Mr. J. A. Macgahan, as special correspondent for the New York Herald, a journal well known by the liberality and boldness of its management, accompanied the Russian army, under General Kauffmann, in its campaigns in Central Asia in 1873 and 1874.

Bound for the seat of war, he made his way, in company with Mr. Eugene Schuyler, the American chargÉ d’affaires at St. Petersburg, who desired to see something of Central Asia, to Kasala, a Russian town on the Syr-Daria (the ancient Jaxartes), where he arrived in April, 1873. He describes this town, or fort, as the entering wedge of the Russians into Central Asia. Its population, exclusive of Russian soldiers and civilians, consists of Sarts, or Tadjiks, Bokhariots, Kirghiz, and Kara-Kalpaks; all being Tartar tribes, in whom an infusion of Aryan blood has more or less modified the old Mongolian type. As for the town, it is picturesque enough to a European eye—its low mud houses, with flat roofs, windowless, and almost doorless; its bazÁr, where long-bearded men, in bright-coloured robes, gravely drink tea among the wares that crowd their little shops; and the strings of laden camels that stalk through its streets, presenting a novel combination. As soon as he had obtained all the information he could with respect to the movements of the Russian force, Mr. MacGahan resolved on making a dash for the Oxus, hoping to reach that river before General Kauffmann’s army had crossed it. But when the Russian authorities learned his design, they at once interfered, declaring that the journey was dangerous, if not impracticable, and must not be undertaken without leave from the Governor-General. Mr. MacGahan then resolved on pushing forward to Fort Perovsky, as if going only to Tashkent; trusting to find there an officer in command who would not be troubled by such conscientious scruples about his personal safety. No objection was made to a journey to Tashkent; Mr. MacGahan and Mr. Schuyler therefore hurried their preparations, stowed their baggage in a waggon, and themselves in a tarantass, and shaking the dust off their feet at inhospitable and suspicious Kasala, took their course along the banks of the Syr-Daria.

This, the ancient Jaxartes, is one of the most eccentric of rivers. It is continually changing its bed, like a restless traveller; “here to-day, and gone to-morrow,” and gone a distance of some eight to ten miles. To adapt it to the purposes of navigation seems almost impossible, or, at all events, would be unprofitable; and the best use that could be made of its waters would be to irrigate with them the thirsty sands of the desert of Kyzil-Kum.

On Mr. MacGahan’s arrival at Fort Perovsky, he proceeded to engage a guide and horses, having fully resolved to carry out his bold enterprise. From the commandant he was fortunate enough to obtain a passport, and on the 30th of April he bade farewell to Mr. Schuyler, and set out. His cortÉge consisted of Ak-Mamatoff, his Tartar servant, Mushuf, the guide, and a young Kirghiz attendant, all mounted, with ten horses to carry the baggage and forage. As a man of peace, he says, he went but lightly armed. Yet a heavy double-barrelled hunting rifle, a double-barrelled shot gun (both being breech-loaders), an eighteen-shooter Winchester rifle, three heavy revolvers, and one ordinary muzzle-loading shot gun throwing slugs, together with a few knives and sabres, would seem to make up a tolerable arsenal! Mr. MacGahan, however, assures us that he did not contemplate fighting, and that he encumbered himself with these “lethal weapons” only that he might be able to discuss with becoming dignity questions concerning the rights of way and of property, on which his opinions might differ from those of the nomads of the desert, who hold to Rob Roy’s good old rule, that

“They should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.”

That night our traveller accepted the hospitality of a Kirghiz. Next morning he and his men were in the saddle by sunrise, riding merrily away to the south-west, across a country innocent of road or path. Sometimes their course lay through tangled brushwood, sometimes through tall reeds which completely concealed each rider from his companions, sometimes over low sandy dunes, and sometimes across a bare and most desolate plain. Occasionally they heard the loud sharp cry of the golden pheasant of Turkistan; then they would pass large flocks and herds of sheep, cattle, and horses, quietly grazing; and again they would meet and salute a Kirghiz shepherd on horseback. To eyes that have been trained to see no desert can be utterly barren of interest; the vigilant observer will discover, in the most sterile waste, something of fresh and novel character, something suggestive of thick-coming fancies. For example, Mr. MacGahan noted the remarkable difference between the wide stretches of the sandy plain and the occasional streaks of ground that had been under recent cultivation; and he perceived that the desert had the advantage. Parched and sun-scorched, and without a trace of vegetation, was the land that had been irrigated only the year before; while the desert assumed a delicate tint of green, with its budding brushwood and thin grass, which always springs into life as soon as the snow melts, to flourish until stricken sore by the heats of summer.

At nightfall the travellers, weary with eleven hours’ ride, drew up at a Kara-Kalpak aul, or encampment, consisting of a dozen kibitkas, pitched near a little pond in the centre of a delightful oasis. The owner of one of the kibitkas proved to be the guide’s brother, and gave the party a cordial welcome. The Kara-Kalpaks are nomads like the Kirghiz, but though they live side by side with them, and frequently intermarry, they seem to belong to a different race of men. They are taller than the Kirghiz, and well-made; their skin is almost as white as that of a European; and instead of the small eyes, high cheek-bones, flat noses, thick lips, and round beardless faces of the Kirghiz, they have long faces, high noses, large open eyes, and are bearded “like the pard.”“After supper,” says Mr. MacGahan, “I stepped outside the tent to take a look on the surrounding scene, and enjoy the cool air of the evening. The new moon was just setting; lights were gleaming in every direction over the plain, showing that ours was not the only aul in the vicinity. The bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle could be heard, mingled with the playful bark of dogs and the laughing voices of children, which came to us on the still evening air like music. In places the weeds and grass of last year had been fired to clear the ground for the new growth, and broad sheets of fire crawled slowly forward over the plain, while huge volumes of dense smoke, that caught the light of the flames below, rolled along the sky in grotesque fantastic shapes like clouds of fire.”

The kibitka, according to our traveller, is made up of numerous thin strips of wood, six feet long, which are fastened loosely together like a vine trellis, and can be opened out or folded up compactly, as necessity requires. As the strips are slightly curved in the middle, the framework, when expanded, naturally takes the form of a segment of a circle. Four of these frames constitute the skeleton sides of the tent; and on their tops are placed some twenty or thirty rafters, properly curved, with their upper ends inserted in the hoop, three or four feet in diameter, that serves as a roof-tree. The method of pitching a kibitka may be thus described:—As soon as the camel with the felt and framework reaches the chosen site, he is made to kneel down, and a couple of women seize the framework, which they straightway set up on end, and extend in the form of a circle. Next the doorposts are planted, and the whole bound firmly together with a camel’s-hair rope. Then one of the women takes the afore-mentioned wooden hoop, and raising it above her head on a pole, the other proceeds to insert in their proper holes the twenty or thirty rafters, fastening their basis to the lower framework by means of hoops. When a thick fold of felt has been let down over the framework, the kibitka, which measures about fifteen feet in diameter, and eight feet in length, is complete. In appearance it is not unlike a magnified beehive of the old pattern.

The Kirghiz nomads are fierce, crafty, often cruel, but they hold the life of a guest sacred. For his property, however, they have no such high consideration, and they are not above the temptation of plundering him of any article that attracts their fancy. Their chief amusements are horse exercises and falconry. They love the chase with a true sportsman’s passion; loving it for itself, rather than for the game it procures, as they can conceive of nothing daintier than a dish of mutton—a dish which they prepare with touching simplicity. For, a sheep having been skinned, they cut it into quarters, which they plunge into a large caldron of water, and boil for a couple of hours. Generally, on a principle of severe economy, they cook the intestines with the meat, not taking the trouble even to separate them. The guests arrange themselves in a circle on carpets of felt; the men, as recognized lords of the creation, occupying the foremost places, the women and children sitting in the rear. The smoking quarters of mutton are removed from the pot; each man draws his knife, slashes off a cantle, eats until satisfied, and passes what is left to his wife and children, who speedily effect a clearance. The dogs come in for the bones. Afterwards, bowls of the liquor in which the meat has been boiled are handed round, and not a Kirghiz but swallows the greasy potion with as much zest as an epicure takes his glass of dry champagne. This broth, koumis (fermented mare’s milk), and tea, are his customary liquors; but the tea, instead of being prepared in the European fashion, is made into a kind of soup with milk, flour, butter, and salt. In every respectable Kirghiz kibitka the women keep constantly upon the fire a vessel of this beverage, which they offer to visitors, just as a Turk serves up coffee, and a Spaniard chocolate.

In their mode of life the Kirghiz display a certain originality. They spend the three winter months in mud huts on the bank of a river or a small stream, and resume their annual migrations as soon as the snow begins to melt. During these migrations they live in tents, and never halt in one spot for longer than three days. Their march is often continued until they have travelled three or four hundred miles; then they turn round, and retrace the same route, so as to reach their place of hibernation before the snow falls. In their selection of quarters they seem guided by some traditions handed down in the different auls; and not unfrequently a body of Kirghiz will pass over much excellent grazing ground, and travel many a league to inferior pasturage. The hardships they undergo are so many, their pleasures so few and mean, their objects so commonplace, that one is tempted to wonder what kind of answer an intelligent Kirghiz would return to the question not long ago put with some emphasis before the reading public, “Is life worth living?” Those higher motives, those purer aspirations which the cultivated European mind delights to recognize, are unknown to the wild nomad, and he spends day after day, and month after month, in what would seem to be a drearily monotonous struggle for existence, under conditions which might be supposed to render existence an intolerable burden. But then he can love and suffer as we know civilized men and women love and suffer; and love and suffering will invest the harshest, coarsest life with a certain grace and consecration.

There was once a young Kirghiz, named Polat, who was affianced to Muna Aim, the comeliest maiden in the aul, or community, of Tugluk. Her father, Ish Djan, had received the customary kalym, or wedding present, and the marriage day had been appointed. But before it arrived, “the blind fury with the abhorred shears” had “slit” Polat’s “thin-spun life;” and Muna Aim was set free from her promise. Suluk, Polat’s brother, came forward, however, and, in his anxiety to recover his brother’s property, which she had received as her dower, claimed her as his wife. The claim was supported by her father; but Muna Aim, who had sufficient means to live on, considered herself a widow, and refused to marry. She was driven from her father’s kibitka; and taking her camel, with her sheep and goats, her clothes and carpets, she bought a little kibitka for herself, and lived alone, but not unhappy. For her heart was really with Azim, a young Kirghiz belonging to another aul, and she had consented to marry Polat only in obedience to her father. A second sacrifice she was determined not to make. But the old women grew very angry with Muna Aim, as she continued to enjoy her independence. “What is the matter with her?” they cried. “She will not go to her husband, but lives alone like an outlaw.” She was an innovator, boldly breaking through a traditional custom, and they resolved to “reason” with her. Their arguments were those which the strong too often employ against the feeble; they hurled at her bad names, and they scratched her face and pulled her hair. Still she would not yield; and in contentment she milked her sheep and goats, drove them to the pasture, and drew water for them from the well, waiting for some happy turn of fortune which might unite her with her Azim.

At last Suluk also resolved to try the effect of “reason.” With three or four friends he repaired one night to her kibitka, and broke it open, resolved to carry her off to his tent, and compel her to be his wife. Love and despair, however, lent her so wonderful an energy, that she resisted all their efforts. They dragged her to the door; but she clutched at the door-posts with her hands, and held so firmly, that to make her let go they were forced to draw their knives and slash her fingers. When they succeeded in hauling her into the open air, her clothes were torn from her body, and she was covered with blood from head to foot. She continued her brave struggle; and Suluk, leaping on his horse and catching her by her beautiful long hair, dragged her at his horse’s heels, until it came out by the roots, and he was compelled to leave her on the ground, naked, bleeding, half dead.

Information of this outrage, however, reached the Yarim-Padshah (or “half emperor”), as the tribes of Central Asia call the redoubtable General Kauffmann; and he despatched a party of Cossacks to seize its author. Suluk was speedily captured, and sent, a prisoner, to Siberia; while the faithful and courageous Muna Aim recovered her health and her braids of long dark hair, and in the winter met the lover for whom she had endured so much, and was happily married.

Thus the reader will perceive that romance flourishes even in the wildernesses of the Kyzil-Kum; and that a Kirghiz woman can be elevated by a true love like an English maiden.

Continuing his ride after the Russians, Mr. MacGahan, when near Irkibai, came upon the ruins of an ancient city. It had once been about three miles in circumference, walled, and on three sides surrounded by a wide and deep canal, on the fourth by the Yani-Daria. The wall had been strengthened by watch-towers, and on the summit of a hill in the centre stood two towers thirty to forty feet in height. The whole was built of sun-dried brick, and was fast crumbling into shapeless mounds. At Irkibai Mr. MacGahan met with every courtesy from the commandant, but nothing was known of the whereabouts of General Kauffmann. There were but two courses before the traveller—to return, or go forward. Mr. MacGahan was not the man to retrace his steps until his work was done, if it were possible to do it; and he resolved on continuing his progress to the Oxus. On the 7th of May he rode forward. At first he followed the regular caravan route, which, as many traces showed, had also been that of the Russian division, under the Grand-Duke Nicholas. It crosses the thirsty desert—twenty leagues without a well. Fair enough is it to the eye, with its rolling lines of verdant hills; but the hills are only sand, and the verdure consists of a coarse soft weed that, when it flowers, exhales a most offensive odour. Beneath the broad leaves lurk scorpions and tarantulas, great lizards, beetles, and serpents. The traveller, if he lose his way in this deadly waste of delusion, may wander to and fro for days, until he and his horse sink exhausted, to perish of thirst, with no other covering for their bones than the rank and noxious herbage.

Across the gleaming burning sands, while the sun smote them pitilessly with his burning arrows, rode our brave traveller and his companions. Their lips cracked with thirst, and their eyes smarted with the noontide glare, and their weary horses stumbled in the loose shifting soil; but rest they durst not until they reached the well of Kyzil-Kak. How glad they were to throw themselves down beside it, while some kindly Kirghiz, who had already refreshed their camels and horses, drew for them the welcome water! MacGahan made a short halt here, feeding his horses, and sharing with his attendants a light meal of biscuits and fresh milk, supplied by the Kirghiz, and then—the saddle again! Meeting with a caravan, he learned from its Bashi, or leader, that the Russian army was at Tamdy—that is, instead of being, as he had hoped, within a day’s march, it must be upwards of two hundred miles distant; and as it was just on the point of starting for Aristan-Bel-Kudluk, which was still further south, it was impossible to say when he might overtake it. His disappointment was great; but his cry was still “Onwards!” By nine o’clock next morning the indefatigable traveller reached the foot of the grey, bare, treeless heights of the Bukan-Tau. Though but a thousand feet in elevation, they presented, with their glancing peaks, their conical summits, their deep valleys, and awful precipices, all the characteristics of an Alpine range of mountains. Resting there for some hours, he took up, on the morrow, a line of march around their northern slope, and gradually descended into the plain. From some Kirghiz he ascertained that the Grand-Duke Nicholas had joined General Kauffmann two days before, and that the united Russian army had then marched for Karak-Aty. The problem of overtaking it seemed more incapable than ever of a satisfactory solution. But, on studying his map, he found that from the point which he had reached it was no further to Karak-Aty than to Tamdy, and he instantly resolved to follow up a caravan route to the south, which promised to lead to the former.

At noon he rode into the little valley of Yuz-Kudak, or the “Hundred Wells.” It was completely bare of vegetation, except a little thin grass, but was brightened by a small, narrow runlet, which led, in less than a quarter of a mile, to the water. There, along the valley, bubbled about twenty-five or thirty wells or springs; in some the water trickling over the surface, in others standing at a depth of from five to ten feet. Thence, to the next well, was a distance of twenty-five miles. The country was sandy, but high and broken up, with a low range of mountains on the left, extending north-east and south-west. Next day Mr. MacGahan fell in with a Kirghiz aul, where he was hospitably entertained by a chief named Bii Tabuk. From him he learned that Kauffmann had left Karak-Aty and arrived at Khala-Ata, one hundred miles further to the south, and that the shortest way to Khala-Ata lay right across the desert in the direction of the Oxus, a little west of south. As there was no road, nor even a sheep path, Mr. MacGahan sought for a guide, and eventually engaged a young Kirghiz at the exorbitant fee of twenty-five roubles. Then, having enjoyed a couple of days’ rest, he started before sunrise on that interminable hunt after General Kauffmann, which seemed to promise as romantic a legend as the voyage of Jason in search of the Golden Fleece, or Sir Galahad’s famous quest of the Sangreal.

He had not ridden far, when, as the issue of a little intrigue between his Tartar, his old guide, Mushuf, and his new guide, the last named suddenly refused to proceed unless, in addition to the twenty-five roubles, he received a horse or the money to buy one. With prompt decision MacGahan dismissed the guide, and when Ak-Mamatoff showed a disposition to be recalcitrant, threatened him with his revolver. This display of firmness and courage immediately produced a satisfactory effect. Ak-Mamatoff humbled himself, and to prove the sincerity of his penitence, rode to a neighbouring aul, and procured another and more trustworthy guide. Afterwards they all breakfasted, and once more rode across the sandy wastes in the direction of Khala-Ata. Sand, sand, sand, everywhere sand. The horses struggled with difficulty through the huge drifts, and on the second night one of them gave up, and had to be left behind. Sand, sand, sand, everywhere sand; by day as by night, and all so lonely and silent! For fifteen days MacGahan had bravely plodded through the dreary, inhospitable desert—when and how would his journey end? Still he persevered: stumbling through the low coarse brushwood, sliding down into deep sandy hollows; again, clambering painfully up steep ascents, where the horses panted and laboured, and strove with the heavy inexorable sand; over the hard-bound earth, where their hoof’s rang as on a stone pavement; late in the night, he was glad to fling himself on the sand to snatch a brief repose.

“We have scarcely shut our eyes,” says this intrepid, indefatigable traveller, “when we are called by the guide to renew the march. It is still night, but the desert is visible, dim and ghostly under the cold pale light of the rising moon. Vegetation has entirely disappeared; there is scarcely a twig even of the hardy saxaul. Side by side with us move our own shadows, projected long and black over the moonlit sand, like fearful spectres pursuing us to our doom.

“Thin streaks of light begin to shoot up the eastern sky. The moon grows pale, the shadows fade out, and at last the sun, red and angry, rises above the horizon. After the sharp cold of the night its rays strike us agreeably, suffusing a pleasant sensation of warmth over our benumbed limbs. Then it grows uncomfortably warm, then hot, and soon we are again suffering the pangs of heat and thirst; our eyes are again blinded by the fiery glare, and our lungs scorched by the stifling noonday atmosphere.”

Throughout that day the ride was continued, and even far into the night. Early next morning the traveller reached the summit of the mountain range behind which lies Khala-Ata. With feelings of eager expectancy and hope, he spurred forward his horse, and with his field-glass looked down upon the bleak bare plain which stretched far away in the direction of Bokhara; there, at the distance of eight miles, he saw a dome-like mound, encircled by small tents, which shone in the morning sunlight, and at various points were grouped masses of soldiers in white uniform, and the sheen of steel. At last, then, he had overtaken Kauffmann!

Though weary and spent, and covered with the dust of the desert, it was with a cheerful heart that, at about six o’clock on the morning of the 16th of May, he rode into the camp and fortress of Khala-Ata, after a ride of five hundred miles and a chase of seventeen days. All the more bitter was his disappointment when, on asking the young officer on duty to direct him to the quarters of General Kauffmann, he was informed that the general had left Khala-Ata, five days before, and by that time must certainly have reached the Amu-Darya. The chase, then, had been fruitless; the rider, daring and indefatigable as he had showed himself, had missed his mark. The commandant at Khala-Ata proved to be a Colonel Weimam, who received the special correspondent with marked discourtesy, and refused to allow him to continue his search for General Kauffmann, unless he first obtained that general’s permission. The sole concession he would make was, that he would send on Mr. MacGahan’s letters of introduction, and then, if the Russian commander-in-chief expressed a wish to see him, he would be at liberty to go. This arrangement, however, would evidently involve a delay of ten or twelve days. In the mean time the army would cross the Oxus, would capture Khiva, and the special correspondent’s “occupation” would be “gone.” Anxiously did Mr. MacGahan meditate on the course it would be best for him to adopt. To break through the Russian lines and effect his escape seemed impracticable. In all probability, the swift-footed and ferocious Turcoman cavalry were hanging in General Kauffmann’s rear; and how, without an escort, was he to make his way through their ranks? Yet the more he reflected, the more he became convinced that this was his only chance of reaching the Russian army in time to witness the capture of Khiva. The difficulties in the way, apart from the danger, were enormous. His horses were exhausted; he had neither provisions nor forage, nor any means of procuring them; and he might reckon on Colonel Weimam’s despatching a squadron of Cossacks to pursue and arrest him. Ascertaining, however, that the colonel was about to move forward with a couple of companies of infantry, one hundred Cossacks, and two field-pieces, he resolved on the bold plan of quitting the camp with the cavalry, trusting to the darkness to escape detection, and afterwards making a wide circuit to pass the detachment. Several days passed by in wretched inaction. The heat was oppressive; clouds of dust filled the atmosphere, and almost choked the unfortunate victims exposed to its irritating influence; provisions were painfully scarce, and Colonel Weimam absolutely refused to sell or give a grain of barley to the traveller’s starving horses. At last, about one a.m. on the 14th of May, the Russian detachment marched out of camp, and struck to the westward, in the direction of Adam-Kurulgan and the Amu-Daria. Mr. MacGahan and his men were on the alert. “I dropped silently,” he says, “in the rear of the Cossacks, who led the column, followed by my people, and when we had gained the summit of the low sand-hill, a mile from the camp, over which the road led, I as silently dropped out again, turned my horses’ heads to the west, and plunged into the darkness.”

Once more he was in the open desert, once more he was free, and he could not repress a feeling of exultation, though he was suffering from hunger, his horses were spent with starvation, and at any moment he might fall into the hands of the murderous Turcomans. A more daring enterprise, or one conceived in a more resolute and intrepid spirit, is hardly recorded, I think, in the annals of adventure. When he supposed himself at a sufficient distance from the Russian column, he turned sharp round to the west, and made as straight as he could for the Amu-Darya, expecting to reach it before Colonel Weimam. But after a hard day’s ride, he found, as he approached Adam-Kurulgan, that the Russian soldiers were before him! There seemed no alternative but to return to Khala-ata or surrender himself to the obnoxious and despotic Weimam. Yes; if he could get water for his exhausted beasts he might avoid Adam-Kurulgan altogether, and still pursue his wild ride to the Oxus! Some Kirghiz guides, on their way to Khala-Ata, informed him that twenty miles further on was Alty-Kuduk, or the “Six Wells;” it was not on the road to the Amu, but some four miles to the north, and Kauffmann had left some troops there. This news revived his drooping spirits. “Forward!” he cried, and away through the deep sand-drifts the little company toiled and struggled. He lost another of his horses, and the survivors were almost mad with thirst; but his cry was still “Forward!” He himself longed for water, with a longing unknown to those who have not travelled in the arid desert and under the burning sun, for hours and hours, without moistening the parched lips; but his only thought was “Forward!” On the following day the brave man’s persistency was rewarded. He reached the camp of Alty-Kuduk, met with a most friendly reception from all its inmates, and obtained meat and drink for himself and his men, and barley and water for his horses.

A day’s rest, and he was again in the saddle (May 27th). It was soon apparent by the dead camels that lined the road that he had got into the trail of the Russian army, and from time to time he could recognize the tracks of cannon. Then he came upon the bodies of Turcoman horses, which, as he afterwards learned, had been slain in a skirmish two days before. Towards sunset the character of the country changed: the rolling sand dunes disappeared, and the traveller entered upon a level plain, which sank away into a lower kind of terrace. The day drew rapidly to a close: lower and lower down the western sky sunk the blood-red sun; at last it dropped below the horizon, and as the sky flashed momently with broad streaks of red and purple and golden light, the shimmer of water became visible in the distance. It was the Oxus!

It was long after dark when MacGahan reached the river. He refreshed his horses with its waters, and then encamped for the night. At daylight he ascended a hill, and looked out upon the scene. The broad, calm river, winding north and south, sparkled before him, like a belt of silver on a golden mantle. But where was the Russian army? Where was General Kauffmann?

Nowhere could he discover a trace of human habitation, of tent or kibitka. Nowhere could he see a single picket, not even a solitary Cossack.

Again was MacGahan disappointed. I have read of an old superstition which represents a cup of gold as the prize of the fortunate mortal who shall find the exact spot where a rainbow touches the earth. And I have read that men, believing it, have pursued the radiant iris with eager footsteps, only to find her eluding them when most they think themselves sure of grasping her. So was it with our special correspondent. He had hoped to overtake the Russians at Myn-Bulak, but they had vanished; at Khala-Ata, but he was too late; and again on the Oxus, but they had disappeared. He was almost tempted to look upon himself as the victim of a portentous delusion. Would there really be a Kauffmann? Was the expedition to Khiva other than a myth?

The tracks of cannon and the ashes of extinct campfires reassured him on these points; and, rallying his energies, he set out once more on his strange quest, following the course of the Oxus. That day he rode five and forty miles. At night he encamped, but as Khivans might be prowling in the vicinity, he resolved to keep watch. For hours he paced up and down in the darkness, a darkness that would have been death stillness but for the murmur of the flowing river; and at length he caught a flash of light. To him, like the light which Columbus saw on the eve of the discovery of the New World, it portended the end of his adventure; for it proceeded, as he knew, from either a Khivan or a Russian bivouac. In the morning he started early, and had ridden but a short distance, when loud upon his ears broke the rolling thunder of artillery! Then he knew that the army was close at hand, and engaged in desperate combat with its Khivan enemies.

A few miles more, and Mr. MacGahan reached a sand-hill which afforded him an extensive view of the valley of the river. The opposite bank was crowded with horsemen, who were galloping to and fro, while a couple of cannon placed in front of a small pit were busily discharging missiles. On his own side the Russians were posted in loose order, and looking quietly on; their artillery replying to the Khivan fire with whizzing shells. “It was a curious scene,” says our traveller; “and I suppose the old Oxus, since the time it first broke from the ice-bound springs of Pamir, had never heard such music as this. Five times before had the Russians attempted to reach this very spot, and five times had they failed. Five times had they been driven back, beaten, and demoralized, either by the difficulties of the way, the inclemency of the season, or the treachery of the Khivans. The one detachment which had succeeded in capturing Khiva had afterwards been slaughtered to the last man; and now the Russians stood at last, this bright morning, on the banks of that historic river, with their old enemy once more before them.” The Khivans soon retired, leaving the opposite bank entirely free. Mr. MacGahan then started down the river to join the Russian army, and in a short time found himself in their midst, overwhelmed with friendly attentions. News of his gallant ride across the Kyzil-Kum had preceded him, so that he was received as a man who had quietly done a truly heroic thing. His first duty was to pay his respects to the object of his prolonged quest, General Kauffmann. The general, wrapped up in a Bokharan khalat or gown, was seated in an open tent, drinking tea and smoking a cigarette; a man of middle age, bald, rather short of stature, beardless, but wearing a thick moustache, prominent nose, blue eyes, and a pleasant kindly countenance. He shook hands with MacGahan, asked him to sit down, and remarked, with a smile, that he appeared to be something of a “molodyeltz” (a brave fellow). After questioning him respecting his adventures, he briefly told the story of his campaign up to that time, and gave him full and free permission to accompany the army the rest of the way to Khiva. By the Grand-Duke Nicholas Mr. MacGahan was received with equal courtesy.

The traveller now develops into the special correspondent, and his record of travel changes into a chronicle of military events. It would be inconsistent with our purpose to follow minutely his narrative of the Khivan war; but we shall endeavour to select such passages as throw some light on the nature of the country and the character of its inhabitants.

II.

The Khivans, according to Mr. MacGahan, are generally medium-sized, lean, muscular fellows, with long black beards, and no very agreeable physiognomy. They dress in a white cotton shirt, and loose trousers of the same material, over which is worn a khalat, or long tunic, cut straight, and reaching to the heels. The Khivan khalat, with its narrow stripes of dirty brown and yellow, differs very much indeed from the beautiful and brilliant khalat of the Bokhariots. Most of the Khivans go barefoot, and they cover their head with a tall, heavy, black sheepskin cap, which is heavier, uglier, and more inconvenient than even the bearskin of our household troops. In the neighbourhood of Khiva they chiefly cultivate the soil, and their prowess as horticulturists deserves to be renowned. For miles around their capital the country blooms with well-kept gardens, where fruit trees of all kinds flourish, and little fields of waving corn. The houses and farmyards are enclosed by stout walls, from fifteen to twenty feet high, solidly buttressed, and flanked by corner towers. The entrance is through an arched and covered gateway, closing with a massive timber gate. The farmhouse, a rectangular building, from twenty-five to seventy-five yards square, is built of dried mud, worked into large blocks like granite, and measuring three or four feet square and as many thick. There is always a little pond of clear water close at hand, and this is shaded by three or four large elms, while the enclosures are planted with elms and poplars.

Khiva surrendered to the Russians on the 9th. Mr. MacGahan entered it in company with the victorious troops, but confesses to experiencing a feeling of disappointment. The grand or magnificent he had not expected; but his dreams of this Oriental city, secluded far away in the heart of the desert, had pictured it as impressive and picturesque, and they proved entirely false. Through narrow, dirty, and crooked streets, he advanced to the citadel. Entering by a heavy arched brick gateway, he came in sight of a great porcelain tower, shining brilliantly with green, and brown, and blue, and purple. This tower, about one hundred and twenty-five feet high, measured about thirty feet in diameter at the base, and tapered gradually towards the top, where its diameter was about fifteen feet. It was covered all over with burnt tiles, arranged in a variety of broad stripes and figures, as well as with numerous verses of the Koran. With the Khan’s palace, it forms one side of a great square, enclosed by the walls of the citadel; the opposite side being occupied by a new mÉdressÉ, and the other two sides by sheds and private houses.

In the palace nothing is worthy of notice except the Khan’s audience chamber, or great hall of state. Of this you can form a good idea if you will tax your imagination to conceive a kind of porch, opening on an inner court, measuring about thirty feet high, twenty feet wide, and ten feet deep, and flanked on either side by towers ornamented with blue and green tiles. The floor was raised six feet, and the roof supported by two curved, slender wooden pillars. The other rooms were mostly dark and ill ventilated. At the back of the hall of state was the Khan’s treasury, a low vaulted chamber, the walls and ceilings of which were covered with frescoes of vines and flowers, executed on the most fantastic principles of colouring. The gold, silver, and precious stones had been removed, but not so the weapons, of which there was a most various assortment: swords, guns, daggers, pistols, revolvers, of almost every shape and description. Two or three sabres were of English manufacture. There were also many of the beautiful broad, slightly curved blades of Khorassan, inlaid with gold; slender Persian scimitars, their scabbards blazing with turquoises and emeralds; and short, thick, curved poniards and knives from Afghanistan, all richly enamelled, and their sheaths set in precious stones. In the hurry of the Khan’s departure, beautiful carpets had also been left behind, silk coverlets, cushions, pillows, khalats, and rich and rare Kashmir shawls.

In another apartment were found about three hundred volumes of books, some old telescopes, bows and arrows, and several fine suits of armour, which doubtlessly belonged to the era of the Crusades, when the chivalry of Europe encountered the Saracens on the plains of Syria and Palestine.

In the course of his wanderings Mr. MacGahan lighted upon the Khan’s harem, where his favourite Sultana and some other women still remained. As he was an American—or, rather, because they supposed him to be an Englishman—the ladies gave him a cordial reception, and entertained him to tea. They were eight in number: three were old and exceedingly ugly; three middle-aged or young, and moderately good looking; one was decidedly pretty; and the other whom Mr. MacGahan speaks of as the Sultana, was specially distinguished by her superior intelligence, her exquisite grace of movement, and her air of distinction. She wore a short jacket of green silk, embroidered with gold thread; a long chemise of red silk, fastened on the throat with an emerald, slightly open at the bosom, and reaching below the knees; wide trousers, fastened at the ankles; and embroidered boots. She had no turban, and her hair was curled around her well-shaped head in thick and glossy braids. Curious earrings, composed of many little pendants of pearls and turquoises, glanced from her ears, and round her wrists gleamed bracelets of solid silver, traced with gold.

The chamber in which these ladies sat was ten feet wide, twenty long, and twelve high. Parts of the ceiling were embellished with coloured designs, rude in conception and execution. Against one side of the room were placed elegant shelves, supporting a choice assortment of the finest Chinese porcelain. The floor was strewn with carpets, cushions, coverlets, shawls, robes, and khalats, all in admired disorder, together with household utensils, arms, an English double-barrelled hunting rifle, empty cartridges, percussion caps, and—strange contrast!—two or three guitars. It was evident that preparations for flight had been begun, and the principal valuables already removed.

The Khan soon found that nothing was to be gained by flight, and as the Russians were disposed to treat him leniently, he decided on returning to Khiva, and surrendering to the great Yarim-Padshah, the victorious Kauffmann. Mr. MacGahan, who was present at the interview, describes the Asiatic potentate, Muhamed Rahim Bogadur Khan, as at that time a man of about thirty years of age, with a not unpleasing expression of countenance; large fine eyes, slightly oblique, aquiline nose, heavy sensual mouth, and thin black beard and moustache. He was about six feet three inches high, with broad shoulders and a robust figure. “Humbly he sat before Kauffmann, scarcely daring to look him in the face. Finding himself at the feet of the Governor of Turkistan, his feelings must not have been of the most reassuring nature. The two men formed a curious contrast; Kauffmann was not more than half as large as the Khan, and a smile, in which there was apparent a great deal of satisfaction, played on his features, as he beheld Russia’s historic enemy at his feet. I thought there never was a more striking example of the superiority of mind over brute force, of modern over ancient modes of warfare, than was presented in the two men. In the days of chivalry, this Khan, with his giant form and stalwart arms, might have been almost a demi-god; he could have put to flight a regiment single-handed, he would probably have been a very Coeur de Lion; and now the meanest soldier in Kauffmann’s army was more than a match for him.”

The capital of this Asiatic potentate is, as I have hinted, deficient in remarkable characteristics. With three or four exceptions, the buildings are all of clay, and present a miserable appearance. There are two walls—an outer and an inner; the interior enclosing the citadel, which measures a mile in length by a quarter of a mile in breadth, and in its turn encloses the Khan’s palace and the great porcelain tower. The outer wall is on an average twenty-five feet high, and it is strengthened by a broad ditch or moat. There are seven gates. The area between the walls is at one point converted into a kind of cemetery; at another it is planted out in gardens, which are shaded by elms and fruit trees, and watered by little canals. Of the houses it is to be said that the interior is far more comfortable than the wretched exterior would lead the traveller to anticipate. Most of them are constructed on the same plan. You pass from the street into a large open court, all around which are arranged the different apartments, each opening into the court, and seldom having any direct communication with each other. Facing the north stands a high porch, with its roof some seven or eight feet above the surrounding walls; this serves to catch the wind, and bring it down into the court below on the principle of a wind-sail aboard ship. The free circulation of air thus maintained is, undoubtedly, very pleasant in the summer heat, but in a Khivan winter it must have its disadvantages.

With twenty-two mÉdressÉs, or monasteries, and seventeen mosques, is Khiva endowed. Of the latter, the most beautiful and the most highly esteemed is the mosque Palvan-Ata, which raises its tall dome to a height of sixty feet, shining with tiles of glaring green. The interior of the dome is very striking: it is covered, like the exterior, with tiles, but these are adorned with a beautiful blue tracery, interwoven with verses from the Koran. In a niche in the wall, protected by a copper lattice-work, are the tombs of the Khans; and Palvan, the patron-saint of the Khivans, is also buried there.

From the mosques we pass to the bazÁr, which is simply a street covered in, like the arcades so popular in some English towns. The roof consists of beams laid from wall to wall across the narrow thoroughfare, supporting planks laid close together, and covered with earth. On entering, you are greeted by a pleasant compound scent of spices, by all kinds of agreeable odours, and by the confused sounds of men and animals. As soon as your eyes grow accustomed to the shade, they rest with delight on the rich ripe fruit spread everywhere around you in tempting masses. Khiva would seem to be the paradise of fruit epicures. There are apricots, and grapes, and plums, and peaches, and melons of the finest quality and indescribable lusciousness. But if you want more solid fare, you can enjoy a pilaoff with hot wheaten cakes, and wash down the repast with stimulating green tea. After which, refreshed and thankful, you may sally forth to make your purchases of boots or tobacco or khalats, cotton stuffs or silk stuffs, calico from Manchester, muslin from Glasgow, robes from Bokhara, or Russian sugar. This done, you are at leisure to survey for a while the motley crowd that surges to and fro. The Uzbeg, with his high black sheepskin hat and long khalat, tall, well-formed, swarthy, with straight nose and regular features; the Kirghiz, in coarse dirty-brown khalat, with broad, flat, stolid countenance; the Bokhariot merchant, with turban of white and robe of many colours; the Persian, with quick, ferret-like eyes, and nimble, cat-like motions; and the Yomud Turcoman, with almost black complexion, heavy brows, fierce black eyes, short upturned nose, and thick lips. These pass before you like figures in a phantasmagoria.

Weary with the noise and shifting sights, you gladly accept an invitation to dine with a wealthy Uzbeg, and accompany him to his residence. The day is very warm; in a cloudless sky reigns supreme the sun; and you rejoice when you find that your host has ordered the banquet to be spread in the pleasant garden, amid the shade of green elms and the sparkle of running waters. Your first duty is to remove your heavy riding-boots, and put on the slippers which an attendant hands to you; your second is to make a Russian cigarette, and drink a glass of nalivka, or Russian gooseberry wine, as a preparation for the serious work that awaits you. Then a cloth is spread, and the dinner served. Fruits, of course—apricots, melons, and the most delicious white mulberries; next, three or four kinds of dainty sweetmeats, which seem to consist of the kernels of different nuts embedded in a kind of many-coloured toffee. Into a frothy compound, not unlike ice-cream with the ice left out, you dip your thin wheaten cakes, instead of spoons. Various kinds of nuts, and another glass of nalivka, precede the principal dish, which is an appetizing pilaoff, made of large quantities of rice and succulent pieces of mutton, roasted together.

The dinner at an end, large pipes are brought in. Each consists of a gourd, about a foot high, filled with water; on the top, communicating with the water through a tube, rests a bowl, containing the fire and tobacco. Near the top, on either side, and just above the water, is a hole; but there is no stem. The mode of using it is this: you take up the whole vessel in your hand, and then blow through one of the holes to expel the smoke. Next, stopping up one hole with your finger, you put your mouth to the other, and inhale the smoke into your lungs. You will probably be satisfied with three or four whiffs on this gigantic scale.

Mr. MacGahan had an opportunity of seeing the interior of an Uzbeg house, and he thus describes it:—

“There is little attempt at luxury or taste in the house of even the richest; and in this respect the poorest seems almost on an equality with the most opulent. A few carpets on the floor; a few rugs and cushions round the wall, with shelves for earthenware and China porcelain; three or four heavy, gloomy books, bound in leather or parchment; and some pots of jam and preserved fruit, generally make up the contents of the room. There are usually two or three apartments in the house different from the others, in having arrangements for obtaining plenty of light. In these rooms you find the upper half of one of the walls completely wanting, with the overhanging branches of an elm projecting through the opening. The effect is peculiar and striking, as well as pleasant. From the midst of this room—with mud walls and uneven floor, with the humblest household utensils, and perhaps a smoking fire—you get glimpses of the blue sky through the green leaves of the elm tree. A slightly projecting roof protects the room from rain; in cold weather, of course, it is abandoned. Two or three other rooms are devoted to the silkworms, the feeding and care of which form the special occupation of the women. The worms naturally receive a great deal of attention, for their cocoons pay a great part of the household expenses.”

But let us suppose that an Uzbeg host closes up the entertainment he has provided for us with a dance.

The dancers are two young boys—one about eight, the other about ten years of age—with bare feet, a little conical skull-cap on their shaven heads, and a long loose khalat drooping to their ankles. The orchestra is represented by a ragged-looking musician, who sings a monotonous tune to the accompaniment of a three-stringed guitar. The boys begin to dance; at first with slow and leisurely movements, swaying their bodies gracefully, and clapping their hands over their heads to keep time to the music. But as this grows livelier, the boys gradually become more excited; striking their hands wildly, uttering short occasional shouts, turning somersaults, wrestling with each other, and rolling upon the ground.

Towards nightfall, torches will be brought on the scene; some being thrust into the ground, and others fastened to the trunks and branches of trees. The comelier of the juvenile dancers now attired himself as a girl, with tinkling bells to his wrists and feet, and a prettily elaborate cap, also decked with bells, as well as with silver ornaments, and a long pendent veil behind. He proceeds to execute a quiet and restrained dance by himself, lasting, perchance, for about a quarter of an hour; and the other boy coming forward, the two dance together, and enact a love-scene in a really eloquent pantomime. The girl pretends to be angered, turns her back, and makes a pretence of jealousy, while the lover dances lightly around her, and endeavours to restore her to amiability by caresses and all kinds of devices. When all his efforts fail, he sulks in his turn, and shows himself offended. Thereupon the lady begins to relent, and to practise every conciliatory art. After a brief affectation of persistent ill humour, the lover yields, and both accomplish a merry and animated measure with every sign of happiness.

When the Russians left Khiva in the month of August, Mr. MacGahan’s mission was ended. He had been present with them at the fall of Khiva, and in the campaign which they afterwards undertook—it would seem, with little or no justification—against the Yomud Turcomans. On the return march he accompanied the detachment in charge of the sick and wounded, descending the Oxus to its mouth, and then proceeding up the Aral Sea to the mouth of the Syr-Daria. The voyage on the Aral occupied two days and a night. Having entered the Syr-Daria, thirty-six hours’ sailing brought the flotilla to Kasala—the point from which, as we have seen, Mr. MacGahan had started, some months before, on his daring ride through the desert. After a sojourn of three days, he started in a tarantass for Orenburg.

It will be owned, I think, that Mr. MacGahan’s enterprise was boldly conceived and boldly executed; that he displayed, not only a firm and manly courage, but a persistent resolution which may almost be called heroic. He showed himself possessed, however, of even higher qualities; of a keen insight into character, a quick faculty of observation, and a humane and generous spirit.