Tiflis in late 19th century

From Walter B. Harris, From Batum to Baghdad: Viâ Tiflis, Tabriz, and Persian Kurdistan (London, 1896)

Walter Harris - From Batum to Baghdad (1896) - Part 2

Walter Burton Harris (1866 – 1933) was British journalist and traveller who achieved fame for his writings on Morocco, where he worked as special correspondent for The Times. Born into a wealthy merchant family, Harris was nineteen years old when he settled in Morocco and spent most of his life exploring North Africa and Middle East and writing a number of well-regarded books and articles based on his travels. In 1895 he travelled from Tangier (Morocco) to Malaga and Marseilles, then sailed across the Mediterranean Sea to Constantinople and spent several days sialing along the Turkish coastline of the Black Sea before reaching Batum. After exploring Western Georgia he visited Tiflis on his way to Tabriz and Baghdad. In 1896 he published his recollections of this trip in his travelogue "From Batum to Baghdad: via Tiflis, Tabriz, and Persian Kurdistan."

Tiflis, the capital of Transcaucasia, with its population of nearly 100,000 souls, owes its name and probably also its site to the hot springs which exist in its immediate neighborhood. It is curious to notice throughout the whole oriental world how general is the custom of fixing upon some such natural but uncommon feature as this for the site of a city. No doubt to the ancients, as to the people of the East to-day, hot springs were marvels that excited not only the admiration but also the religious zeal of the natives, and to-day one finds in one's travels that almost wherever such springs do exist, the population of the neighborhood, and even people residing at long distances, make pilgrimages to the spot, though as a rule the medical properties of the water are little understood. 

In the case of Tiflis, the natural features of the country added further advantages which, in the warlike days of the fifth century AD., could not well be overlooked. For the river Kur [Kura/Mtkvari], with its steep rocky banks and the high mountains beyond, would tend to render any attack upon the place, if not futile, at least extremely difficult. And in those days of early Georgian and Armenian kings, when the wild Caucasian tribes harried them from the north, and the devastating hordes of Persians and Mongols from the south and south-east, not to mention the invasions of Greek and Roman, the defences of a city were of the utmost importance. And so it was that near the close of the fifth century AD, King Vakhtang of Georgia built a town upon the site of a still earlier Persian fortress, utilizing its ruins for his fortifications. With so much zeal was the building of the town undertaken and carried on, that only a few years later, Dachi, the thirty-fourth sovereign of his dynasty, who held the throne from 499 to 514 AD, made Tybylysys-Kalake, as it was then called, his capital.

It is beyond the scope of a work such as this to attempt to enumerate the various conquests and reconquests that the city has seen in its centuries of vicissitude,—and on tradition more than on history are those accounts based ; yet it can be stated almost with certainty that in as many centuries Tiflis has seen utter destruction no fewer than eight times, at the hands of Mongols, Persians, Greeks, and Turks. The first historical mention that can be fully relied upon is the invasion of Iberia or Georgia, by Pompey, in Roman times, when the Bagratid dynasty of Georgians held the throne, having seized it in the eighth century, and continuing to keep it in their line until 1801, when, wearied with the continual invasions of Persian hordes under Agha Mohammed Khan, the last king sought the protection of Russia, and merged his kingdom into that vast empire.

The present town of Tiflis lies on both banks of the river Kur - the official and old part on the south, and the newer and more specially residential quarter on the north. It is along the former that the long lines of the old fortifications, massive walls and beetling towers, are found, looking down upon the handsome squares and boulevards that Russian enterprise and Russian capital have called into existence. To-day the Kur, which once formed the principal defence of the place on the north, serves only as a water-supply and for carrying off the drainage of the town, with the additional attraction that the turbid stream, rushing between its steep precipices of rock, is one of the most picturesque features of an already romantic scene. As far as the eye can wander in every direction the horizon is bounded by ranges of mountains: here the steep hills of rock that rise in the immediate neighborhood; there the distant snow-peaks of the great range of the Caucasus, faint against the blue sky. The actual surroundings of Tiflis, save where the Russian Government has caused gardens and trees to be planted, are dreary and wanting in vegetation, for the destructive habit of all orientals of deforesting land without ever replanting has left its indelible mark upon the aspect of the country, which to-day wears a rugged, bare, yellow appearance.

Before entering upon any description of the city, some idea must be given as to the strange conglomeration of inhabitants that flock its streets, for it is to the crowd that much of what is interesting in Tiflis is owing. True, the Armenian, with his shiny broadcloth and Jewish type of countenance, adds little to the attraction of the place, though it must be confessed that from the traveller's point of view, if from no other, he is most useful. Nearly all the banks and most of the shops are in his hands, from his ranks spring the guides and interpreters, and go where one will one finds him a ready linguist and polite, so long as he is paid. 

But from the artistic point of view the lazy, good-natured Georgian is charming, as he swaggers about with his handsome looks and becoming costume. True, he is a lazy, pleasure - seeking creature, about whose morals the less said the better, but his appearance of good looks and good nature, and his dandy airs, seem to render him a favorite everywhere. No one seems to realize better than he that he has the reputation of coming from the purest stock in the world, and of being a member of its handsomest race. Nor is this reputation belied as he is seen, in his long white coat with its silver or gold cartridge or powder tubes sewn across his chest, with his cap of white lamb's - wool perched jauntily on one side of his head, to say nothing of his personal charm of countenance, which is often of the greatest beauty. Round his waist is a silver or gold girdle from which hang a handsome sword and straight dagger, both cased in the same precious metals. 

Of the Persians one sees but little in the European quarters. One must seek the narrow dirty bazaars near the river - bank to obtain a glimpse of these scowling sallow fanatics, in their dark clothes and tall black lambskin caps. As a matter of fact, though Persian subjects, they are not of Iranian blood, but belong to the wild Turkman tribes which overran Persia, and whose descendants, now known as Turkis, to - day hold almost the entire northern part of the dominions of the Shah. But to the traveller it is the Tatar, after the Georgian, who proves of the greatest interest. True, he has little beauty either in feature, figure, or costume to recommend him, but nevertheless there is a peculiar attraction, humorous rather than ornamental perhaps, about the squat, narrow - eyed tribesman, in his ragged clothes and absurd papak or enormous hat of ragged wool. To attempt, during a short stay in the country, to unravel the complicated tribal system of the race is an impossibility, so one must deal with him merely as he appears as an item of the crowd, in his baggy trousers, and blue cotton coat with its outstanding pleated skirt, and his ridiculous head - gear mentioned above. In Tiflis he is everywhere: here driving a string of lanky camels with their clanging bells of brass and copper; here sitting silently smoking his kalyan — water pipe—in one of the painted and carved balconies of the many caravanserais in the oriental quarter of the town; there, again, purchasing a bundle of European goods to take away with him and trade in his native steppes. And to this picture of oriental peoples must be added the Russian soldier, stolid and upright, well-fed and well - uniformed, polite and religious, doffing his cap to the ikons at the street corners, the very picture of health and courage. Nor is the Russian the sole type of the army of the empire, for the mounted Cossacks, mud - bespattered and none too tidy, canter their ponies up and down the streets, setting out for, or arriving from, some outlying station or distant town — and of them, with their absolute indifference to food and temperature, one cannot form too high an opinion. Scatter these varied races on the streets of Tiflis, add types of all the wild tribes of the Caucasus, with a sprinkling of officers in uniform and well - dressed ladies, and one can obtain some idea of the appearance of the inhabitants of the town.

As to the city itself a few words must be said. The principal street is the Dvartzovaya-oulytza, or Palace Street—a wide boulevard, in which are situated not only the palace of the Governor-General, but also the handsome new opera - house, the as yet unfinished cathedral, and most of the best shops. And it is when one finds such streets as these in an Asiatic town that one commences to realize the immense organizing and absorbing power of Russian government, that can, in a region so far removed, and connected directly neither by rail nor sea with the fatherland, raise up a city that rivals, in this street at least, any capital of Europe. Nor is it difficult to solve the problem, for ask where one will and of whom one will, to whom the prosperity not only of Tiflis but also of the whole of Transcaucasia is owing, the reply will be the same - to the Grand Duke Michael, brother of the Czar Nicholas II, who for eighteen years held the Viceroyalty of this vast province, and for whose return the inhabitants have never ceased to pray. Every reform, every road and railway, every school and hospital—in fact, all that is good in the country—owes its origin to this Prince of Progress and Civilization.

The palace is a handsome building of great size, which, while possessing perhaps no great architectural beauty, is amply suited to its purpose, and cannot fail to impress not only the native of the country, but also the civilized traveller, with the magnificence of the Russian Court. Within it is gorgeously decorated: great clusters of palms, innumerable glass chandeliers, and a quantity of gold paint, give it the most brilliant appearance, a fit setting for the gorgeous semi - European, semi-oriental-crowds that flock its salons on reception nights. Next to the palace stands the new cathedral [Cathedral of Alexander Neva], now nearly completed. It is built in Byzantine style, much gilded and bedomed, and though perhaps a trifle gaudy, seems exactly suited to the place and climate. It is a building of great size, and forms already the handsomest and most magnificent structure in the town.

Not far from this spot is the excellent museum—which, again, is entirely owing to Russian influence — where can be seen a remark able collection of things typical of Transcaucasia, from life-size wax groups of the types of the tribes to the various household utensils in use in the thousand and one valleys of the mountains. But to the sportsman the principal attraction will be the large collection of the stuffed animals and birds of the country, from the magnificent wild cattle from Elburz to the tigers of Lenkoran. Under Dr Radde, the curator of the museum, the collection has largely increased, and is still increasing.

Before one turns one's steps to explore oriental Tiflis, with its mazes of narrow streets and bazaars, there remain yet a few sights to see in the more modern town. Especially attractive are the public gardens, situated on the left bank of the Kur, some little way removed from the centre of the town. Here at times an excellent military band discourses music, and all the fashionable world of Tiflis parades. It is difficult, then, when walking under shady trees, surrounded by a well-dressed European crowd, to imagine oneself in an Asiatic town. Nor are these public gardens the sole resort that the traveller can find to walk in at leisure; below the crumbling walls of the ruins of the Georgian and Persian fortresses the Government has laid out a botanical garden, where most of the trees and shrubs indigenous to the country can be seen,—examples ranging from the more luxurious vegetation of the Black and Caspian seaboards to the firs and pines of the higher Caucasus, for the elevation of Tiflis allows of the growing of both. These gardens, half wild, half tended, form a most attractive spot. Below them tumbles an affluent of the Kur in a series of falls and cascades, while above tower the ruins and the mountains beyond. 

From these gardens I climbed and scrambled by a mere track up to the little monastery and church of St David, perched almost in the face of the precipice high above the town. From this spot a panorama of Tiflis and the surrounding country is obtained, and the exertion of the cliff climb is well repaid ; the view of the town is admirable, and stretched out before one is the magnificent prospect of the peaks of the Caucasus. The church is named after David, the Syrian Father, who resided here. The first structure was erected in the fourteenth century, though the present edifice is of more recent date. The latter owes its material to the barren women of the neighborhood, who, in their desire for offspring, bore up upon their shoulders all the material of which the church is built. In spring they still pay pilgrimages to the spot. Two tombs of widely different men and different times lie beneath the floor of the church, that of St David himself, and the other of Gryboedoff, the Russian author, who was murdered, together with all his suite, when filling the post of Russian Minister at Teheran in 1828. His remains, after being exposed to the fury of the fanatical mob for three days, were, it is said, only recognizable from a scar upon one of his hands.

Of European Tiflis there remains but little to be said, unless it be to avow the great comforts of that most excellent hostelry, the Hôtel de Londres,- over which Madame Richter and her son so ably preside, and which well bears out its reputation of being one of the most comfortable hotels, not only in Russia, but almost in the world. And none knows better than the traveller how much of his pleasure depends upon the quarters he finds to lodge in. One other fact, too, remains to be noticed, the entire absence of the Continental system of cafes; search far and wide, there is nothing that answers to the idea of the cafe of France and Europe in general.

From the civilized part of Tiflis, with its handsome streets and shops, it is little more than a step to the maze of winding alleys and narrow byways that form the oriental quarter and the bazaars. It is here probably that the traveller will find most to interest him, for though the bazaars offer but little attraction to him who is conversant with those of Persia and the East, any one fresh from Europe cannot fail to be struck with their characteristics. What a bustle and stir of life there is there! what mud in wet weather, and dust in fine! what dirt in both! But, suffer as one may from either, or from the pushing, brawling crowd of humanity, and the offensive smells with which the streets are filled, no one ought to be deterred from a leisurely stroll through the oriental town.

Cosmopolitan as this quarter is, it possesses characteristics to be seen probably nowhere else in the world. The great ill-built caravanserais, with their overhanging balconies of painted and carved wood, belong neither to Russia nor Persia, though the samovar (urn) and kalyan (water pipe) hail from each respectively, and without a number of both no balcony, and scarcely a shop, is complete. Often the footpath for passengers consists of a narrow curbstone from which the wayfarer is hustled and bustled by the hurrying crowd, only to be hurled back again against the walls of the houses by a lumbering camel which usurps all the room and all the sound of the street by its awkward bulk and its clanging bells. Everywhere are strange narrow-eyed Tatars and Turkis of Northern Persia, hailing one another in unknown guttural tongues; gaily dressed Georgians and natives of Daghestan, gaudy with weapons; cringing Jews and Armenians; policemen yelling out orders which seem never to be obeyed,—a very Babel of nations and languages, such as must delight the heart of the traveller. 

Every now and then rattles by some open wagon, painted scarlet and green, with the izvoshik yelling to the crowd to make way, as the clumsy wheels scatter people and mud right and left. Then down through the narrow arched arcade in which the gloomy Persians, in a gloomy atmosphere, vend their wares, and out amongst the great tall caravanserais that stand on either side of one of the bridges over the Kur, under which the turbid yellow stream whirls and tumbles as if anxious to fly the dirt and noise of the city. Then back through the open bazaars, where sit the armourers, the silversmiths, the vendors of musical instruments and curios, of carpets and furs, of wines and comestibles. Everywhere there is something to see, something to interest. Here, perhaps, one stands to look at the furriers' goods, from neat little lambskin caps for the Georgians, to the huge, ugly, overgrown, mushroom - like head - gear of the Tatars; here, again, the armourers attract one with their display of a strange mixture of Eastern and Western goods, from Smith and Wesson revolvers— made in Russia—to Daghestan daggers, old flintlock guns with inlaid stocks, and swords and knives from everywhere. Thence on to the silversmiths, where are the bowls from which the pleasure-seeking Georgian loves to quaff his wine, and the noted niello work of the country with its designs in black on a silver ground. Then, again, one pauses to listen as a vendor of long key-boarded guitars strikes some little plaintive melody from the thin strings.

I spent Easter in Tiflis, and thus had an opportunity of witnessing the beautiful service which, in the Orthodox Church, marks the end of Lent. The ritual of the Russian Church, together with the architecture and decoration of the churches, lends not a little to the impressiveness of such scenes, and the old Byzantine cathedral of Tiflis formed as picturesque a background to the religious ceremony as could well be imagined. On account of the crowd that throngs the midnight service which ushers in the great national holiday of Russia, it is necessary to take one's stand—for there are no seats—at an early hour, and I had already been in the cathedral for nearly three hours when the ceremony commenced. There is no necessity here to enter into any of the details of the ritual of this beautiful service of the Orthodox Church, for at this spot I am dealing with it solely as an effect, a most telling reminiscence of a visit to Tiflis.

The service commences in the dull gloom, for, with the exception of a few lights upon and in the vicinity of the altar, the church is unlit. But this gloom tends to heighten the effect of the group of richly robed and mitred priests that throng the steps, chanting in turn with the choir of unaccompanied boys' and men's voices the music of the service. In contrast to the group about the altar steps was the dark heaving crowd, half hidden in the filmy clouds of the incense and the dusk of the building. At length, as midnight approached, the priests and choir filed down the church and left the building by the main entrance, one or two alone remaining within. Then, as a rocket without gave the sign of midnight, a loud knocking commenced at the door, which was repeated several times. On the gate being opened the priests and choir hurried in, crying out again and again, "Christ is risen! Christ is risen!" Each bore in his hand a lighted taper, from which the nearer members of the crowd lit their own, passing the flame from candle to candle, for every one in the building bore a taper. It took but a minute to change the entire scene, and as the priests made their way to the altar, swinging their censers as they went, the gloom of the church disappeared, and the building was lit by thousands upon thousands of candles: where, before, the dusk had prevented one seeing either the church or the crowd, every picture and detail of the decoration of the building, and every figure in it, became distinct. The seething mass of humanity took form and shape; and where, before, one recognized only dark figures in an incense-laden twilight, one recognized now the officers of the Government, in uniforms bespangled with orders, accompanied by their wives and daughters, and, beyond, a vision of a thousand upturned faces full of reverence and attention. The altar, now a blaze of light, sparkled and shone with its treasures, and the richly jewelled mitres and cloth-of-gold robes of the priests dazzled the eyes.

Then, as the congratulations of Easter were taking place, I pushed my way out through the crowd, into the brightly-illuminated streets, in time to see the Governor-General drive away, escorted by his bodyguard of Cossacks, who galloped beside his carriage, bearing blazing torches on long poles.

Easter Sunday was high holiday; every man, woman, and child in their best clothes, intent upon pleasure and enjoyment, and the public gardens were thronged, while military bands made music. What an echoing and re-echoing of congratulations! what a bowing to the revered ikons at the church doors and street corners! and, as the day progressed, what a number of men who had enjoyed themselves a little too much! But there was no fighting, no roughness, and the police are lax upon this great feast, and, as long as no fighting takes place, do not interfere. The streets are full of hurrying droshkies, with their burdens of officers in uniforms and ladies, paying their visits of congratulation, or driving to the palace.

Ay! Easter Sunday in Tiflis is a sight to be seen, and never have I witnessed, in spite of its various nationalities, a better-behaved crowd—though sometimes far from sober—than thronged the streets and gardens on this feast-day.

Such, briefly, is Tiflis; a city presenting two entirely different characteristics — the Oriental in its decadence, and the Western Civilization that Russia has brought with her, sweeping before her all that is rude and outworn, and in place thereof raising a city of which any country in the world might well be proud.

Walter Harris - From Batum to Baghdad (1896) - Part 1

Walter Burton Harris (1866 – 1933) was British journalist and traveller who achieved fame for his writings on Morocco, where he worked as special correspondent for The Times. Born into a wealthy merchant family, Harris was nineteen years old when he settled in Morocco and spent most of his life exploring North Africa and Middle East and writing a number of well-regarded books and articles based on his travels. In 1895 he travelled from Tangier (Morocco) to Malaga and Marseilles, then sailed across the Mediterranean Sea to Constantinople and spent several days sialing along the Turkish coastline of the Black Sea before reaching Batum. After exploring Western Georgia he visited Tiflis on his way to Tabriz and Baghdad. In 1896 he published his recollections of this trip in his travelogue "From Batum to Baghdad: via Tiflis, Tabriz, and Persian Kurdistan."

The voyage from Trebizond to Batum was perhaps the pleasantest part of our whole journey by sea. The water, calm as the proverbial mill-pond, reflected on its surface the huge peaks of snow that lay to the south and east of us, towering range above range into the blue sky. Certainly the Black Sea had shown us none of its terrors so feared by the mariners of old, for from the moment we entered it on leaving the Bosphorus until we steamed into the harbour of Batum it had presented an almost changeless calm. Nor were any of us sorry, for the Circassie had discharged a large quantity of cargo at Constantinople and at the ports on the north coast of Asia Minor at which we had touched, and she was therefore very light. The least wind would have set her rolling, and even the best of sailors has no fault to find with a steady ship and placid sea.

Away to the north, as we neared Batum, appeared the rosy peaks of the Caucasus, while ahead and to the south rose, almost from the very coast, mountains of forest and rock and snow.

It was still early in the afternoon when Batum came into sight, a white line on the low promontory that juts out into the sea—the alluvial soil carried down by two rivers, the Batum and the Choruk [River]. An hour later we were steaming into the harbour, filled with shipping, and at four o'clock made fast to the shore, stern on to the quay. But the arrival in port of the steamer by no means meant that we could proceed ashore at once, for the Russian police and harbour authorities seldom if ever hurry themselves, and we lay a full hour before there were any signs of either the doctor of the port or the police coming on board. However, at length a boat put off and the officials arrived. One has heard so much of the extreme amount of red-tapeism of the Russians that, without reason perhaps, one always expects difficulties at their custom-houses. Yet, as had been my experience on a former occasion when entering Russian territory, the examination of baggage was a mere formality, and not a single package of mine or even Mohammed's bundle was opened. Our passports were returned to us at once, and within ten minutes or a quarter of an hour after the arrival of the authorities I found myself safely ashore en route through the well-laid-out streets to the Hôtel de France, whose amiable proprietor, M. Charpentier, had been a fellow - passenger on the Circassie from Marseilles. Batum possesses about 19,000 inhabitants, for the most part Russian subjects, though there is a considerable French colony there. The town, which was ceded to Russia after the Russo-Turkish war, was formerly little more than a small Turkish village, but to-day possesses all the attractions of a large commercial place. The streets are wide and often planted with trees, the houses are well built and handsome, and there is all the bustle and stir of prosperity in this city situated at the extremity of the Black Sea. Beyond its political and strategical importance, it owes its prosperity to the large output of mineral oil, which, transferred across Transcaucasia by railway, is here shipped to Europe, India, and China. Batum literally exhales petroleum, and the odour is seldom absent, and when the wind blows from the north-east over the reservoirs in which the oil is stored, the result is by no means pleasant.

We were early at the station, and, thanks to the aid of a guide from the hotel, we found no difficulty in procuring our tickets and registering our luggage. Mohammed, who had never in his life seen a train before, thought the whole station—and the station at Batum is by no means a small one—was going to Tiflis, and accordingly arranged the luggage on one of the seats and made himself comfortable for a long journey in the refreshment-room. It was a great disappointment when he discovered that the bar with all its diversity of cakes and fruit was not going with us.

A strange medley of peoples and races crowded the platform at the departure of the train, and shortly before leaving a very nicely dressed and tidy Chinaman stepped into the carriage in which we had settled ourselves. He spoke English remarkably well, and told me that he was the head man of a number of Chinese coolies who had been brought to the hills around Batum for the purpose of cultivating tea.

Passing first amongst the large oil-reservoirs that line the north-east side of the port, we emerged into charming country. The railway here skirts the sea, which extends away to the left, while on the right rise the mountains. This site has been chosen by the richer inhabitants of Batum as a favourite suburb, and the foothills, amongst which one travels, are dotted with charming summer residences, the greater part built of wood and painted white. But what is more pleasing even than these delightful abodes are the gardens and scenery by which they are surrounded. Every variety of pine and fir seems to flourish in the park-like glades, while on every side huge forest trees, far older than the gardens, are to be seen. In many places the jungle-covered hills have not yet been cleared, and here one can see the dense vegetation that abounds along the warm coast of the Black Sea. Such spots as these consist of jungle as thick as in the tropics, but the trees are acacias, holly, and oak, and many other varieties, while the brushwood is, in spring, a blaze of rhododendrons and yellow azaleas, with the perfume of which latter the air is full. Blackberries, clematis, and bignonia, and many kinds of ivy and other creepers, hang in festoons amongst the branches of the trees, and the whole offers an appearance of impenetrable beauty. So thickly do the forests grow that in many places the trees are so crowded together as never to gain their full proportions. It is amongst hills thus wooded that the merchants of Batum have cleared tracts of land and planted themselves gardens of trees from the tropics and the snow-clad Caucasus— long avenues of pines and firs, beds of palms and azaleas, of New Zealand flax and tulip trees. For this a background of forest-clad mountains tipped with glistening snow, while away to the north the long white line of the Caucasus shows up clearly above the plains and the sea.

From the hills we emerged into the plains of Mingrelia, rich and well cultivated, especially with maize, and dotted with large villages, one and all with their typical sheds raised from the ground on high poles. The construction of every village house is much the same, being built of the trunks of trees in the manner known in America as "log" huts. A few possess more pretensions, being boarded and painted white, but with these exceptions the houses of the villages in the plains much resemble one another. The fertility of this plain of Mingrelia, watered by the river Rion, is easily judged when one sees the numerous patches where the forest has not yet been cleared. On the very edge, it may be, of a well-ploughed maize-field commences a dense and impenetrable jungle of tree and shrub and creepers, with swampy pools purple with irises.

The railway stations are large and well built, and all appear to possess excellent refreshment-stalls, well supplied with food and drinks. But it is on the platform and not within that the centre of attraction for the traveller is to be found, in the strange groups of peasants and others who crowd down, either out of curiosity to see the train and its passengers, or else to sell their wares,—for the stations become, for the few minutes that the trains remain, a centre of busy bargaining between the peasants and the passengers. Pigs, lambs, fowls, turkeys, and geese, and higher in the mountains chestnuts, apples, and bread, are all brought for sale, and a demure and well-dressed young officer in our compartment purchased for some small sum a couple of young sucking pigs, which, safely stored in a sack, travelled with us to Tiflis under the seat.

Harris included this picture in his book
  and entitled it "Types of Georgians."

But even more than in the wares exposed for sale were we interested in the people who thronged the stations. Of all classes they seemed to be, though here the races were fewer than at Batum, and the Georgians of Mingrelia largely predominated. It is true that the extreme beauty of this race has not been overrated, and even from the types that one came across at the various railway stations of a day's journey one could have picked out as fine a body of men as could be found anywhere. There is no savagery in their appearance; on the contrary, if there is any fault to find, it is in their over-refinement of looks. Dressed nearly all in the fine black cherkess—the close-fitting coat with its long loose folds almost like a skirt, which reaches below the knees—with an under coat of black or white silk or cloth, its high collar of the same material, the whole bound at the waist by a silver belt with its dangling plaques and gorgeous dagger, there is a simplicity that shows off to advantage the Georgian type, of dark arched eyebrows, white skins and pink cheeks, and fine cynical mouths. On the head a small cap of loosely curled black astrachan fur is worn, while soft black high boots complete a costume of singular taste and beauty. The bearing of the men is excellent, the head is held high, and in stature they are one and all tall. In fact, a typical young Georgian, with his fine features and simple dress, is as handsome a man as one could ever see.

For some hours we continued over these plains, which gradually narrowed as we proceeded farther up the valley. Both to north and south a long line of snow-peaks bounded the horizon, and swept in majestic curves to the plains, covered with dense forest up to the snow-level, and some to their very summits. Look which way one might, the same beautiful scenery surrounded one.

It was not long before we were amongst the mountains, ascending along the course of the river Rion, through a valley which, as we proceeded, became narrower every minute, until at length our way lay through a veritable gorge, shut in with high forest-clad and rocky precipices, above which appeared the snow, no longer a great distance above us. Below us, now on this side and now on that, leaped the river, roaring as it rushed on its downward course of rapid and fall. By bridges of excellent construction we were continually crossing the river, now skirting the precipice on its right bank, now on its left. The enormous engineering difficulties and the great expense of the making of this line are apparent every moment. A climax of both is reached when for nearly ten minutes' duration the train rattles one through the tunnel of the watershed between the rivers flowing to the Caspian and the Black Sea. This tunnel took four years to excavate (1886-1890), and some 2000 workmen were employed in its construction. One emerges into the valley of the Kur [Kura/Mtkvari], the river on which Tiflis is situated. High mountains enclose the valley on every side except to the east, where it stretches away, widening as it proceeds, until it becomes a veritable plain. The country had completely changed during our passage through the tunnel, for in the place of the high precipices and mountain villages of wooden huts, and the forest-clad mountains, one was passing over well-cultivated level ground dotted with little townships, and amongst herds of cattle and sheep.

Darkness came on and rain fell in heavy drops, until at ten o'clock the guard woke us from slumber by telling us Tiflis was in sight. From the window of my carriage I could see its thousands of lamps sparkling in the wide valley, and half an hour later we were rattling over the badly paved roads of the town en route to the Hôtel de Londres.