Nature and Art, June 1, 1866. 
A RAMBLE AMONG THE CRIM TARTARS. 
7 
the sharp tinkle of a picket-chain or the short 
“ crop-crop ” of our hungry animals, breaks the 
charm, when we rouse up suddenly, and inquire, 
“ What 1 ” As nobody replies, we drive out several 
large moths of suicidal temperament, who will 
wheel and dash into our lamp in a manner most 
exasperating, button the flaps of the tent, and 
drop off to sleep again. Like the redoubtable 
“ Johnny Cope,” we must be “ far awa’ in the 
morning so we make an early start of it, and 
tramp gaily along the road leading to the Tartar 
village of Baidar ; passing, every here and there, 
one of those combinations of sticks, thongs, and 
fiendish noises, known as an “ Aroba.” If “ evil 
spirits dread a creaking wheel,” as says an Eastern 
proverb, imps and spirits would think twice before 
they fixed on this part of the world’s surface as an 
abiding-place. Tartar men — in sheepskin coats, 
wool caps, and brigand-like foot-gear — march 
along, goad in hand, administering sundry raps 
and pokes to their lazy, stupid old bullocks, whose 
tails are tied fast to bowed sticks like overgrown 
mole-traps. Tartar women and children, of generally 
“ bundley ” and woolly appearance, squat in the 
lumbering, jolting machine, amid whole piles of 
small quaint-looking scythes for grass-cutting, 
amongst which one would hardly care to be upset. 
In the village sit and lounge, pipe in mouth, a 
mumber of stereotyped editions of our “ Aroba ” 
acquaintances, all equally sheep-skinny and 
“ bundley.” Shops are here too much after the 
fashion of those from which the “ London ’Prentice ” 
was wont to shout, “ What do ye lack % ” when old 
London Bridge was standing. 
Miscellaneous indeed are the treasures exposed 
on these primitive shop-fronts. Here are boots of 
brimstone hue, sharp of toe and of fire-bucket 
pattei'n ; saddles, the very sight of which would 
make any untravelled horse kick all his four shoes 
off ; bridles to match, and whips like fly-flappers. 
Here are strings of capsicum pods, like little 
nuggets of red coral. Huge leather bottles of oil, 
bags of linseed, and festoons of brown shining 
onions. We invest capital in onions, and go on 
our route rejoicing, and are soon amongst the 
woods again, winding our way up the hill-side, 
where sparkling rivulets bubbling past afford our 
four-footed companions an opportunity of cooling 
their hoofs and noses at the same time. Still 
upwards, and just before us stands a massive 
stone arch like a castle gateway without the 
castle. Tliis crowns the highest point of the 
“ Pass of Phoros and a strong compact structure 
it is, with guard-rooms built in the thickness of 
its masonry. Guards there are none ; but we 
have a strong suspicion that something far worse 
may be met with by the heedless intruder, so we 
keep outside. Do we fear to enter 1 ? what are we 
afraid of ? Wild beasts, ogres, snakes'? Ho, simply 
fleas ; of these we have a wholesome dread, based 
on a hard experience, which wanderings in many 
lands have only served to confirm and establish. 
Indian, Egyptian, Turkish, Spanish, and Tartar 
fleas have we combated manfully on their own 
point of vantage, suffering always more or less in 
the encounter ; but of all the determined, un- 
flinching, piratical, bull-dog antagonists to be 
found in the world, your true Russian military 
flea is the one to be most scrupulously avoided. 
We therefore pass beneath the shadow of the grim 
portal into the broad bright sunlight, and stand 
amazed and entranced at the marvellously beau- 
tiful scene, unrolled, as it were, like some vast 
enchanted picture beneath us. Far away, losing 
itself at last in the dim blue distance, lies, like a 
silver lake, the tideless sea. Stretching away to the 
left is a rich fringe of wood and natural meadow, 
backed up by giant cliffs and riven peaks of wild 
fantastic grandeur ; whilst on high, floating like 
specks in the clear air, are two eagles — veritable 
“ Russian eagles,” nowise related to the wretched 
conventional “split crow” in which the Czar of 
all the Muscovites delighteth. Downwards now 
leads our path, and a devious one it is, needing a 
sure foot where loose stones and broken ledges 
encumber the zigzag track which winds amongst 
thickets of wild fruit-trees, thorns, and briars, for 
a good mile before the level of the sea is reached. 
Through tangled brake, and amongst huge riven 
masses of porphyry, shooting up here and there 
to a thousand feet in height, we proceed to the 
opening of a sheltered and secluded valley, at the 
head of, and above which, lie the ruins of ancient 
“Laspi,” a town of the old Greek period. Here, 
shielded by the surrounding mountains in secure 
tranquillity, nestles the modern village of the same 
name, and it would be hard to find a spot more 
singularly blessed, both in climate and natural 
fertility. No nipping frost or cold bleak wintry 
winds reign here. All is perpetual summer ; and 
when the wide far-off steppe is clothed in its 
mantle of white, and the whirling sleet whistles 
through the waving reeds, this favoured nook 
becomes a refuge for the game of the plains. The 
bustards and hares then betake themselves to the 
rich feeding-grounds here abounding, until the 
yellow crocuses and pink hyacinths once more 
deck the valley and hill-side. “ Winter is gone,” 
and with it depart the greater portion of the furred 
and feathered refugees back to their old haunts on 
the wide rolling steppe. A few sparingly scat- 
tered Tartar cottages, some ruins, trailing vines, 
fallen walls, and neglected orchards we pass on 
our road to the coast line, along which we travel 
gaily, the pigmy wavelets of the tideless sea rip- 
pling up almost to the fringe of grass upon 
its margin. Presently we find ourselves 
wending our way amongst piles and crumbling- 
masses of black shifting schist, backed up by stu- 
pendous crags towering rrp like the walls of some 
vast fortress. Who shall say that rich stores of 
rock oil are not buried far beneath, as in many a 
less promising locality 1 ? We, however, do not 
“ prospect,” having quite enough to do to guard 
against a false step on this treacherous path, which 
in certain places would bring our journey to a 
speedy termination. A shelving ledge, barely wide 
enough for the mules and horses to travel on, 
