The day after his arrival chanced to be the last of the great Mohammedan feast of the Ramadan. That it was to be a day of festival was announced at earliest dawn by the sound of merry music; the Fulbi streamed forth from their houses, clad in white chemises, as a sign of the white purity of their faith; and the governor paraded through the town at the head of a cortége of forty horsemen. As the cadi showed an inclination to represent Dr. Barth in the unwelcome capacity of a sorcerer, he deemed it prudent to distribute a largess among the people of the procession.
He arrived at Doré, the chief town of Libtako, on the 12th of July. The soil is dry, and troops of gazelles frolic about the arid plain which borders on the market-place. The market, on the occasion of Dr. Barth’s visit, was frequented by four or five hundred persons, who were buying or selling salt, and cotton stuffs, and copper vessels, and corn, and kola-nuts, and asses. The inhabitants of Doré are partial to ornaments made of copper; and Dr. Barth noticed two young girls wearing in their hair a copper device of a horseman, sword in hand and pipe in mouth. The pipe, be it observed, is in great request among the Sourays, who seem to be of the opinion of Lord Lytton, that “he who doth not smoke hath either known no great griefs, or refused himself the softest consolation, next to that which comes from heaven.”
Beyond Doré the country was a network of rivers and morasses. Buffaloes were exceedingly numerous. A venomous fly, very rare to the east of the Soudan, seriously annoyed Dr. Barth’s cattle. It was the wet season; rain descended perpetually, as if the floodgates of heaven had been opened, and water was everywhere—in front, in rear, on either side; water, water, water! For quiet English gentlemen, living at home at ease, or occasionally indulging in a railway journey of a few hundred miles, in a comfortable carriage, through fields well cultivated and well drained, where rivers seldom break their bounds, or if they do, never accomplish greater injury than the overflowing of a green meadow or two, it is almost impossible to conceive the difficulty, and even danger, of traversing the African plains in the rainy season, of conveying heavy baggage through leagues upon leagues of swamps, which the unloaded camel finds it laborious to cross. More than once Dr. Barth was afraid that his horse, in spite of its robust vigour, would fail to extricate its limbs from the deep mud, and sink with its rider in the slough. So tremendous are the rains, that in a single night they have been known to sweep away the fourth part of a large village, and in one house eleven goats have perished.
Hitherto Dr. Barth had maintained his quality as a Christian; but on entering Dalla, a province belonging to the fanatical chief of Masina, who would never have permitted “an infidel” to traverse his territories, Dr. Barth thought it advisable to assume the character of an Arab. But a dispute which he had with his host, respecting a pack of dogs that showed a decided unwillingness to give place to a stranger, indicated no great religious fervour on the part of the population. Good Mohammedans have no liking for the canine race. The Fulbi will not employ them even as guides for their cattle, which they direct by the voice. All the dogs were black; the poultry were black and white. Dr. Barth observed that the crops suffered greatly from the ravages of a large black worm, which he had not met with since his expedition into Bagirmi.
On the 5th of August he entered into a region of swamp and morass, and he was glad when, to relieve the monotony of the landscape, he caught sight of the picturesque Souray villages and the fantastic outline of the chain of the Hombori mountains. The various forms of this singular range, none of the peaks of which rise more than eight hundred feet above the level of the plain, can hardly be imagined; they irresistibly attract the traveller’s eye. On a gentle slope, composed of masses of rock, is built a perpendicular wall, the terraced summit of which is inhabited by a native race who have ever maintained their independence. That these heroic hillmen sometimes descend from their fastnesses is shown by their flocks of sheep and crops of millet. Starting from this point, a twofold range of remarkable crests extends along the plain, with a curious similitude to the ruins of mediæval castles.
Refused admission at Boná, and afraid to enter Nuggera, well known to be a hot-bed of fanaticism, Dr. Barth solicited the hospitality of some Towaregs, who were encamped in the neighbourhood. Their chief, a man of agreeable physiognomy, with fine features and a fair complexion, placed one of his huts at the traveller’s disposal, and sent him some milk and a sheep ready cooked. Next day, his tents of canvas figured in the midst of those of his host, and he was besieged by a number of very stout ladies, all importunate for gifts. At Bambara, a considerable agricultural centre, surrounded by the canals and affluents of the Niger, he resided for several days. It is situated upon a backwater (mariyet) of the river, which, at the time of Barth’s visit, was almost dry. In the ordinary course of things, it ought, in three weeks, to be crowded with boats, going to Timbuktú by Oálázo and Saráyamó, and to Dirá by Kanima. The prosperity of the town depends, therefore, on the rains; and as these had not begun, the whole population, with the Emir at their head, implored the pretended Arab doctor, whom they chose to regard as a great magician, to exercise his powers to obtain from the skies a copious benediction. Dr. Barth eluded the request for a formal ceremony, but expressed a hope that Heaven would listen to wishes so very reasonable. As it happened, there was a slight fall of rain next day, which drew from the inhabitants the sincerest gratitude; but, for all that, Dr. Barth was very glad to put some distance between himself and Bambara.
On the 1st of September, at Saráyamó, Dr. Barth embarked on one of the branches of the Niger, and sailed towards Timbuktú. The stream was about a hundred yards wide, and so thick with aquatic plants that the voyagers seemed to be gliding over a prairie. Moreover, in its bed the asses and horses obtained the chief part of their sustenance. In about two miles and a half they entered open water, and the boatmen, whose songs had rung the praises of the Julius Cæsar of Negroland, the Sultan Mohammed ben Abubakr, carried them, from winding to winding, between banks clothed with cucifers, tamarinds, and rich grasses, on which sometimes cattle were feeding, and sometimes the gazelle. The presence of alligators was a sign that they approached a broader water, and the channel suddenly widened to two hundred yards; its banks alive with pelicans and other water-birds, while men and horses went to and fro. The curves and bends of the stream increased, and the banks assumed a more defined and regular formation; wider and wider became the water-way, until it reached three hundred and forty yards. Some fires shone out against the evening shadows. At the bottom of a little creek clustered a little village. In no part of the course could any current be discerned; it was a kind of lagoon which the voyagers were crossing, and sometimes the wave flowed in one direction, sometimes in another. After two centuries of war, its shores, once so animated, have sunk into silence; and Gakovia, Sanyara, and many other villages have ceased to be. There, on the edge of the bank, towered aloft a clump of graceful trees, the haunt of numerous bees; here, a patch of greensward brightened with the colours of many blossoms. The river now flowed from south-west to north-east, with a noble expanse of six hundred yards; its majestic flood rolling like a volume of silver in the moonlight, with the reflection of stars sparkling thickly on the crests of its waves.
After a pilgrimage of eight months’ duration, Dr. Barth arrived at Kabara, the river-port of Timbuktú; and was lodged in a house on the highest ground, which contained two large and several small rooms, and a first floor. The inner court was occupied by a numerous and varied assortment of sheep, ducks, pigeons, and poultry. At early dawn, on the day after his arrival, our traveller, almost suffocated, left his room; but he had scarcely begun his walk before a Towareg chief interrupted him, and demanded a present. Receiving a prompt refusal, he coolly announced that, in his quality as a bandit, he could do him a good deal of harm. Dr. Barth, in fact, was hors la loi, and the first wretch who suspected him of being a Christian might slay him with impunity. He succeeded, however, in getting rid of the Towareg. Meanwhile, the house was crowded with visitors from Timbuktú, some on foot, some on horseback, but all wearing blue robes, drawn close to the figure by a drapery, with short breeches and peaked straw hats. All carried lances, while some had swords and guns; they seated themselves in the courtyard, overflowed the chambers, staring at one another, and asking each other who this stranger might be. In the course of the day, Dr. Barth was “interviewed” by fully two hundred persons. In the evening, a messenger whom he had despatched to Timbuktú returned, accompanied by Sidi Alawat, one of the Sultan’s brothers. Dr. Barth confided to him the secret of his Christian profession, but added that he was under the special protection of the sovereign of Stamboul. Unfortunately, he had no other proof of his assertion than an old firman dating from his former residence in Egypt; the interview, however, passed off very agreeably.
On the following day, they crossed the sand-hills in the rear of Kabara; the yellow barrenness of the country contrasting vividly with the fertility of the verdurous borders of the river. It is, indeed, a desert, infested by roving bands of murderous Towaregs. Such is the well-known insecurity of the route, that a thicket, situated midway, bears the significant name of “It does not hear”—that is, it is deaf to the cries of a victim. To the left stands the tree of Wely-Salah, a mimosa which the natives have covered with rags in the hope that the saint will replace them by new clothes. As they drew near Timbuktú, the sky clouded over, the atmosphere was full of sand, and the city could scarcely be seen through the rubbish surrounding it. A deputation of the inhabitants met Dr. Barth, and bade him welcome. One of them addressed him in Turkish. He had almost forgotten the language, which, of course, in his character of a Syrian, he ought to have known; but he recalled a few words with which to frame a reply, and then avoided awkward questions by spurring his horse and entering the city. The streets were so narrow, that not more than two horsemen could ride abreast; Dr. Barth was astonished, however, by the two-storied houses, with their ornamented façades. Turning to the west, and passing in front of the Sultan’s palace, he arrived at the house which had been allotted for his accommodation.
He had attained the goal of his wishes; he had reached Timbuktú; but the anxieties and fatigue of his journey had exhausted him, and he was seized with an attack of fever. Yet never had he had greater need of his energy and coolness. A rumour had already got abroad that a Christian had obtained admission into the city. The Sultan was absent; and his brother, who had promised his support, was sulking because he had not received presents enough. On the following day, however, the fever having left him, Barth received the visits of some courteous people, and took the air on the terrace of his lodging, which commanded a view of the city. To the north could be seen the massive outlines of the great mosque of Sankora; to the east, the tawny surface of the desert; to the south, the habitations of the Ghadami merchants; while the picture gained variety from the presence of straw-roofed huts among houses built of clay, long rows of narrow winding streets, and a busy market-place on the slope of the sand-hills.
A day or two later, there were rumours of a meditated attack upon his residence, but his calm and intrepid aspect baffled hostile designs. The sheikh’s brother made an attempt to convert him, and defied him to demonstrate the superiority of his religious principles. With the help of his pupils, he carried on an animated discussion; but Dr. Barth confuted him, and by his candour and good sense secured the esteem of the more intelligent inhabitants. A fresh attack of fever supervened on the 17th; his weakness increased daily; when, at three o’clock in the morning of the 26th, a blare of instruments and a din of voices announced the arrival of the sheikh, El Bakay, and his warm welcome to the stranger dispelled his pains and filled him with a new vigour. He strongly censured his brother’s ungracious conduct; sent provisions to Barth, with a recommendation to partake of nothing that did not come from his palace; and offered him his choice between the various routes that led to the sea-coast. Could he have foreseen that he was fated to languish eight months at Timbuktú, Dr. Barth thinks that he could not have supported the idea; but, happily, man never knows the intensity or duration of the struggle in which he engages, and marches courageously through the shadows which hide from him the future.
Ahmed El Bakay was tall of stature and well proportioned, with an open countenance, an intelligent air, and the bearing and physiognomy of a European. His complexion was almost black. His costume consisted of a short black tunic, black pantaloons, and a shawl bound negligently round his head. Between him and Dr. Barth a cordial understanding was quickly formed and loyally maintained. He spoke frequently of Major Laing, the only Christian whom he had ever seen; for, thanks to the disguise assumed by the French traveller, Caillé, no one at Timbuktú was aware that he had at one time resided in their city.
Timbuktú is situated about six miles from the Niger, in lat. 18° N. Its shape is that of a triangle, the apex of which is turned towards the desert. Its circuit at the present time is about three miles and a half; but of old it extended over a much larger area. It is by no means the wealthy, powerful, and splendid city which was dreamed of in the fond imaginations of the early travellers. Its streets are unpaved, and most of them narrow. There are a thousand houses clay-built, and, in the northern and north-western suburbs, some two hundred huts of reeds. No traces exist of the ancient palace, nor of the Kasba; but the town has three large and three small mosques, and a chapel. It is divided into seven quarters, inhabited by a permanent population of thirty thousand souls, which is increased to thirty-five or forty thousand from November to January, the epoch of the caravans. Founded early in the twelfth century by the Towaregs, on one of their old pasture-grounds, Timbuktú belonged to the Souray in the first half of the fourteenth. Recovered, a century later, by its founders, it was snatched from them by Sami Ali, who sacked it, then rebuilt it, and drew thither the merchants of Ghadami. As early as 1373 it is marked upon the Spanish charts, not only as the entrepôt of the trade in salt and gold, but as the scientific and religious centre of the Western Soudan; and exciting the cupidity of Mulay Ahmed, it fell, in 1592, with the empire of the Askias, under the sway of Marocco. Down to 1826 it remained in the hands of the Ramas, or Maroccan soldiers settled in the country. Next came the Fulbi; then the Towaregs, who drove out the Fulbi in 1844. But this victory, by isolating Timbuktú on the border of the river, led to a famine. Through the intervention of El Bakay, however, a compromise was effected in 1848; the Towaregs recognized the nominal supremacy of the Fulbi, on condition that they should keep no garrison in the city; the taxes were to be collected by two cadis, a Souray and a Fulbi; and the administration, or rather the police, was entrusted to two Souray magistrates, controlled simultaneously by the Fulbi and the Towaregs, between whom was divided the religious authority, represented by the sheikh, a Rama by origin.
Dr. Barth’s residence in Timbuktú was a source of intense dissatisfaction to some of the ruling spirits. Even in the sheikh’s own family it led to grave dissensions; and many demanded that he should be expelled. El Bakay remained firm in his support, and, to protect the life of his visitor, moved him to Kabara. Dr. Barth speaks in high terms of this liberal and enlightened man, and of the happiness of his domestic circle. Europe itself could not produce a more affectionate father or husband; indeed, Dr. Barth hints that he yielded too much to the wishes of his august partner.
Week after week, the storms of war and civil discord raged more and more furious; the traveller’s position became increasingly painful. His bitterest enemies were the Fulbi. They endeavoured to drag him from the sheikh’s protection by force, and when this failed, had recourse to an artifice to get him into their power. The Welád Shinan, who assassinated Major Laing, swore they would kill him. On the 27th of February, 1854, the chief of the Fulbi again intimated to the sheikh his request that Barth should be driven from the country. The sheikh peremptorily refused. Then came a fresh demand, and a fresh refusal; a prolonged and angry struggle; a situation more and more intolerable; while commerce suffered and the people were disquieted by the quarrels of their rulers. So it came to pass that, on the night of the 17th of March, Sidi Mohammed, eldest brother of El Bakay, beat the drum, mounted his horse, and bade Dr. Barth follow him with two of his servants, while the Towaregs, who supported them, clashed their bucklers together, and shouted their shrill war-cry. He found the sheikh at the head of a numerous body of Arabs and Sourays, with some Fulbi, who were devoted to him. As might be expected, Dr. Barth begged that he might not be the cause of any bloodshed; and the sheikh promised the malcontents that he would conduct the obnoxious Christian beyond the town. He encamped on the frontier of the Oberay, where everybody suffered terribly from bad food and insects.
At length, after a residence of thirty-three days on the creek of Bosábango, it was decided that the march should be begun on the 19th of April. On the 25th, after having passed through various encampments of Towaregs, they followed the windings of the Niger, having on their left a well-wooded country, intersected by marshes, and enlivened by numerous pintados. Then they fell in with the valiant Wughduga, a sincere friend of El Bakay, and a magnificent Towareg warrior, nearly seven feet high, of prodigious strength, and the hero of deeds of prowess worthy of the most famous knight of the Table Round. Under his escort Dr. Barth reached Gogo—in the fifteenth century the flourishing and famous capital of the Souray empire, now a small and straggling town with a few hundred huts. Here he took leave of his kind and generous protector; and, with an escort of about twenty persons, recrossed to the right bank of the river, and descended it as far as Say, where he had passed it the year before. In this journey of one hundred and fifty leagues, he had seen everywhere the evidence of great fertility, and a peaceable population, in whose midst a European might travel in security; speaking to the people, as he did, of the sources and termination of their great fostering river—questions which interest those good negroes as much, perhaps, as they have perplexed the scientific societies of Europe, but of which they do not possess the most rudimentary knowledge.
Arriving at Sokotó and Vurno in the midst of the rainy season, Dr. Barth was warmly welcomed by the Emir; but, with strength exhausted and health broken, he could not profit by his kindness.
On the 17th of October he arrived at Kanó, where he had been long expected; but neither money nor despatches had been forwarded for him—no news from Europe had been received. Yet at Kanó he had arranged to pay his servants, discharge his debts, and renew his credits, long since exhausted. He pledged the little property remaining to him, including his revolver, until he could obtain the cutlery and four hundred dollars left at Zindu; but, alas! these had disappeared during recent intestine commotions. Kanó must always be unhealthy for Europeans; and Dr. Barth, in his enfeebled condition, acutely felt the ill effects of its climatic conditions. His horses and camels fell ill, and he lost, among others, the noble animal which for three years had shared all his fatigues.
Over every difficulty, every obstacle, that splendid energy which had carried the great explorer to the Niger and Timbuktú ultimately prevailed; and on the 24th of November he set out for Kúkáwa. In his absence it had been the theatre of a revolution. A new ruler held the reins of government, and Dr. Barth was doomed to encounter fresh embarrassments. It was not until after a delay of four months that he was able to resume the journey through the Fezzan. He followed this time the direct route, by Bilma—the route formerly taken by the travellers, Denham and Clapperton.
At the end of August he entered Tripoli, where he spent only four days. By way of Malta he proceeded to Marseilles; and thence to Paris; arriving in London on the 6th of September, 1855.
It may be doubted whether the English public have fully appreciated the labours of this persevering explorer. To us it seems that he occupies a high place in the very front rank of African travellers, in virtue not only of the work he did, but of the courage, perseverance, skill, and energy which he displayed. He failed in nothing that he undertook, though his resources were very limited, and the difficulties in his path of the gravest character. He explored Bornú, A’damáwa, and Bagirmi, where no European had ever before penetrated. He surveyed, over an area of six hundred miles, the region which lies between Katséna and Timbuktú, though even to the Arabs it is the least known portion of the Soudan. He formed friendly relations with the powerful princes on the banks of the Niger, from Sokotó to the famous city which shuts its gates upon the Christian. Five of his best years he dedicated to this astonishing enterprise, enduring the gravest privations, and braving the most pestilential climates, as well as the most implacable fanaticism. All this he did, without friends, without companions, without money. Of the five brave men who undertook this adventurous expedition, he alone returned; and returned loaded with treasure, with precious materials of all kinds for the use of the man of science or the merchant—with maps, drawings, chronologies, vocabularies, historical and ethnological notes, itineraries, botanical and geological data, and meteorological tables. Nothing escaped his attention; he was not only a traveller and an observer, but a scientific pioneer. Let us give due honour to a Livingstone, but let us not forget the debt we owe to a Barth. [156]
A.D. 1849–55.
Mr. Thomas Witlam Atkinson among recent travellers is not one of the least distinguished. He ventured into what may be called “virgin country”—a region scarcely known to Europeans; carrying his life in his hand; animated by the desire of knowledge rather than the hope of fame; quick to observe, accurate in his observations, and intelligent in combining them into a distinct and satisfactory whole. For some years he lived among the wild races who inhabit Siberia and Mongolia, the Kirghiz steppes, Chinese Tartary, and the wilder districts of Central Asia; and he collected a vast amount of curious information in reference not only to their manners and customs and mode of life, but to the lands which they call their own. The broad and irresistible wave of Western civilization has reached the confines of their vast territories, before long will pour in upon them, and already is slowly, but surely, undermining many an ancient landmark. In the course of another fifty years its advance will have largely modified their characteristics, and swept away much that is now the most clearly and picturesquely defined. We need, therefore, to be grateful to Mr. Atkinson for the record he has supplied of their present condition; a record which to us is one of romantic interest, as to the future historian it will be one of authentic value.
In introducing that record to the reader, he says:—“Mine has been a tolerably wide field, extending from Kokhand on the west to the eastern end of the Baikal, and as far south as the Chinese town of Tchin-si; including that immense chain Syan-shan, never before seen by any European; as well as a large portion of the western part of the Gobi, over which Gonghiz Khan marched his wild hordes; comprising a distance traversed of about 32,000 versts in carriages, 7100 in boats, and 20,300 on horseback—in all, 59,400 versts (about 39,500 miles), in the course of seven years.” Neither the old Venetian, Marco Polo, nor the Jesuit priests, could have visited these regions, their travels having been far to the south; even the recent travellers, Hue and Gobet, who visited “the land of grass” (the plains to the south of the great Desert of Gobi), did not penetrate into the country of the Kalkas. It is unnecessary to premise that in such a journey, prolonged over so many years, extended into so many countries, he suffered much both from hunger and thirst, was exposed to numerous tests of his courage and fortitude, and on several occasions placed in most critical situations with the tribes of Central Asia; that he more than once was called upon to confront an apparently inevitable death. Within the limits to which we are confined, it will be impossible for us to attempt a detailed narrative of his labours, but we shall hope to select those passages and incidents which will afford a fair idea of their value and enterprise.
Armed with a passport from the Czar of All the Russias, which in many a difficult conjuncture proved to its bearer as all-powerful as Ali Baba’s “Open Sesame,” Mr. Atkinson left Moscow on the 6th of March, intent upon the exploration of the wild regions of Siberia. A ten days’ journey brought him to Ekaterineburg, the first Russian town in this direction, across the Asiatic boundary. Here he took boat on the river Tchoussowaia, which he descended as far as the pristan, or port, of Chaitanskoï. Thence he made an excursion to the house of an hospitable Russian, the director of the Outskinkoï iron-works, traversing a forest of pines, which deeply impressed him by its aspect of gloomy grandeur. Resuming his river-voyage, [159] he observed that the valley widened considerably as he advanced. On the west bank spread a large extent of meadow-land; on the eastern, the soil was partly cultivated, and bloomed with young crops of rye. The pastures shone with fresh strong verdure, were already starred with flowers, while the birch trees were hourly bursting into leaf. In this region the change from winter to summer is magically sudden, like that of a transformation scene. At night, you see the grass browned by frost, and the trees bare of buds; in twenty-four hours, the meadows are covered with fresh greenness, and the woods spread over you a thick canopy of vigorous foliage. But if you come from a temperate clime, you miss that sweet and gradual development of bud and bloom, of leaf and flower, which is the charm and privilege of spring. You miss the rare pleasure of watching the opening violet, the first primrose, the early tinge of green upon the hedgerow and in the coppice, which you recognize as the heralds and pledges of happy days to come.
At Oslanskoï Mr. Atkinson took his leave of the Tchoussowaia, and prepared to cross the Ural Mountains. But while staying at Nijne-Toura, he resolved upon ascending the great peak of the Katchkanar. The road led through a tract of deep forest, which spread over high hills, and down into deep valleys, filled with white vapour, through which the branches of lightning-stricken pines loomed ghastly like the shivered masts of a wreck through the ocean mist. Towards noon a thunder-storm came on, accompanied by heavy rain. Portions of the forest were so thick as completely to exclude the daylight; and Mr. Atkinson and his companions frequently found it necessary to cut their way through the intertangled growth.
Though bears and other beasts of prey frequent these wilds, Mr. Atkinson met with none; the chief danger was a fall in the midst of rocks and prostrate trees, which might have been attended with painful consequences. At last they emerged from the forest gloom, at the foot of a steep ascent overlaid with huge blocks of stones. As their horses slowly clambered up the rugged acclivity, the sound was heard of the roar of water, indicating a cataract close at hand. It proved to be the outcome of a small stream, which tumbled down a steep and rocky bed in a succession of shining falls. Crossing this stream, the riders pursued their upward course until at eight o’clock they reached the Katchkanar, after a tedious journey of eleven hours. The guide, a veteran hunter, proposed to halt for the night at the foot of some high rocks—a proposition readily accepted. All hands set to work, and soon a great fire was blazing, not only for the purpose of warmth, but as a protection against the clouds of mosquitoes which swarmed around, and threatened to murder sleep.
At three o’clock, Mr. Atkinson was up and about. The dawn was swiftly advancing over the interminable Siberian forest. Above the vast horizon stretched long lines of pale yellow clouds, which every minute became more luminous, until they seemed like so many waves of golden light rolling and breaking on the far celestial shore. As the sun gradually rose into the heavens, every mountain-top blazed with fire, like gigantic altars, and the pines were transformed into columns of gold. The adventurers were soon afoot, and, crossing a little grassy valley, began the real ascent.
It was a chaotic mass of loose huge rocks, with snow filling up many of the cavities; in other places they passed under colossal blocks, over which it would have been no easy task to climb. Further up they stretched across large patches of frozen snow, and reached the foot of the high crags of the Katchkanar; many of which stand out like huge crystals, not less than one hundred feet in height, and are composed of regular courses, with pure magnetic iron ore between their beds, varying from one inch to four inches thick. In some places cubes or crystals of iron project from the solid rock, three and four inches square; and in others the whole mass seems to be of iron, or some other mineral substance. Climbing one of the highest pinnacles, Mr. Atkinson enjoyed a glorious prospect, such as it is difficult for the dweller in plains, with their always limited horizons, to form even an idea of. For hundreds of miles the view to the east extended into Siberia, until all disappeared in fine blue vapour. “There is something truly grand,” says Mr. Atkinson, “in looking over these black and apparently interminable forests, in which no trace of a human habitation, not even a wreath of smoke, can be seen to assure us that man is there. Turning to the north, and about one hundred versts distant, Pardinsky Kanem rises out of the dark forest (this is one of the highest points in the Ural chain); it is partly covered with snow, and shines like frosted silver in the bright sun. All the mountains near are blue, purple, and misty, with a rugged foreground of rocks of great height, broken into all shapes and forms. In fact, the summit of the Katchkanar is evidently a mountain in ruins, the softer parts having been removed or torn away by the hand of time, leaving the barren portion, or vertebræ of the mountain, standing like a huge skeleton, which, seen at a distance, often assumed the most fantastic and picturesque shapes.”
After a brief rest, Mr. Atkinson and his friends began the descent of the mountain, taking, however, a circuitous route which secured them a variety of scenes, and about seven o’clock in the evening they reached the site of their encampment on the preceding night. There they slept until dawn, when they made the best of their way back to Nijne-Toura—a long day’s journey.
While at Nijne Mr. Atkinson had an opportunity of seeing something of the pastimes popular among the iron-workers of the district. It was the occasion of a popular festival, and the workmen and their families were all holiday-making. Females and children were riding merrily in the boxes of the large swings that had been temporarily constructed. The men were wrestling, just as they might do in Devonshire or Cornwall. Stripping off his coat, each man tied his long sash firmly round his waist; this his antagonist gripped with the right hand, while the left was placed on his shoulder; then the struggle began. One of the athletes was so conspicuously superior to the rest in skill and prowess, that at length no one would respond to his repeated challenges to try a fall. Assuming the honours of championship, he was on the point of quitting the arena when a slim-built, but well-proportioned, young man suddenly stepped forward as a competitor. He was evidently a stranger, and his appearance was greeted with a good deal of laughter, in which the champion readily joined. The latter acted as if assured of an easy victory, but, to the general surprise, a sharp and prolonged contention ensued. The wrestler, angry at the prospect of losing his laurels, exerted all his dexterity to throw his daring opponent, and when that failed, endeavoured to overcome him by superior strength. In vain: he was flung prostrate on the ground. Red with shame, he sprang to his feet and repeated his challenge. A second combat followed, and the would-be champion, by a second defeat and a heavy fall, was taught a lesson in modesty, which it is to be hoped he long remembered.
Meanwhile, the young girls, in their best and brightest costumes, shone like a bed of many-coloured tulips. Some, with hands clasped together, walked to and fro, singing simple songs to those plaintive Russian melodies which, in their sweet minor keys, are often so beautiful. Others joined in a game which resembles our English see-saw. A plank, about seven feet long, was placed on a centre block, six inches high. At each end stood a player, who, by springing up and alighting again on the board, caused her companion at the other end to rise higher every time. The players in this way would sometimes bound as high as three feet or three feet and a half.
From Nijne Mr. Atkinson made several excursions into the mining districts of the Ural, and afterwards returned to Ekaterineburg, to complete the preparations for his Siberian expedition. He took with him a young man, about twenty-four years old, who spoke German fluently, and bidding adieu to his friends, started on his journey. In spite of every effort, he says, a feeling of deep sadness overtook him when his gaze rested for the last time on the lofty mountain crest which forms the boundary of Europe. But the die was cast; he gave the word “Forward!” and away dashed the horses into Asia. Kamenskoï was the first stage; beyond which he entered the valley of the Issetz, and rapidly approached the great monastery of St. Tolometz. It stands on the left bank of the Issetz, near its junction with the river Teleta, and in external appearance resembles the Kremlin of Moscow. The walls are strengthened by towers at the angles, and close to the east end stands the church, an elegant and a spacious edifice. The road from this point still lay along the high bank of the Issetz, which here flows through a well-wooded country and teeming fields of wheat and rye. There are no fences in the fields; but every village has its ring-fence of posts and rails, enclosing an area of from two to three miles in diameter, with gates on the high-road, and a watchman to open and shut them. Passing station after station, Atkinson crossed the Issetz and the Tobol, and struck into the steppes of Ischim—a flat, uninteresting tract of country between the rivers Tobol and Ischim. It is watered by several lakes, and the small sandy ridges—they can scarcely be called hills—are often covered with pine-woods.
Here he fell in with a large party of convicts, marching, under a strong guard, into Eastern Siberia. There were ninety-seven in the gang, the van of which was led by seventeen men and three women, in chains, destined for Nertchinsk, more than four thousand versts further. The journey would occupy them eight months. The others followed in pairs, on their way to the government of Irkutsk; they had three thousand versts to travel, or a march of six months. Behind them came telagas [166] with baggage, and eleven women riding; some of whom were accompanying their husbands into their miserable exile. In front and on each side rode mounted Cossacks, who strictly guarded the prisoners; but what were they to do if they escaped? There was no prospect before them but death by starvation.
At the various posting-stations barracks are built, the front buildings of which are occupied by the officers, guards, and attendants. From each end, to the distance of about forty or fifty feet, stretches a high stockade, which returns at right angles, and runs about sixty feet. It is then carried along the back so as to enclose in all an area of two hundred feet by sixty; in the middle are the buildings for the prisoners. The stockade is formed of trunks of trees, twelve inches in diameter, standing fifteen feet above the ground, and cut to a sharp point at the top; placed close together, they form a very strong barrier. The prisoners, moreover, are placed under continual supervision. They march two days, at a rate of twenty to twenty-five versts daily, and rest one. A gang leaves Ekaterineburg every Monday morning.
After leaving Kiansk, which Mr. Atkinson anathematizes as “the worst town in all Siberia,” he travelled directly south, with the view of visiting Lakes Sartian and Tchany, the remains of a great inland sea. From Lake Tchany a chain of lakes, some of which are fifty or sixty versts broad, extends south-west for nearly two hundred and fifty versts. The country was low and swampy, but rose occasionally in slight undulations, clothed with long coarse grass, and frequently relieved by extensive clumps of birch and aspen, or a thick underwood of bushes. The lakes proved to be surrounded by so dense a growth of reeds that the water was visible only at a few points. Beyond, the country was thickly wooded, with large pieces of cultivated land, on which were fine crops of wheat and rye growing. The villages were well-built and clean; the inmates looked comfortable and cleanly; and large herds of cattle grazed in the village pastures. Speeding onward in his tarantass, as fast as six horses could carry him, our traveller crossed the Barabinsky steppe—a region curiously unlike that dreariness of monotony, or monotony of dreariness, which is generally associated with the name. The traveller might have been excused for thinking himself in some fair district of England, when he looked around on hills of gentle slope, covered with noble trees, which formed the boundaries of considerable plains, and saw the deer nimbly bounding through the fresh green glades. The view was brightened here and there with plantations of large timber; at other points rose sheltered belts of young trees; the effect being in each case so picturesque as to induce the fancy that art had thus arranged them. The ground teemed with flowers, as if Proserpine’s fertile feet had consecrated it—with the bright geranium, pale blue and deep blue delphinium, white and dark rich crimson dianthus, peony, and purple crocus. The lakes that studded the expanse, like silver gems in an emerald setting, bore expanded on their tremulous wave the blooms of the white and yellow Nymphoea. The whole scene was exquisitely sweet and tranquil.
But in Siberia changes are frequent and sudden, and to this Eden bit quickly succeeded a Slough of Despond. Crossing a morass in a heavy vehicle, drawn by six or seven horses, is not a pleasant sensation; happily, the traject was accomplished without accident. Another and another followed; and through each, with hard struggling on the part of the horses, and much yelling on the part of the yemtschick, or driver, the traveller was carried successfully. He was thankful, however, when the country again improved, and his road once more lay among the hills and pastures. At Krontikha, he was greeted with a noble view of the valley of the Ob, one of the great rivers of Siberia. From one high ridge to the other, twelve or fifteen versts is the width of the valley; in the middle, with constant undulations, first to one side and then to the other, like a coquette between two suitors, the shining stream pursues its capricious way, sometimes breaking off into several channels, divided by green little patches of island. Looking to the north-east, the traveller discerns, at a distance of one hundred and fifty versts, Kolyvan, formerly the chief town of the government—a rank now assigned to Tomsk, which lies one hundred and fifty versts further in the same direction. To the north and east the eye rests on a vast level, dark with the heavy shadows of forests of pine.
At Barnaoul, the chief town in the mining district of the Altai, Mr. Atkinson found himself 4527 versts from St. Petersburg. After a night’s rest he resumed his forward course, and the character of the country soon warned him that he was approaching the steppes which extend westward to the banks of the Irtisch. These dreary wildernesses were the home and haunt of the Kirghiz, before the Russians drove them across the river, and built a line of forts along its bank from Omsk to the mouth of the Bouchtarma. The frontier to the Kirghiz steppe is guarded by a line of barracks; the whole length of the line (about 2500 versts) stretching far up into the Altai mountain range, and along the boundary of China. Dull beyond description is the landscape here. The chief product is wormwood; and around the fords and watercourses grow only a few bushes and stunted willows.
Kolyvan Lake lies at the foot of some offshoots of the Altai chain. The masses of rocks which strew its shores, broken and fantastic of outline, present all the appearance of a ruined city. The granite seems to have been forced up in a soft or liquid state; then to have flowed over and cooled; after which it has been forced up again and again, with the result that it has assumed, in hardening, the most extraordinary forms. The rocks on the heights of the Altai are not less remarkable: some mock you with the aspect of ruined battlements and feudal keeps; others might be mistaken for human heads of a size so colossal that even the magic helmet in “The Castle of Otranto” would have been a world too small for them.
It is at Oubinskoï, a small town or village on the broad, deep, willow-fringed Ouba, that the ascent of the Altai really begins. Thence you cross the Oulba, and ascend a valley full of charming bits for the artist, to the silver mines of Riddersk. About fifteen versts beyond rises the snow-crowned height of Ivanoffsky-Belock, the source of the Gromotooka, or stream of thunder (“grom”), one of the wildest rivers in the Altai. With a roar like that of thunder it hurls its foaming waters down the rugged steep, frequently tearing off and whirling along with it huge fragments of rock, and filling the startled air with a din and clang which are audible for miles. At Riddersk Mr. Atkinson was compelled to abandon his tarantass; he engaged twenty horses to accompany him, and an escort of fifteen men, five of whom carried rifles, while the rest were equipped with axes. A ride of twenty versts, and he reached Poperetchwaia, the last village in this part of the Altai. It is occupied by only eighteen families, who live there in the solitude of the mountain valley, with the great white peaks around them, ignorant of all the events that daily help to make up the history of the age into which they have been born—ignorant of the intellectual movements that are agitating the minds and filling the thoughts of men. A strange, apparently a useless, life! A life without action, without hope, without purpose! Surely ten years of our free, busy, progressive English life are preferable to a hundred years in this lonely Siberian wild. Each family, we are told, have their horses and cows, and around the village is pasture sufficient for large herds. The stags on the mountains are also theirs, and the deer on the hills, and the fish that teem in the rivers. Wild fruit is plentiful; and the bees in their hives produce abundance of honey. It is a Siberian Arcady; but an Arcady without its poetic romance.
The patriarch of the village is described by Mr. Atkinson as a fine old man, with a head and countenance which would have furnished an artist with a model for one of the Evangelists. Health and happiness shone in his face, the ruddy glow of which was set off by his silver-white beard. He wore a plain white shirt, hanging over trousers of thin linen, and fastened round his waist with a red sash; the trousers were tucked into a pair of boots which reached almost to the knee. In winter, a wolf or sheep skin coat is added to this picturesque costume.
In ascending the Altai our traveller plunged into a glorious forest of cedars, which, with their gnarled and twisted branches, formed an arched roof almost impervious to the sun. The scene afterwards changed to a silvery lake, the Keksa, which slept peacefully in the deep shadows of the mountains. Then came woods of larch, and pine, and birch, all freshly green, and breathing a pungent aromatic odour; and grassy glades, fit haunts for the Oreads of the Greek, or the fairies of the Teutonic mythology, with high cedar-crowned mountains rising on either hand. There were no birds; but on the crags stood numerous graceful stags, watching suspiciously the passage of the strangers, and from bough to bough the black squirrel leaped in his mirth. Less pleasant inhabitants were the flies and mosquitoes, which infested the valley depths and lower levels. Still continuing to ascend, Mr. Atkinson entered a rocky gorge that crossed the shoulder of the mountain ridge. Here the crags presented their most savage grandeur. Time had hewn them into various imposing forms: some like turreted battlements and massive towers; others like enormous buttresses thrown up to support the huge sides of the mountain. While threading the defile, the travellers were overtaken by a terrible storm; the wind raged over the heights and through the ravines with a cruel and sudden fury; the lightning like blood-streaks wound across the darkened sky; the thunder broke in peal after peal, which the echoes caught up and repeated until the air rang as with the din of battle. They sheltered themselves behind a crag until the tempest was past, and then began the descent of the other side of the mountain.
Glad were they to find themselves in the more genial lowlands; and leaving behind them the Chelsoun chain of the Altai, which they had just crossed, they rode at a rapid rate towards Zirianovsky, a mining station at the foot of the Eagle Mountains. The silver mines here are the most valuable in the Altai. Some of the ores, which are exceedingly rich, lie at a depth of two hundred and eighty feet; others have been followed to a depth of four hundred and ninety feet. In working them the great difficulty to be confronted by the miners is the vast quantity of water that almost inundates the mines; but this might be obviated by the employment of a steam-engine. To carry the ore to the smelting-works upwards of two hundred horses are employed. First, it is conveyed in small carts, drawn by one horse, to Werchnayan pristan, on the Irtisch, a distance of more than one hundred versts; thence it is sent down the river in boats to Oust-Kamenogorsk pristan; and from the last place it is removed again in carts to Barnaoul, Pavlovsky, and other zavods; making a traject of nine hundred versts in all from the mines to the smelting-works.
Skirting the base of the Kourt-Choum mountains, which form the boundary between the Russian and Chinese empires, Mr. Atkinson turned his face southward, and before long arrived at Little Narym—a small outpost of Cossacks, stationed on a plain within a few versts of the Russian frontier. He was then on the military road, which extends only about twenty versts further, to the last outpost from Western Siberia. Having obtained horses, two telagas, and Cossack drivers, he started down the valley of the Narym, which opens into that of the Irtisch, and at nightfall entered Great Narym. To the officer in command he explained his project of crossing the Chinese frontier; but was warned that, as winter had already set in, and the snow lay deep in the Kourt-Chume chain, he would probably be lost or frozen to death if he attempted that route. He was advised to go through the Kirghiz steppe; and the officer courteously offered to forward him from one Cossack post to another, until he reached the fortress at Kochbouchta. Mr. Atkinson gladly accepted the offer, and arranged to meet his new friend in Ust-Kamenogorsk, on the Irtisch, hiring a boat and men to convey him thither. The boat consisted of two small canoes lashed together, five feet apart, with beams placed across, and the whole boarded over so as to provide a platform, or deck, about fifteen feet by ten. In the head and stern of each canoe sat a strong, sturdy fellow, with a small paddle, not much larger than a child’s garden spade; this was used only to guide the bark, its progress being sufficiently provided for by the rapidity of the current. Paddling out into the middle of the river, which was more than a thousand yards broad, the boatmen soon got into the swing of the current, and the voyage began. “I was watching the changes in the scene,” says Mr. Atkinson, “as one mountain peak after another came in view; when suddenly, and without any previous intimation, two of the men called out that their canoe was filling fast, and that they must make for the shore without a minute’s delay! Before we got halfway to the bank she was nearly full of water, and when within about a hundred yards, the men cried out that she was sinking; this brought our broad deck down to the water on one side, and helped to float her. The men paddled with all their might, and at last we reached a thick bed of reeds, which assisted in keeping us afloat, till we succeeded in getting near enough to the bank to throw our luggage ashore; and then we landed.”
After some trouble, Mr. Atkinson was able to hire a good boat, used for transporting the ore; and the luggage was transferred to it. Then a new difficulty arose; one of the men deserted. But with great promptitude Mr. Atkinson seized a bystander, and kept him prisoner until the deserter was given up. At last, a fresh start was effected. The sun was setting; a keen cutting wind blew up the river; and there was no shelter to be obtained, nor wood for a fire, for many versts. Fast over the valley crept the cold shades of night, and swiftly did they steal up the mountain sides. No signs of any resting-place could be discovered, and the scenery grew more and more gloomy. Turning a rocky headland, they beheld at a great distance the glimmer of a fire, though whether it was in a dwelling, or on the river bank, they could not determine. Bending vigorously to their oars, the boatmen shot forward rapidly; and after a long pull arrived at a small Cossack station, where Mr. Atkinson readily obtained shelter.
Asia, he remarks, is the land for tea; there it is that a man learns to appreciate the herb at its full and proper value. After refreshing himself with the popular beverage, he took a long walk alone on the bank of the Irtisch. The fine, picturesque scenery was seen with impressive effect under the influence of a splendid moonlight, which cast the lower mountains into deep shade, while a silver lustre rested on the snow-crowned peaks, contrasting vividly with the gloom of the valleys. “How infinitely small,” says Mr. Atkinson, “the sight of these mighty masses made me feel, as I wandered on in my solitary ramble! Excepting myself, I could not see one living thing—all was silent as the grave. I had passed some high rocks that shut out the Cossack post from my view, and had entered a valley, running up into the mountains, which lay shrouded in dusky shadow. Two white peaks rose far into the cold, grey sky; the full light of the moon shining upon one of them, and aiding much in giving a most solemn grandeur to the gloomy scene. Fancy began to people this place with phantoms, ghosts, and goblins of horrible aspect. It required but the howling of the wolves to give a seeming reality to the creations of the imagination.”
Passing the mouth of the Bouchtarma, Mr. Atkinson descended the river to Mount Kamenogorsk. There he found his friend, the Cossack colonel, who provided him with an escort of two stalwart Cossacks, armed with sabre, gun, pistol, and long lance. His party also included an unarmed Cossack driver, and his own attendant. He set out in a light telaga, drawn by three horses, and plunged into the solitude of the Kirghiz steppe, which extends eastward to Nor-Zaisan and southward to the Tarbogatni Mountains. There are many undulations on this vast plain, which in summer affords pasturage for immense herds of horses. While halting on the bank of a dried-up stream to dine, Mr. Atkinson observed in the distance a small column of white smoke, which he supposed to proceed from a Kirghiz aul, or village; but a guide whom he had hired assured him there were no encampments in that direction, and that the smoke issued from burning reeds on the shores of Lake Nor-Zaisan. Thitherward the traveller immediately proceeded; sometimes over rich pastures, at others over a rough tract of ground and stones almost bare of vegetation. After riding a couple of hours, they were able to make out that the steppe was on fire, and that all the reeds were feeding the flame; and in due time they came upon a miserable Kirghiz yourt, or dwelling, inhabited by a dirty Kirghiz woman and four children, three of whom were very ill. She received the stranger, however, with simple hospitality, kindled the fire, and set his kettle on it. In return he made tea for himself and the children, who were lying on a voilock, covered up with skins. He then walked to the summit of a neighbouring hill to gain a view of the burning steppe. The fire was still about ten versts to the east, but was travelling west, and across Mr. Atkinson’s track, extending in breadth some miles across the plain—a great wave of flame, which, accompanied by rolling clouds of smoke, ran swiftly along the ground, consuming the long grass, and reddening the horizon with a lurid glow.
Next morning Mr. Atkinson resumed his journey, passed a Kirghiz aul, and reached the margin of the Nor-Zaisan, but was unable to obtain a glimpse of its waters, owing to the dense masses of tall reeds which completely encircled it. He rode across to the Irtisch, but there too the view was similarly blocked up. There was nothing to be done but to return as quickly as possible to Kochbouchta, and prepare for the expedition into Chinese Tartary, which he had long had in contemplation. A man of irrepressible energy and singularly firm resolution, Mr. Atkinson, when his plans were once formed, lost no time in carrying them into execution. But while the necessary arrangements were being made, he found time to accomplish some short but interesting excursions in the neighbourhood of Kochbouchta, visiting the gold mines, and sketching the romantic scenery of the valley of the Isilksou. At length he was ready for his departure, and with an escort of three Cossacks, his servant, and his own Cossack attendant, he once more crossed the Irtisch, and began his journey across the Kirghiz steppe. All the party were well armed and well mounted, and Mr. Atkinson felt competent to encounter, if need be, half a hundred of the nomadic bandits, if they should attempt to plunder him. His servant, however, manifested so lively a dread of the robbers of the steppes, and so strong a disinclination to a close acquaintance with the Kirghiz, that Mr. Atkinson ordered him back to Ust-Kamenogorsk to await his return, rightly judging that his fears would render him an incumbrance and an impediment rather than a useful auxiliary.
The tribes of the Kirghiz nation spread over the Asiatic steppes from the Aral river to the Ala-Tau Mountains. From time immemorial they have been divided into the Great, the Middle, and the Little Hordes. The Great Horde occupies the territory north of the Ala-Tau, extending into China and Tartary. The Middle Horde inhabits the countries lying between the Ischim, the Irtisch, Lake Balkash, and Khokand. The Little, which is by far the most numerous Horde, wanders over the undulating plains bounded by the Yamba and the Ural, over Turkistan (now under Russian rule), and into Siberia. As a whole, the Kirghiz population may be assumed to number about 1,250,000 souls. They are of Turco-Tartaric origin; and, according to Max Müller, Southern Siberia was their mother country. Nominally, they own the supremacy of the Great White Czar on the one side, and of the Chinese Emperor on the other; but their nomadic habits secure their virtual independence. Each tribe is governed by its sultan or chief. Quarrels and blood feuds between the different tribes are of constant occurrence. Many live wholly by brigandage; swooping down suddenly, under cover of night, on the richer auls, or villages, they carry off horses, cattle, and other objects of value, besides men, women, and children, whom they sell into slavery. These nocturnal raids are called barantas.
The yourt, or tent, of the Kirghiz bears a close resemblance to the kibitka of the Kalmucks. One of the better class is thus described: It was formed of willow trellis-work, put together with untanned strips of skin, made into compartments which fold up. It represented a circle of thirty-four feet in diameter, five feet high to the springing of the dome, and twelve feet in the centre. This dome is formed of bent rods of willow, an inch and a quarter in diameter, put into the mortice-holes of a ring about four feet across, which secures the top of the dome, admits light, and lets out the smoke. The lower ends of the willow rods are tied with leathern thongs to the top of the trellis-work at the sides, which renders it quite strong and secure. The whole is then covered with large sheets of voilock, made of wool and camel’s hair, fitting close, so that it is both warm and water-tight. The doorway is formed of a small aperture in the trellis-work, over which hangs a piece of voilock, and closes it. In the daytime this is rolled up and fastened on the roof of the yourt.
The reader will not be surprised to learn that the furniture and fittings of the yourt are remarkable for their simplicity; the Kirghiz having none of the ingenuity of a Robinson Crusoe or the inventiveness of an American backwoodsman. The fire is kindled on the ground in the centre of the yourt. Directly opposite to the door, voilocks are spread; on these stand sundry boxes containing the clothing of the family, pieces of Chinese silk, tea, dried fruits, and ambas of silver (small squares, about two inches and a half long, an inch and a half wide, and three-tenths of an inch thick). Some of the Kirghiz possess large quantities of these ambas, which are carefully hoarded up. Above the boxes are bales of Bokharian and Persian carpets, often of great beauty and value. In another part of the yourt lies the large sack of koumis, or mare’s milk, completely covered up with voilock to keep it warm and promote the fermentation. And near this bag stands a large leathern bottle, sometimes holding four gallons, and frequently enriched with much ornament; as are the small bottles which the horseman carries on his saddle. In another place may be seen the large iron caldron, and the trivet on which it rests when used for cooking in the yourt. There are usually half a dozen Chinese wooden bowls, often beautifully painted and japanned, from which the koumis is drunk; some of them hold three pints, others are still larger. On entering a Kirghiz yourt in summer, each guest is presented with one of these Chinese bowls full of koumis. To return the vessel with any koumis in it is considered impolite, and the rudeness is one of which a good Kirghiz is assuredly never guilty.
The saddles are deposited on the bales of carpets. As the wealthy Kirghiz greatly esteem rich horse trappings, many of these are beautiful and costly. If of Kirghiz workmanship, they are decorated with silver inlaid on iron, in chaste ornamental designs, and are padded with velvet cushions; the bridles, and other parts of the equipment, are covered with small iron plates, similarly inlaid.
Leathern thongs, ropes made of camel’s hair, common saddles, saddle-cloths, and leathern tchimbar hang suspended from the trellis-work. The tchimbar, or trousers, however, are not infrequently made of black velvet, richly embroidered with silk, more especially the back elevation; and they are so large and loose that a Kirghiz, when he rides, can tuck into them the laps of his three or four khalats. As he ties them round his waist with a leathern strap, he presents a most grotesque appearance with the centre part of his person bulging like a great globe, out of which the very diminutive head and legs protrude.
The national dress of the Kirghiz is the khalat, a kind of pelisse, very long and very full, with large sleeves, made of cashmere or silk, and in the most dazzling colours; but the poorer nomad substitutes for this state dress a horse-skin jacket. Breeches fastened below the hips by a girdle of wool or cashmere, high-heeled madder-coloured boots, and a fox-skin cap, rising into a cone on the top, and lined inside with crimson cloth, complete his costume. His weapons are the spear, gun, and axe. The last is a long formidable weapon; the iron head is moderately heavy and sharp; the handle, about four and a half feet long, is secured by a leathern thong round the wrist. It is often richly inlaid with silver. The women wear a high calico head-dress, a part of which falls over the shoulders and covers up the neck; boots of the same make and colour as the men’s, and a long and ample khalat, with, sometimes, a shawl tied round the waist.
The Kirghiz begin to make koumis in April. The mares are milked at five o’clock in the morning and about the same time in the evening, into large leathern pails, which are immediately taken to the yourt, and emptied into the koumis bag. The latter is five to six feet long, with a leathern tube, about four inches in diameter, at one corner, through which the milk is poured into the bag, and the koumis drawn out of it. A wooden instrument, not unlike a churning-staff, is introduced into the bag, for the purpose of frequently agitating the koumis, which is not considered in good condition until after the lapse of twelve to fourteen days. It is drunk in large quantities by such of the Kirghiz as are wealthy enough to keep up a considerable stud of brood mares; and every Kirghiz, rich or poor, slings his koumis bottle to his saddle in summer, and loses no opportunity of replenishing it at the different auls he visits.
In crossing the steppe, Mr. Atkinson fell in with the aul of Mahomed, a Kirghiz chief, who was reputed to be very wealthy. Mahomed was a fine robust man, about sixty years old, stout and square-built, with broad features, a fine flowing grey beard, a pair of small piercing eyes, and a fairly pleasant countenance. He wore on his head a closely fitting silk cap, handsomely embroidered in silver; his dress consisting of a large robe, or khalat, of pink and yellow striped silk, tied round the waist with a white shawl. His boots were of reddish-brown leather, small, with very high heels, causing a real or apparent difficulty in walking. His wife, much younger than himself, and probably not more than thirty or thirty-five years of age, had a broad face, high cheek-bones, twinkling black bead-like eyes, a small nose, a wide mouth; she was neither pretty nor prepossessing; but decidedly in want of a hot bath. Attired in a black kaufa (Chinese satin) khalat, with a red shawl round the waist; reddish-brown high-heeled boots, like her husband’s; she also wore a rather pointed white muslin cap, the lappets of which, finely wrought on the edge with red silk, hung down nearly to her hips. This couple were rich in the world’s goods from a Kirghiz point of view. Not only was their yourt well stocked with voilocks and carpets, and richly ornamented weapons, and costly caparisonings, but they owned an amount of live stock which would astonish the most opulent English farmer. The noise in and around the aul was deafening. It was a babel of sounds: the sharp cry of the camels, the neighing of the horses, the bellowing of the bulls, the bleating of the sheep and goats, and the barking of the dogs, all combining in one hideous, ear-shattering chorus. Mr. Atkinson counted no fewer than 106 camels, including their young; besides more than 2000 horses, 1000 oxen and cows, and 6000 sheep and goats. Yet even these large totals did not represent all the wealth of the Kirghiz chief; for he had two other auls, and at each were 1000 horses and numerous cattle. It was a picturesque and interesting sight to see the women busily milking the cows, and the men conducting the vast herds to their pastures. The horses and camels are driven to the greatest distance, as far as ten and fifteen versts; the oxen come next; the sheep remain nearest the aul, but still at a distance of five or six versts.
While Mr. Atkinson was sojourning in Mahomed’s aul, a night attack was made upon it. He was aroused, about two hours after midnight, by a tremendous noise, which to him, sleeping on the ground, seemed as if it issued from some subterranean hollow. At first he thought it was the rumbling of an earthquake, and immediately sat upright. But the sound rolled on, drew nearer and nearer; presently it passed, so that the whole earth shook. Then he knew that the herd of horses was dashing onward at full gallop; and when he caught the shrieks of women and the shouts of men, he understood that an assault had been made upon the aul by robbers. In a moment he seized his rifle, and sallied forth from the yourt, to behold the Kirghiz, battle-axe in hand, leap on their horses, and gallop towards the point of attack. The herds were rushing wildly round the aul; the Cossacks, with their muskets loaded, were ready for the fray; all was confusion and disorder. Presently the sound of horses swiftly approaching could be heard; they came nearer and nearer; in less than two minutes a dark troop swept past like a whirlwind at twenty paces distant, making the air ring with loud, defiant shouts. Five bullets whistled after them; there was a scream from a horse, but on they dashed. The Kirghiz followed quickly in pursuit, accompanied by two of the Cossacks, who had rapidly mounted. After riding about a verst they came up with the robbers, to find they were three times their number, and prepared to fight for their booty. Against such odds no success could be hoped for, and accordingly the Kirghiz retired to the aul. When day dawned it was ascertained that this daring razzia had cost Mahomed a hundred horses.