intrigues of modern Byzantine officials! O tempora, O mores!"

The Russian officers treat us with the most delicate attentions, and show the most chivalrous bearing to their prisoners of war. They compliment each of us in turn on the gallantry, the endurance, and the humanity, which they are good enough to say has characterised our part of the struggle: while we, in all sincerity, attest the unflinching courage which led them up to our breastworks under a cross fire of artillery and volleys of musketry. One of these recognises Teesdale as having, under a deadly fire of grape and rifle balls, leaped over our breast works, and rescued from some marauding soldiers a wounded Russian officer. This little episode was not hitherto known to us, and I almost fear to shock the modesty of that gallant officer in thus recording it.

Nov. 28. Early this morning the sounds of musketry are heard in all parts of the camp. The soldiers are emptying their muskets and piling arms. The people and the army have now learned that they are to capitulate; the word teslim (capitulation) is in every mouth, and what a scene is this! The poor staggering soldiers obey their orders mechanically, but some there are who dash their muskets to pieces against the rocks, exclaiming, "Thus perish our pashas, and the curse of God be with them! may their mothers be outraged!" Some of the officers break their swords, and, caring not who hears them, heap curses on the Sultan and the whole government of the empire awful words, which I had never heard even whispered before. The citizens gather together in groups, exclaiming, "God is great! and has it come to this? How

is Islam fallen! behold it? Would to God we had never been born! would to God we had died in battle! for then, had we been translated to heaven, then had we been purified and acceptable. The Ghiaours are coming, and our arms drop from our hands! God is God, and Mahomed is his prophet. How has the All-Merciful forsaken his children, and delivered us up to be a prey to the spoiler!"

Vai, vai! (alas, alas!) and do my eyes

Thus are the sounds of grief and indignation heard from each turbaned warrior, "while woman's softer soul in woe dissolves aloud." Let us draw a veil over this distressing scene; scarce was there a dry eye that witnessed it, while greybearded soldiers sobbed aloud.

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In the midst of these lamentations General Williams rode through the camp. At once the citizens crowded round him, kissing his stirrup and praying for blessings on his head. Néréyé, néréyé" (Where, where are you going, Pasha? they asked). "I am a prisoner," he answered. "Let us go with you; we will follow you," was the universal cry.

"Veeliams Pasha chock adam dur" (Williams Pasha is no end of a man), was the sententious remark of a greybeard, and he was voted quite right.

Nov. 30.-I am given unconditional liberty by General Mouravieff, to whose chivalrous generosity I here record my gratitude; I start from Kars on a dark snowy morning, mounted on a living skeleton, with my baggage and servants mounted on the remains of our artillery horses, which have narrowly escaped being devoured. I first direct my steps to the Russian camp, where I have my last interview with General Williams, whose virtues

both as a soldier and a citizen need no eulogy from me. Lake, Thompson, and Teesdale are prisoners of war, and as cheerful and gay as if they were about to start for London instead of Gumri. Mr. Churchill is a volunteer prisoner, not wishing to leave the General. I bid all these farewell, and start for Constantinople, reserving to myself the right of choosing my route. Two irregular Mussulman horsemen, called Karapapaks, are ordered to escort me out of the lines, and I am furnished with a Russian passport. About a dozen old servants of the General and others, with a Turkish civil official (Khurshid Effendi), put themselves under my protection, and thereby render me a greater and more important person; and as our route lay through a tract of country under the jurisdiction of neither Turk nor Russian, infested, moreover, by numbers of disbanded Bashi-Bozooks, I was glad to have more than my own servants to accompany me. Our journey to-day is not a long one; but the snow falls during the greater part of it. After a four hours' ride we halt at the little village of Gurmeli, on the plain not very far from Chiplakli, but to the north-east of the latter village. Here I make myself comfortable. There is no barley to be had, and indeed scarce anything; but I had providently brought some with me, besides food for myself and servants; so I am pretty well off, and thankful in having made this my first step towards home. Presently the noise of horses is heard outside; the door is opened, and Shukri Effendi, one of my medical staff, appears. This is an exceedingly diminutive specimen of a medical man, who has been an army-surgeon nearly all his life, and who is fonder of fighting than of hospital attendance; so I

used to employ him as a sort of aide-de-camp to gallop off to any skirmish, and report the want of ambulances or other requisites. His heart was almost too big for his body; in short, he was a most pugnacious bantam. He rushes in to me, and, attempting to kiss my feet, tells me he has obtained permission to depart, and is determined to follow me to Erzeroom, or anywhere else.

Dec. 1.-Early this morning we leave Gurmeli, and still under the guidance and protection of the two Karapapaks, we push forward through the snow, pursuing a northern direction. One road would have taken us to the Soghanli Dagh, but I feared that route on account of a tract of difficult country, which I judged would now be deep in snow, and liable to those storms called tépés, which surprise and bury whole caravans on these inhospitable steppes. I was determined, therefore to go by way of Penek and Oltee. Arrived at the former village, I should still have the option of pursuing my way to Erzeroom via Oltee, or of endeavouring to force my way through the difficult and dangerous country of Lazistan, which I much wished to do; first, because it was an unexplored province, whose mysteries strongly excited my curiosity; second, because I hoped to gain some useful military information regarding the country, its resources, and its roads. As we advance, the road becomes deeper in snow, and my wretched horses stagger under the weight of their loads. I am constrained, much against my inclinations, to sacrifice some books, my bed, and other parts of my baggage. We push on lighter and quicker, and presently alight at a village, where we find some refreshment. Here the two Karapapaks strongly

advise me to remain for the night, but I determine to proceed, so I remount my horse and continue my route. I had scarcely left this village, when, feeling my elbow touched, I turn round and encounter a ragged peasant, whose face wore a most mysterious air. He looked anxiously at the two Karapapaks, and then whispered the word posta (a post), at the same time showing me a curious bundle tied up in brown rags. "Slip it into my saddle-bag," I exclaimed, "and come along;" so we trudged on through the snow. We presently came to another village, and here my Karapapaks renewed their solicitations to rest, to which however I turned a deaf ear and rode on. Scarcely had I proceeded 200 yards on my way, when I hear an altercation, and, turning round, observe the two Karapapaks have taken the matter into their own hands, and are unloading the horses. At the sight of this indignity I struck spurs into my horse, and charged one of them at full speed, while the little Shukri Effendi, with his sabre in the air, came down upon the other; luckily his horse, worse than mine, felt none of the martial ardour of his master, and failed to bring him fairly on his adversary. Some display of weapons succeeded, and threats and curses of deep import, on which the Karapapaks were cowed, and were content to follow sulkily in the rear of my party. Before I had ridden half an hour further, I saw them far in the rear engaged in a consultation. "Bey Effendi," whispers Shukri Effendi, "just say the word, and I will clear the earth of that vermin; just let me put a ball into each of them. Wallah, they are not fit to live; they serve the Ghiaour, and call themselves Mussulmans." "Be quiet, you young

Rustem," I answer; "let the pezivenks alone :" and so we