192 TIFLIS. 



standing on a little eminence, with the cottages of 

 its dependent town brooding, chicken-like, under 

 the shadow of its wing. The station, which is the 

 end of the railway journey from Poti to Tiflis, is 

 by no means Tiflis, as I found to my cost, but is 

 put as far from the outskirts of the German colony, 

 which forms a continuation of Tiflis beyond the 

 Kur, as it well could be. Tiflis, even by starlight, 

 after a long, dull journey, and seen from a droshky, 

 is a sight not to be forgotten. You feel in a 

 moment that the town you are now in is as distinct 

 from any you have ever seen before as anything 

 well can be. In spite of the Grand Duke's pre- 

 sence and the sober little German colony, European 

 civilisation is still only a resident stranger in the 

 streets of Tiflis. The Tartar, Georgian, and 

 Persian are all natural, and in keeping with the 

 place, but the occasional high hat of Bond Street 

 persuasion or Russian uniform is entirely out of 

 harmony with the surroundings. 



As we crossed the Kura bridge we were met by 

 a long string of camels, and I was much impressed 

 by my first meeting with these weird, soft-footed 

 monsters, pacing through the silent starlit street, 

 with their heads almost on a level with the roofs 

 of the one-storied houses on either side, every 

 now and then giving, a low roar, but save for this 

 moving on between bales like little towers, mute 

 and noiseless as ghosts. 



