry, thoroughly English

reserve and formal manner gave way, in Mr Bonham, to a certain degree of

amiability. He took a particularly warm interest in my communications

from the Caucasus, and gave me in return valuable information concerning

Persian matters. Mr Bonham was married to a niece of Sir Robert Peel’s,

a beautiful, amiable, and accomplished lady.”

In Dr Cassolani’s house Dr Wagner made the acquaintance of a great

number of Persians, who besieged the learned _hekim_ for advice, and he

thus had excellent opportunities of noting the peculiarities of Persian

character, manners, and morals. But the most favourable place for the

pursuit of such studies, on a large scale, he found to be the Tabriz

bazaar, which is composed of a number of bazaars, or spacious halls full

of shops. Thither daily repaired Dr Wagner, escorted by one of Dr

Cassolani’s Persian servants, a fellow of herculean proportions, whose

duty it was to open a passage through the curious crowd which at first

thronged round the European. Here were displayed prodigious masses of

merchandise, chiefly English, only the coarser kinds of goods coming

from Germany and Russia, glass from Austria, amber from Constantinople.

Here were children’s watches from Nuremberg, with a locomotive on the

dial, and the inscription, “Railway from Nuremberg to Furth;”

lithographed likenesses of the Shah of Persia, taken and printed in

Germany; snuff-boxes from Astrakan, with the Emperor Nicholas’s

portrait; and portraits of Benkendorf, Paskewitch, Neidhard, and other

Russian generals distinguished in recent wars. There were shawls and

carpets from Hindostan, and sabre-blades, of wonderful temper and

finish, from Shiraz. Of these latter Dr Wagner saw some, adorned with

beautiful arabesque designs in gold, and inscribed with passages from

the Koran, whose price was two hundred tomauns, or Persian ducats. Made

of strips of metal, hammered together cold, these excellent blades are

the result of prodigious labour, much time, and great skill. The chief

value of such weapons is usually in the steel, for the hilt and mounting

must be unusually rich to exceed the cost of the blade itself. Hitherto

the armourers of Tabriz, Teheran, and Ispahan have vainly endeavoured to

rival those of Shiraz.

Dr Wagner soon found himself at home in the European circle at Tabriz,

which consists chiefly of the members of the Russian and English

consulates, and of the managers of four Greek commercial houses,

branches of Constantinople establishments. The English consul-general,

as already hinted, lived rather retired, gave a dinner or two each

half-year to the Europeans, and took but small share in the pleasures

and amusements after which most of them eagerly ran. An old Greek

gentleman, named Morfopulo, was the great Lucullus and Amphitryon of the

place. Introduced to him by his Maltese friend, Dr Wagner was at once

cordially invited to a dinner, which gave him the first idea of the

sumptuous manner of living of Europeans in Tabriz. Nothing was spared;

Oriental delicacies were embalmed and ennobled by the refinements of

Western art. There were fish from the Caspian, game from the forests of

Ghilan, grapes and mulberries from Azerbijan, the most exquisite

pasties, and the cream of the vineyards of Champagne cooling in abundant

ice. The guests were as motley, the talk as various, as the viands. From

East to West, from Ispahan to Paris, the conversation rolled. The

Russian Consul-general sketched the Persian court at Teheran; Dr

Cassolani gave verbal extracts from his life and experience at Erzroum

and Tabriz; an Italian quack, who had just arrived, and who had long led

a roving existence in Asiatic Turkey—professing alternately to discover

gold mines, and to heal all maladies by an infallible elixir—related his

adventures amongst the Kourds; whilst a young Greek diplomatist, named

Mavrocordato—a relation of the statesman of that name—just transferred,

to his no small regret, from Paris to Tabriz, was eloquent concerning

the balls, beauties, and delights of the French capital.

The domestic arrangements of the European residents in Tabriz are

peculiar, and may possibly account for the limited nature of the

intercourse maintained with them by the gentleman who filled the post of

British consul-general at the time of Dr Wagner’s visit. Some of the

managers of the Greek houses—few of whom remain more than half-a-dozen

years, which time, owing to the profitable nature of the trade, and

especially of the smuggling traffic with the trans-Caucasian provinces

of Russia, usually suffices to make their fortunes—were married, but had

left their wives in Constantinople. Most of them, as well as the members

of the Russian consulate-general, were bachelors. All, however, whether

married or single, had conformed to the custom of the place, by

contracting limited matrimony with Nestorian women. This Christian sect,

numerous in Azerbijan, entertains a strong partiality for Europeans, and

has no scruple, either moral or religious, in marrying its daughters to

them for a fixed term of years, and in consideration of a stipulated

sum. There is great competition for a new-comer from Europe, especially

if he be rich. The queer contract is known in Tabriz as _matrimonio alla

carta_. Very often the whole of the lady’s family take up their abode in

the house of the temporary husband, and live at his charges; and this is

indeed often a condition of the bargain. The usage is of such long

standing amongst Europeans in Persia, and especially in that particular

province, that it there scandalises no one. Every European has a part of

his house set aside for the women, and calls it his harem: the ladies

preserve their Persian garb and manner of life, cover their faces before

strangers and in the streets, frequent the bath, and pass their time in

dressing themselves, just like the Mahomedan Persians. Handsome, but

totally uneducated and unintellectual, they make faithful wives and

tender mothers, but poor companions. When the term stipulated in the

contract expires, and if it be not renewed, they find no difficulty in

contracting permanent marriages with their own countrymen; the less so,

that, in such cases, they take a dowry with them, whereas, in general,

the Nestorian has to purchase his wife from her parents. The children of

the European marriage almost always remain in possession of the mother;

and Dr Wagner was assured that she testifies even stronger affection for

them than for those of her second and more regular marriage; whilst the

stepfather rarely neglects his duty towards them. “Still more remarkable

is it,” continues the Doctor, “that the European fathers, when recalled

to their own country, abandon their children, without, as it would seem,

the slightest scruple of conscience, to a most uncertain fate, and

trouble themselves no further concerning them. But a single instance is

known to me, when a wealthy European took one of his children away with

him. Even in the case of men otherwise of high character and principle,

a prolonged residence in the East seems very apt gradually to stifle the

voice of nature, of honour, and of conscience.”

Dismissing, with this reflection, the consideration of European society

and habits in Persia, Dr Wagner turns his attention to the natives, and

to an examination of the curious incidents and vicissitudes of modern

Persian history, to which he allots an interesting chapter—based partly

on his many conversations with British and Russian diplomatic agents,

with French officers who had served in Persia, and with French and

American missionaries, partly on the works of various English

travellers—and then commences his wanderings and explorations in the

mountains of Sahant, and along the shores of Lake Urumiah. In these and

other investigations, occupying his second volume, the length to which

our notice of his first has insensibly extended forbids our accompanying

him, at least for the present. Judging from the great number of books

relating to Western Asia that have of late years been published in this

country—many of them with marked success—the number of readers who take

an interest in that region must be very considerable. By such of them as

read German, Dr Wagner’s series of six volumes will be prized as a mine

of entertainment and information.

KATIE STEWART.

A TRUE STORY.

PART II.—CHAPTER VIII.

“Leddy Kilbrachmont! Weel, John, my man, she might have done waur—muckle

waur; but I seena very weel how she could have bettered hersel. A young,

wiselike, gallant-looking lad, and a very decent lairdship—anither thing

frae a doited auld man.”

“Weel, wife,” said John Stewart, ruefully scratching his head—“weel, I

say naething against it in itsel; but will ye tell me what I’m to say to

the Beelye?”

“Ay, John, that will I,” returned the house-mother. “Tell him to take

his daughter’s bairn out of its cradle, puir wee totum, and ask himsel

what _he_ has to do wi’ a young wife—a young wife! and a bonnie lass

like our Isabell! Man, John, to think, wi’ that muckle body o’ yours,

that you should have sae little heart! Nae wonder ye need muckle coats

and plaids about ye, you men! for ne’er a spark o’ light is in the

hearts of ye, to keep ye warm within.”

“Weel, weel, Isabell; the mair cause ye should gie me a guid dram to

keep the chill out,” said the miller; “and ye’ll just mind ye were airt

and pairt, and thought mair of the Beelye’s bien dwellin’ and braw

family than ever I did; but it’s aye your way—ye put a’ the blame, when

there is blame, on me.”

“Haud your peace, guidman,” said Mrs Stewart. “Whiles I _am_ drawn away

wi’ your reasonings against my ain judgment, as happens to folk owre

easy in their temper, whether they will or no—I’ll no deny that; but nae

man can say I ever set my face to onything that would have broken the

heart of a bairn of mine. Take your dram, and gang away with your

worldly thoughts to your worldly business, John Stewart; if it wasna for

you, I’m sure ne’er a thought of pelf would enter _my_ head.”

“Eh, guidwife!” It was all that the miller’s astonishment could utter.

He was put down. With humility he took the dram, and softly setting his

glass on the table, went out like a lamb, to the mill.

“Leddy Kilbrachmont! and Janet, the glaikit gilpie, taking up with a

common man!” said Mrs Stewart, unconsciously pushing aside the pretty

wheel, the offering of the “wright” in Arncreoch. “Weel, but what maun I

do? If Isabell gangs hame to her ain house, and Janet—Janet’s a guid

worker—far mair use about a house like ours than such a genty thing as

Bell—Janet married, too—what’s to come o’ me? I’ll hae to bring hame

Katie frae the Castle.”

“Muckle guid ye’ll get of Katie, mother,” said Janet, who, just then

coming in from the garden, with an armful of cold, curly, brilliant

greens, had heard her mother’s soliloquy. “If ye yokit her to the wheel

like a powny, she wadna spin the yarn for Isabell’s providing in

half-a-dozen years; and no a mortal turn besides could Katie do in a

house, if ye gied her a’ the land between this and Kellie Law.”

“And wha asked _your_ counsel?” said the absolute sovereign of Kellie

Mill. “If I’m no sair trysted wi’ my family, there never was a woman:

first, your faither—and muckle he kens about the rule o’ a household;

and syne you, ye taupie—as if Isabell’s providing was yet to spin! To

spin, said she? and it lying safe in the oak press up the stair, since

ever Bell was a wee smout of a bairn. And yours too, though ye dinna

deserve it;—ay, and little Katie’s as weel, as the bonnie grass on the

burnside could have tellt ye twal year ago, when it was white wi’ yarn

a’ the simmer through, spun on a purpose-like wheel—a thing fit for a

woman’s wark—no a toy for a bit bairn. Gae way wi’ you and your

vanities. I would just like to see, wi’ a’ your upsetting, ony ane o’ ye

bring up a family as creditable as your mother!”

Janet stole in to the table at the further window, and, without a word,

began to prepare her greens, which were immediately to be added to the

other contents of the great pot, which, suspended by the crook, bubbled

and boiled over the fire; for the moods of the house-mother were pretty

well known in her dominions, and no one dared to lift up the voice of

rebellion.

After an interval of silence, Mrs Stewart proceeded to her own room, and

in a short time reappeared, hooded and plaided, testifying with those

echoing steps of hers, to all concerned, that she had again put on her

high-heeled gala shoes. Isabell was now in the kitchen, quietly going

about her share of the household labour, and doing it with a subdued

graceful gladness which touched the mother’s heart.

“I’m gaun up to Kellie, Bell, my woman,” said Mrs Stewart. “I wouldna

say but we may need Katie at hame; onyway, I’ll gang up to the Castle,

and see what they say about it. It’s time she had a while at hame to

learn something purpose-like, or it’s my fear she’ll be fit for naething

but to hang on about Lady Anne; and nae bairn o’ mine shall do that wi’

my will. Ye’ll set Merran to the muckle wheel, Isabell, as soon as she’s

in frae the field; and get that cuttie Janet to do some creditable work.

If I catch her out o’ the house when I come hame, it’ll be the waur for

hersel.”

“So ye’re aye biding on at the Castle, Bauby,” said Mrs Stewart, as, her

long walk over, she rested in the housekeeper’s room, and greeted, with

a mixture of familiarity and condescension, the powerful Bauby, who had

so long been the faithful friend and attendant of little Katie Stewart.

“Ye’re biding on? I thought you were sure to gang with Lady Betty; and

vexed I was to think of ye gaun away, that my bairn liket sae weel.”

“I’ll never lee, Mrs Stewart,” said Bauby, confidentially. “If it hadna

just been Katie Stewart’s sel, and a thought of Lady Anne, puir thing,

left her lee lane in the house, I would as soon have gaen out to the May

to live, as bidden still in Kellie Castle. But someway they have grippit

my heart atween them—I couldna leave the bairns.”

“Aweel, Bauby, it was kind in ye,” said the miller’s wife; “but I’m in

no manner sure that I winna take Katie away.”

“Take Katie away—eh, Mrs Stewart!” And Bauby lifted up her great hands

in appeal.

“Ye see her sister Isabell is to be married soon,” said the important

mother, rising and smoothing down her skirts. “And now I’m rested,

Bauby, I’ll thank ye to take me to Lady Anne’s room.”

The fire burned brightly in the west room, glowing in the dark polished

walls, and brightening with its warm flush the clouded daylight which

shone through the high window. Again on her high chair, with her

shoulders fixed, so that she cannot stoop, Lady Anne sits at her

embroidery frame, at some distance from the window, where the slanting

light falls full upon her work, patiently and painfully working those

dim roses into the canvass which already bears the blossoms of many a

laborious hour. Poor Lady Anne! People, all her life, have been doing

their duty to her—training her into propriety—into noiseless decorum and

high-bred manners. She has read the _Spectator_ to improve her mind—has

worked embroidery because it was her duty; and sits resignedly in this

steel fixture now, because she feels _it_ a duty too—a duty to the world

at large that Lady Anne Erskine should have no curve in her shoulders—no

stoop in her tall aristocratic figure. But, in spite of all this, though

they make her stiff, and pale, and silent, none of these cares have at

all tarnished the gentle lustre of Lady Anne’s good heart; for, to tell

truth, embroidery, and prejudices, and steel-collars, though they cramp

both body and mind a little, by no means have a bad effect—or, at least,

by no means _so_ bad an effect as people ascribe to them in these

days—upon the heart; and there lived many a true lady then—lives many a

true lady now—to whom devout thoughts have come in those dim hours, and

fair fancies budded and blossomed in the silence. It was very true that

Lady Anne sat there immovable, holding her head with conscientious

firmness, as she had been trained to hold it, and moving her long

fingers noiselessly as her needle went out and in through the canvass

before her—very true that she thought she was doing her duty, and

accomplishing her natural lot; but not any less true, notwithstanding,

that the heart which beat softly against her breast was pure and gentle

as the summer air, and, like it, touched into quiet brightness by the

light from heaven.

Near her, carelessly bending forward from a lower chair, and leaning her

whole weight on another embroidery frame, sits Katie Stewart, labouring

with a hundred wiles to draw Lady Anne’s attention from her work. One of

little Katie’s round white shoulders is gleaming out of her dress, and

she is not in the least erect, but bends her head down between her

hands, and pushes back the rich golden hair which falls in shining,

half-curled tresses over her fingers, and laughs, and pouts, and calls

to Lady Anne; but Lady Anne only answers quietly, and goes on with her

work—for it is right and needful to work so many hours, and Lady Anne is

doing her duty.

But not so Katie Stewart: her needle lies idle on the canvass; her silk

hangs over her arm, getting soiled and dim; and Lady Anne blushes to

remember how long it is since her wayward favourite began that group of

flowers.

For Katie feels no duty—no responsibility in the matter; and having

worked a whole dreary hour, and accomplished a whole leaf, inclines to

be idle now, and would fain make her companion idle too. But the

conscientious Lady Anne shakes her head, and labours on; so Katie,

leaning still further over the frame, and still more entirely

disregarding her shoulders and deportment, tosses back the overshadowing

curls again, and with her cheeks supported in the curved palms of her

hands, and her fingers keeping back the hair from her brow, lifts up her

voice and sings—

“Corn rigs and barley rigs,

Corn rigs are bonnie.”

Sweet, clear, and full is little Katie’s voice, and she leans forward,

with her bright eyes dwelling kindly on Lady Anne’s face, while, with

affectionate pleasure, the good Lady Anne sits still, and works, and

listens—the sweet child’s voice, in which there is still scarcely a

graver modulation to tell of the coming woman, echoing into the generous

gentle heart which scarcely all its life has had a selfish thought to

interrupt the simple beautiful admiration of its unenvious love.

“Katie, ye little cuttie!” exclaimed the horror-stricken mother, looking

in at the door.

Katie started; but it was only with privileged boldness to look up

smilingly into her mother’s face, as she finished the last verse of her

song.

“Eh, Lady Anne, what can I say to you?” said Mrs Stewart, coming forward

with indignant energetic haste; “or what will your ladyship say to that

forward monkey? Katie, have I no admonished ye to get the manners of a

serving lassie at your peril, however grand the folk were ye saw; but,

nevertheless, to gie honour where honour is due, as it’s commanded. I

think shame to look ye in the face, Lady Anne, after hearing a bairn of

mine use such a freedom.”

“But you have no need, Mrs Stewart,” said Lady Anne, “for Katie is at

home.”

There was the slightest possible tone of authority in the words, gentle

as they were; and Mrs Stewart felt herself put down.

“Weel, your ladyship kens best; but I came to speak about Katie, Lady

Anne. I’m thinking I’ll need to bring her hame.”

Mrs Stewart had her revenge. Lady Anne’s quiet face grew red and

troubled, and she struggled to loose herself from her bondage, and turn

round to face the threatening visitor.

“To take Katie home?—away from me? Oh, Mrs Stewart, dinna!” said Lady

Anne, forgetting that she was no longer a child.

“Ye see, my lady, our Isabell is to be married. The young man is Philip

Landale of Kilbrachmont. Ye may have heard tell of him even in the

Castle;—a lad with a guid house and plenty substance to take hame a wife

to; and a guid wife he’ll get to them, though maybe I shouldna say it.

And so you see, Lady Anne, I’ll be left with only Janet at hame.”

“But, Mrs Stewart, Katie has not been accustomed to it; she could not do

you any good,” said the eager, injudicious Lady Anne.

“The very words, my lady—the very thing I said to our guidman and the

bairns at hame. ‘It’s time,’ says I, ‘that Katie was learnin’ something

fit for her natural place and lot. What kind of a wife will she ever

make to a puir man, coming straight out of Kellie Castle, and Lady

Anne’s very cha’mer?’ No that I’m meaning it’s needful that she should

get a puir man, Lady Anne; but a bien man in the parish is no like ane

of your grand lords and earls; and if Katie does as weel as her mother

before her, she’ll hae a better portion than she deserves.”

Indignantly Katie tossed her curls from her forehead, bent her little

flushed face over the frame, and began to ply her needle as if for a

wager.

“But, Mrs Stewart,” urged Lady Anne, “Katie’s birthday is not till May,

and she’s only fifteen then. Never mind the man—there’s plenty time; but

as long as we’re at Kellie, and not far away from you, Mrs Stewart, why

should not Katie live all her life with me?”

Katie glanced up archly, saucily, but said nothing.

“It wouldna be right, my lady. In the first place, you’ll no be aye at

Kellie; you’ll get folk you like better than Katie Stewart; and Katie

must depend on naebody’s will and pleasure. I’ll have it said of nae

bairn of mine that she sorned on a stranger. Na, she must come hame.”

Lady Anne’s eyes filled with tears. The little proud belligerent mother

stood triumphant and imperious before the fire. The petulant wilful

favourite pouted over her frame; and Lady Anne looked from one to the

other with overflowing eyes.

“My sister Betty’s away, and my sister Janet’s away,” said Anne Erskine

sadly; “I’ve nobody but Katie now. If you take Katie away, Mrs Stewart,

I’ll break my heart.”

Little Katie put away her frame without saying a word, and coming

silently to the side of the high chair, knelt down, and looked earnestly

into Lady Anne’s drooping face. There was some wonder in the look—a

little awe—and then she laid down her soft cheek upon that hand of Lady

Anne’s, on which already some tears had fallen, and taking the other

hand into her own, continued to look up with a strange, grave, sudden

apprehension of the love which had been lavished on her so long. Anne

Erskine’s tears fell softly on the earnest uplooking face, and Mrs

Stewart’s heart was melted.

“Weel, Lady Anne, it’s no my nature to do a hard thing to onybody. Keep

the cuttie; I’ll no seek her as lang as I can do without her. I gie ye

my word.”