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Dr. Sven Hedin

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Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
Sprache: Englisch

Beschreibung

Right in the heart of Asia, where Britain, Russia and China stretched encroaching fingers towards a possible meeting, lies the mysterious tract of country passed over in half a page in our geography books, and omitted, except in vague and general outline, from our atlases. It is a region about which people have inquired little. North and South have been eagerly explored; the Pole and Sahara are brought, so to speak, to our doors. But the centuries have passed with but few at tempts to penetrate the core of the mysterious East. There is something about the very name of Khotan, of the Pamirs, of Mus-tagh-ata, which tickles the imagination, and we confess to something of a superstitious thrill in opening Dr. Sven Hedin's book. For if the hidden Lama is to be unveiled, surely we have a right to expect portents. But what do we find? That Dr. Hedin visited the Temple of the Ten Thousand Images and " had tea " with the " Living Buddha! " Yet that was a mere incident, disposed of in a few lines of a book whose every page is alive with serious interest. Dr. Hedin has plenty of humour, and of good humour, but his book is one to be taken seriously. He has traversed thousands of miles where no European had ever before set foot; his adventures and experiences have been in themselves extraordinary, and his discoveries of far-reaching importance; but perhaps the charm of the book lies, as much as anywhere else, in the writer's art of telling his story simply and unaffectedly and of keeping the warm human interest alive from first to last. There is hardly a more fascinating or a more thrilling travel book. The descriptions of the various attempts to scale the Mus-tagh-ata, of the wonderful scenic effects, of the mental and physical sensations of the traveller, and the grand invincibility of the Father of the Ice Mountains, are enough to set the nerves a-tingling in the bare reading.

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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

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Through Asia

Volume 2

SVEN HEDIN

Through Asia 2, Sven Hedin

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9

Deutschland

ISBN: 9783849663865

www.jazzybee-verlag.de

[email protected]

A SUMMER TRIP TO THE SOUTHERN PAMIRS

CHAPTER LIII. OVER THE ULLUG-ART PASS

On July 10th, 1895, I left Kashgar with Islam Bai, two servants, and six horses, and did a short stage to the village of Tokkuz-ak (the Nine Whites). My other man, Kasim, remained behind in Kashgar as watchman of the courtyard of the consulate. One of the six horses, a little piebald stallion, was one of those I bought at the forest hut beside the Khotan-daria. It was a splendid animal, always full of go, and yet as tame as a lamb. For my own use I bought a big but excellent riding-horse and rode him over the mountains and through the deserts of Central Asia for more than a year. Horses are cheap in Kashgar. The five I bought there cost altogether only 124 rubles, or between £12 and £13.

The next day, July 11th, we continued our journey towards the southwest, to the town of Upal (2000 houses), which is also a fortress manned by two hundred men, and the place of residence of two mandarins of inferior rank. It poured and pelted with rain the whole day long, so that the ground, which was a reddish yellow loess, was greasy and slippery. Thoroughly wet to the skin, we took up our quarters in a house near the bazar and made a big fire at which to dry our wet clothes. The gardens, and rice and other fields, were irrigated by water drawn from a little stream which flowed through the town after racing down the valley of Ullug-art on the west, and which was partly maintained from fresh springs. The current has scooped out for itself a deep and tolerably broad trench through the loess deposits. But in the town its banks were not so precipitous; they rose gradually by a series of terraces, leaving room close down by the water's edge for the houses, which were built of sun-dried clay and covered in with flat wooden roofs. The opposite banks were connected by a wooden bridge.

A short time after we arrived at Upal I witnessed an occurrence which I had never witnessed before, but which takes place every year in these regions. After a heavy, continuous rain the water which drains off the adjacent mountain-sides gathers into a sil (sudden flood or inundation), which in a few hours completely fills the riverbed, and may work very great destruction. In these sudden floods we see the agent which in the course of time has eroded the clay terraces so deeply.

About seven o’clock we heard a distant booming. It came rapidly nearer, at the same time increasing to a deafening roar. Down came the flood, a stupendous mass of water, rushing on with inconceivable violence, seething, foaming, and swiftly filling the river to the brim. The inhabitants ran down to the rive-bank, uttering cries of alarm and gesticulating wildly. I and Islam Bai took our station on a protected roof. The next moment the avenues of willows and poplars, which lined both banks of the river, were covered by the flood. The ground seemed to shake under the impact of such a mass of unrestrained water. Clots of dirty foam tossed about on the tumbling waves. The spray smoked along the flood like a moving shower of mist. Tree-trunks, any amount of loose branches, haycocks, and other movable objects danced along the tossing current, drove against the banks, swung free, got caught in an eddy and plunged down out of sight, rolled up to the surface again, and once more became the sport of the irresistible flood. The bridge was broken down at the first onrush, and swept away, swaying from side to side, while its timbers creaked and groaned as it rolled over and over in the water.

The flood bore towards the right bank and inundated the principal street of the town. It poured into the lower-lying houses and kept on rising and rising. The people who lived next the river came rushing out of their dwellings, shouting excitedly and dragging their household possessions after them, and sought safety upon the higher terraces. Some, bolder of heart, began to " cradge ” or throw up temporary ridges of clay, to keep the water from entering their houses and so washing away or destroying their property. In a couple of minutes, the whole of the lower portion of the bazaar was muddy water. The air trembled with the awe-inspiring roar of the torrent. Women were wading up to the waist in water, carrying little children in their arms. Every house -roof was crowded with people. Those who had nothing to lose were able to give themselves up without qualm of conscience to the enjoyment of what was truly a magnificent spectacle. Fortunately, the house in which we were lodged was a long way from the river, and never for a moment came in jeopardy.

As soon as everything was carried away to places of safety that could be so carried, the general attention was directed to the melon-gardens, on the slopes going down to the river. The gardens were trenched all over, and the water ran up the trenches with great speed. All the men of the town rushed off to the melon-gardens, caught up big armfuls of melons — ripe or not was all one — and ran with them to the foot of the terraces, where they threw the melons up to other men, who piled them up in heaps. In spite of that, however, a large portion of the crop was washed away by the flood. Meanwhile fifteen houses had entirely disappeared.

But no doubt the inhabitants of the place would profit from the disaster? Not in the least. The same thing happens every year. For no sooner is the flood pa«st and gone than the people set to work and build up their houses on the very same sites where they stood before. The flood had already begun to subside by nine o’clock, and it fell so rapidly that by the forenoon of the next day, July 12th, the river had dropped back to its normal condition and was little more than a rivulet trickling along the bottom of its deeply eroded channel. Communication had been re-established between the opposite banks; but the scene presented was one of havoc and desolation. As a matter of precaution, we stayed in Upal the rest of the day.

In the latitude in which we then were four passes led over the Mus-tagh or Kashgar mountains, the eastern border-range of the Pamirs — namely, Ayag-art (the Foot Pass), and Kazigart (named from a Kirghiz sept?), which we had already left on our right as we journeyed to Upal; Buru-koss-davan (Wolf's Eye Pass), which was on the left of the road we had come; and lastly, Ullug-art (the Great Pass), the pass we chose. The last two are drained through the same glen, which issues upon the plains at a place called Orugumah, where the Chinese maintain a Kirghiz karaol (post of observation). The Kirghiz in that district belong to the Tavur sept. The most difficult of the four passes is Buru-koss; it is only used when the other three are snowed up. Ullug-art also is dangerous and is not used unless the Ghez-daria is in flood and impassable. Under the most favorable circumstances it is only practicable during two months in the year, from the middle of June to the middle of August. And throughout the entire twelvemonth enormous masses of snow lie heaped up in the pass.

Upon leaving Upal we crossed a desolate steppe country, which rose by a slow and gradual incline towards the entrance of the glen that gave access to the pass. But although the steppe was barren, it was trenched by several deep and wide ravines, the bottoms of which were green with fertile meadows, where sheep were grazing in large numbers.

Having traversed the steppe, we rode in between the grandiose columns of black and gray clay-slate which mark the entrance to the glen.

The ordinary poplar was common up to the end of our first day’s journey, though we only saw one solitary willow; but after that tree vegetation ceased. The features of the glen were sharply marked; a little brook of crystal water ran down it in a bed eroded out of thick deposits of conglomerate. A short distance up, the glen was joined on the right by a little side-glen called Yamen-sara (the Paltry House).

On the afternoon of July 14th, the atmosphere suddenly darkened in the higher regions of the mountains above us. It began to thunder and lighten, and the west wind drove the big dark clouds before it like sheep down the glen; and we were soon journeying through a pelting rain, which was both raw and cold. We put on our furs and pushed on despite the rain. The path grew steeper and steeper the nearer we approached to the aul of Ullug-art. We could see it ahead of us, crowning a lofty conglomerate terrace high up on the right-hand side, and commanding an extensive bird’s-eye view of the glen. The brook, now greatly swollen after the rain, raced down the glen, tinkling a metallic song. In the afternoon it came on to snow fast, and the ground was soon covered. The big feathery flakes drifted softly, softly down, like a flock of birds hovering on wing before settling; and great sullen clouds, heavy with snow, brooded over the mountains and the glen. I could easily have imagined it was the depth of winter, not the middle of July, the warmest month of the year. It was the general opinion of the Kirghiz that after this snowfall the pass would be impassable for three days, and if the storm continued it would possibly be closed altogether for that year. For it was no unusual thing for horses to be lost on the Ullug-art pass even in fine weather.

There was nothing for it, therefore, but to wait patiently until the weather improved; and fortunately, we were well situated for waiting. The aid contained two first-class uy (tents), one occupied by Kipchak Kirghiz, the other by Naiman Kirghiz. There was plenty of pasture close by for our horses; and we bought a sheep from our hosts. The people, as well as the occupiers of another aul lying still higher up the glen, only spend the summers in these elevated regions. In the winter they go down to the plains at the entrance of the glen.

We had decided to abandon the idea of crossing the Ullugart, and on July 16th were just going to start for the Ayag pass, whither the Kirghiz undertook to guide us by a short cut, for they considered that pass would be much the easier of the two, when a man came down from the upper aul and warned us not to venture by the Ayag-art. The pass itself was practicable enough, he said, but the river Markan -su, on the other side of it, would be impassable, especially if the weather was fine, and so we should be obliged to come all the way back again. He would answer for it that we could get over the Ullug-art, and if I would give him 150 tengeh (£1 14s. 4d.), he and ten other men would carry all our baggage over on their backs. This would have to be done in any case, because, owing to the excessive steepness of the path, it was as much as the horses could do to climb up and down free of loads. Accordingly, we went up to the higher aul, consisting of six yurts of Kipchak Kirghiz. It was scarcely an hour’s ride. There we spent the night.

At half-past five on the morning of July 17th the weather was clear and calm, although a few light cloud skirmishers hovered above the pass. The day before had been sunny, and the snow on the eastern versant of the pass had melted considerably. An hour later we started, accompanied by the ten Kirghiz, who on their own account took with them two horses, provisions, and an axe. The path went up a steep, narrow gorge, close beside a torrent which murmured among the smooth, polished fragments of gneiss and clay-slate. On both sides the gorge was shut in by perpendicular conglomerate strata, which terminated in rounded, dome-shaped hills, clad with screen meadows. Herds of camels and flocks of sheep dotted the pastures, which were kept moist by the melting of the snows above them. Still higher up, the skyline was broken by fantastically shaped peaks of bare rock and snow -clad ridges. At nine o'clock the gorge and pass were enveloped in thick clouds, and again it began to snow, and snowed on all the rest of the day. In a word, the weather could not have been worse; and our Kirghiz shook their heads ominously.

On our left I observed two small glacier tongues, with transverse terraces or shelves, and two terminal moraines. From them issued a couple of rivulets, which went to feed the brook that flowed down the glen. The summits on our right hand, which were freely exposed to the southern passages of the sun, possessed nothing more than the rudiments of glaciers. The glen grew so narrow that we had to ride in the brook. The path was terribly steep. Every minute the horses kept stopping to catch their breath. At last, we reached the foot of the actual pass. Then zigzagging backward and forward, backward and forward, we struggled up to the top. The snow was fully a foot deep, completely hiding the loose debris underneath, so that the horses frequently stumbled. The last portion of the ascent was a fearfully stiff piece of work. All our baggage had to be carried by the Kirghiz, who took turn about in getting up the heavy packages. Each box required two men; one carried the box on his back, while the other supported it and pushed it up from behind. The horses were led up one by one.

I reached the culminating point of the pass at eleven o’clock, and found there the masar (tomb) of Hazrett Ullugart, consisting of a little heap of stones with staves stuck in them, to which pieces of rag were tied. The Kirghiz look upon the saint in the same way that their fellows do upon the guardian saint of Kizil-art, as lord over the pass and the weather, as meting out good fortune or ill to the traveler; his name is therefore constantly upon their lips, especially in all difficult places and at all critical moments.

While the Kirghiz were struggling with the packing-cases and examining the descent on the west side of the pass, which occupied them a good hour and a half, I took observations on the top of the pass. The altitude by hypsometer was 16,890 feet, and the thermometer registered 31 Fahr. (—0.6° C.).

The ascent had been a tough piece of work; but it was nothing as compared with the descent. At first there was a scarcely noticeable incline; but it terminated in a formidable precipice, from which rocks of fantastic shape jutted out through snow. Down between these cliffy projections we had literally to slide and clamber on our hands and feet, now with our faces to the rock, now with our backs to it. The snow was two feet deep, and the Kirghiz were obliged to hew steps in it with the axe before they could get the horses down. Then each horse was cleverly piloted down by two men, one leading the animal, the other holding on by its tail, so as to act as a sort of brake if the horse should lose its foothold. They managed to get them all safely down the first and most difficult part of the precipitous slope, then it was the boxes’ turn. A long rope was tied round each, and, two men holding the rope, the box was let slide gently down the face of the precipice by its own weight. Then came a talus slope at an angle of thirty-five and a half degrees, littered with loose debris. Down this the horses were left to make their way by themselves. My piebald stallion from the Khotan-daria stumbled, rolled some thousand feet down into an abyss, broke his spine, and died on the spot. Ullug-art is a perilous pass, the worst I have ever crossed in any part of Asia.

The weather was abominable. The wind, from the southwest, drove the snow about us in blinding clouds. It was only by snatches, when the snow-storm momentarily lifted, that I was able to get a glimpse of the magnificent panorama which lay spread out far down below our feet. On the left I got a bird’s-eye view of a stupendous glacier, its surface shrouded in snow. Near its right-hand or upper edge there was a triangular moraine lake, fed by a stream which issued between two black, rugged cliffs from a secondary glacier above. The whole of the slope between the base of the secondary glacier and the moraine lake was strewn with pebbly debris, which, in consequence of the heavy rain and snowfall of the last few days, had become unsafe; in fact, the upper layer had already slipped, completely blotting out the track. For across that treacherous slope lay our path. Time after time while crossing it we slipped and had great difficulty in avoiding a fall into the moraine lake some 160 feet below. It was a highly dangerous place, especially so if some of the large blocks of stone which lay higher up had started rolling down upon us. Here again, therefore, we unloaded the horses, and the Kirghiz carried their loads for about half a mile.

The gigantic glacier of Ullug-art overhung the upper end of the glen, presenting a slightly convex front between its enclosing cliffs. Our path ran down the slope between the ice and the right-hand side of the glen. We came to a second lake, immediately underneath the vertical glacier wall, which was reflected on its surface as on a piece of transparent glass. Several icebergs were floating on the lake, and its water kept changing from one shade of light-green to another. The surface of the glacier inclined at a general angle of four degrees. Both the upper side-moraine, which we had already passed, and the terminal moraine were clearly distinguishable. A little farther on we came to a third lake, the largest of the three, and some two miles wide. At that point we were again overtaken by a thick, blinding snowstorm, so that we could scarcely see where we were coins; to. This lasted an hour, until we were clear of the steep slopes. Then it cleared; although the snow-storm continued to rage in the higher regions of the mountains.

After that we made rapid progress down the glen on the western side of the Ullug-art, the glen growing wider at every mile and the snow on the mountains around us diminishing at the same time in quantity. At length, after fourteen hours in the saddle, we halted between two conglomerate hills near the junction of the glen with the broad, deep valley of Sarik-kol. Where we camped there was not a blade of grass, and we only got water by melting snow from a drift which lay in a sheltered crevice. We were now left to our own devices, for as soon as the Kirghiz had got us safely across the dangerous places they went back over the pass.

The next day, July 18th, we rode as far as the yeylau (summer camp) of Muji, consisting of sixty yurts, inhabited by Naiman Kirghiz. They spend the summer there, grazing their sheep, goats, yaks, horses, and camels. On the 20th we reached the aul of Chakker-aghil, with six yurts, and there we rested beside a little lake of the same name a couple of days, a period which I utilized in making observations. The name Chakker-aghil (the Shouting Tent-Village) probably owes its derivation to the fact that the auls thereabouts stand so closely together that you can shout from the one to the other. The water in the little lake was the same color as the water of Kara-kul, a beautiful blue-green. It was in part bordered by detritus and sand, in part by reeds and seaweed (algae), and on the west by rich meadows and marshes.

The lake lay, as it were, wedged in the throat of the valley of Kamelah, and gathered into itself all the drainage-water of the valley.

I pass over our itinerary of the next few days, only mentioning that the route took us through Bulun-kul, Kara-kul, Su-bashi, and Gedyack — all of them districts that I had already visited. It was not until the 26th that I broke new ground, in that we crossed over the river basin of Tag-harma, a stream which effects a confluence with the Kara-su, the river that drains the southern versant of Mus-tagh-ata. The conjoint stream then forces its way through the mountains in a narrow gorge called Tenghi. We travelled through the defile, which was only short. Farther on the united Tagharma-Kara-su, known, however, by the latter name, Kara-su, poured itself into the Taghdumbash-daria, a stream which, with almost incredible energy, has cleft its way through the massive meridional mountain chains that form, so to speak, the projecting rim of the Pamir plateau. That transverse valley, known as Shindeh yilga, is, as might be supposed, close, confined, and wildly picturesque. The flood occupies it entirely, so that it is only in cold winters, when the river is ice-bound, that it is possible to reach Yarkand by that route.

Previous to the confluence of the rivers we had been going down the stream. After the confluence we left the defile of Shindeh-yilga on the left and ascended the upper part of the Taghdumbash-daria, the track leading towards the south on the west side of the upper stream. The road was level and firm, and frequently led across rich grassy meadows. Ahead of us we could see the fortress of Tash-kurgan, the goal of that day’s march. After passing through the villages of Chushman (45 houses) and Tisnab (200 houses), we entered the lower valley of the Taghdumbash. It was broad and open, and wore a prosperous look, with its cultivated fields and pasture-grounds, on which innumerable herds of sheep, goats, and horned cattle were industriously grazing. On our right was a high platform of conglomerate formation, and on the top of it stood the town and fortress walls of Tash-kurgan (the Stone Fortress). The situation of the place put me forcibly in mind of Port Pamir. The latter, like Tash-kurgan, stands on a conglomerate terrace in a wide valley, and with a large river flowing past it; and it also commands an equally extensive view of its own neighborhood.

Here an extremely joyful surprise awaited me. I fell in with my friend Mr. Macartney, who had been suddenly ordered to report himself to the head of the English Commission, appointed to act with a Russian Commission of military officers for the delimitation of the frontier-line of the two empires on the southern Pamirs. I pitched my tent beside his, and we spent a right pleasant afternoon together.

On July 27th, along with Mr. Macartney, I paid a visit to the village of Tash-kurgan. Both village and fortress presented a melancholy appearance. The whole neighborhood had been violently shaken by earthquakes, lasting from July 5th to July 20th, and every house in the place was utterly ruined; the few which still stood had gaping cracks in the walls, reaching from roof to foundations. But then they were constructed of materials little calculated to withstand earthquake shocks — namely, rubble and coggles, plastered with clay. There were also several cracks in the earth, stretching from south-southwest to north northeast. The inhabitants, as well as the Chinese garrison, were living partly in yurts, partly in temporary tents. During the time the seismic disturbances lasted, some eighty distinct shocks were counted.

The most violent was the first; it was the shock which destroyed the town. The last happened this morning at ten minutes past eight o’clock. I was sleeping on the ground, as I always did, and distinctly felt the impact at right angles to the longitudinal axis of the valley; in other words, it moved along an east-west line. The shock awakened in the mind an unpleasant sensation of anxiety. The earth seemed to heave and undulate. A detonation like a distant peal of thunder was plainly distinguishable. But everything was over in about a couple of seconds.

After looking at the damage done by the earthquake, I paid my respects to the commandant, Mi Darin, and two or three other mandarins, all of whom received me with great politeness. They had equipped their yurt with a table, chairs, and opium couches, and offered me all sorts of nice things. I took two or three whiffs at an opium pipe, but failed to detect wherein lies its fascination.

In the early part of this work, I have dwelt with considerable detail upon different parts of the Pamirs. The length to which this book is growing precludes me from describing this present expedition with anything approaching the same circumstantial minuteness. Perhaps I may be permitted on another occasion to relate the results of my 1895 journey in the southern regions of the Pamirs. I have still a long distance to travel before I reach Peking. If the reader has the patience to follow me, I hope to take him over the old caravan-road to Khotan, which Marco Polo travelled over so many generations ago. We shall then once more cross the great sandy desert, and discover cities buried in the sand, and evidences of an ancient and extinct Buddhist culture. We shall pay a visit to the desolate home of the wild camel and discover the relic of the Lop-nor of the Chinese cartographers. Thence we shall make a forced march of some hundreds of miles back to Khotan. After that we shall cross the highlands and plateaus of Northern Tibet to the lake basins of Tsaidam, and make the acquaintance of Mongols, Tanguts, and Tibetans; then proceed through Kan-su, Ala-shan, Ordos, and Northern China; and finally, after travelling for three and a half years, reach the goal I had all along in view — namely, Peking.

With all these vast vistas before me, I feel I must quicken my pace. But I cannot pass on without pausing for a little to describe one very important episode of my 1895 journey over the Pamirs. But it must have a chapter or two to itself.

CHAPTER LIV. WITH THE ANGLO-RUSSIAN BOUNDARY COMMISSION

Mr. Macartney was on his way to Victoria Lake (Zor-kul), to join the Boundary Commission, and tried to persuade me to go with him. But as I was desirous of visiting the sources of the Yarkand-daria, I was obliged to decline his invitation. Nevertheless, we travelled some days in company, separating on July 30th at Khojet-bai, as we then believed, forever; for Mr. Macartney was under orders to return to India with the Boundary Commission. Hence his road lay towards the west, up the valley of the Taghdumbash-daria; mine towards the south, up the valley of the Khunser-ab.

Two days more brought me to the northern foot of the Hindukush mountains. There I stayed twelve days, making short excursions, exploring the valleys of the more important headstreams of the Khunser-ab, and climbing the pass of Khunser-ab (15,780 feet), whence I looked down upon the valley of Kanjut. From the summit of the pass to the highest village in Kanjut was only two days’ journey. There I observed that the streams from one of the glaciers on the pass flowed partly towards the Indian Ocean and partly towards the Yarkand-daria and Lop-nor.

From the same place I endeavored, but endeavored in vain, to find a practicable path to the upper Yarkand-daria, over the passes of Uprang, Kara-su, and Ilik-su. The upper part of the Yarkand-daria is likewise known as the Serafshan or Raskan-daria. In every quarter I inquired I was given the self-same answer: I could readily enough reach the river in the course of a few days, but there was no place where it could be crossed during the summer. The deep, narrow gorge of the Ilik-su had in places been so terribly convulsed by the recent violent earthquakes that it was impossible for any animal, even for yaks, to traverse it: it was only practicable to men on foot. Thus I had got myself into a sort of mountain cul-de-sac. The only accessible districts which I had not yet explored were towards the west. Hence I resolved to seek those portions of the Pamirs which lay around the sources of the Amu-daria.

Accordingly we rode up over Taghdumbash Pamir (the Mountain’s Head or Roof of the World), and on August 15th surmounted the pass of Wakjir (16,190 feet), an important hydrographical centre, for from it rivers flow in three different directions — the Pänj, also called the Wakhan-daria, a head-stream of the Amu-daria, goes towards the west; the Taghdumbash-daria flows east; and on the other side of the Hindukush several feeders of the Indus descend towards the south.

On August 17th we reached Chakmakden-kui (the Lake of the Fire -steel), in which the Ak-su or Murghab has its origin.

Knowing that the Anglo-Russian Boundary Commission were working at Mehman yolli (the Guest Road), a small transverse valley situated only a day's journey towards the northeast, I could not resist the temptation to pay them a visit. But I did not like to come down suddenly and without warning upon the Commissioners while in the midst of their delicate labor of defining the boundary from Victoria Lake to the Chinese frontier; so I wrote to the head of each Commission asking if they had any objection to receiving visitors. My jighit (courier) brought back a cordial and pressing invitation from both chiefs. Accordingly, on the evening of the 19th, I pitched my tent at Mehman-yolli, on neutral ground between the Russian camp and the English camp.

I was already acquainted with the head of the Russian Commission; it was General Pavalo-Shveikovsky, governor of Fergana, my friend and benefactor. I held myself bound, therefore, to pay my respects to him first. But I could not get to his quarters without passing through the English camp. Mr. Macartney caught sight of me as I was on my way, and eagerly intercepted me with an invitation to dine with General Gerard, head of the English Commission.

There I was, then, in a pretty dilemma. The only way out of it, the only way to preserve my neutrality, that I could see, was to plead my old acquaintance with General Pavalo-Shveikovsky, and to emphasize the unsuitability of my attire.

General Pavalo-Shveikovsky welcomed me with open arms. We sat talking until a late hour of the night; and notwithstanding my energetic protests and my hints of wishing to keep to neutral territory, he ordered an excellent yurt to be got ready for me at once, with a bed in it, a luxury which I had almost forgotten the enjoyment of.

The following morning, I paid a visit to General Gerard, and met with a similar kind and friendly reception from him. I was immediately introduced to the several members of the English Commission. The second officer in command was Colonel Holdich, a recipient of the large gold medal of the Royal Geographical Society for his admirable trigonometrical and astronomical work in the frontier districts of India. The rest of the staff included Colonel Wahab, the topographer; Captain McSwiney, who spoke Russian fluently; Dr. Alcock, director of the Imperial Museum at Calcutta and professor at the Calcutta University; and my friend Mr. Macartney, agent for Chinese affairs in Kashgar. In addition, there were three pundits, or educated Hindus, for the topographical field-work.

Among the Russian staff I found several acquaintances from West Turkestan — Colonel Salessky, the astronomer; Captain Skersky, the new commandant of Fort Pamir; and the famous topographer Bendersky, who has travelled in every part of Western Asia, and who was one of the Russian embassy which visited Kabul in the time of Emir Shir Ali Khan. General Pavalo-Shveikovskv’s principal assistants were, however, Mr. Panafidin, formerly Russian consul in Bagdad, where he and I had several mutual friends and acquaintances, and Colonel Galkin, who had travelled in East Turkestan and Ili. Finally, I may mention Dr. Wellmann and four younger officers.

The Russian escort consisted of some forty Cossacks, with a military band of eighteen performers, besides a crowd of native jighits and caravan grooms. The English train consisted of about two hundred Indian soldiers, Hindus, Afridis, and Kanjutis.

It would manifestly be out of place for me to say a word touching the momentous labors of the Boundary Commission. Besides, they did not directly concern me. I will merely observe that, considering the opposing interests which the two camps represented, it was astonishing upon what a friendly and confidential footing they were. Both sides were animated by a frank and cheerful spirit. Englishmen and Russians were like comrades together. Had I not known the fact beforehand, I should never for one moment have dreamed that they were rivals, engaged in delimitating and fixing a common frontier-line. For, of course, it was the object of the Russians to draw the line as far to the south as they could possibly force it; whereas the Englishmen wanted it as far north as it could be got.

The Russian officers’ mess was located in a large, tastefully decorated yurt; the Englishmen had theirs in an immense, yet elegant, tent. Invitations to dinner from the one party or the other were an almost every-day occurrence. As for me, I spent one day in the English camp and the next in the Russian, and so on alternately, and was on very good terms with everybody in both camps. Most of the officers, Russian and English, spoke French; and, if I may be permitted to say so, the gentlemen selected to serve on this important and delicate mission were a credit to the two governments which appointed them. As for me, after my two years of lonely wandering through the desert regions of Central Asia, it was almost like a rising from the dead to associate with such notable men, men distinguished alike for their knowledge, their scientific attainments, their high general culture.

Shortly after my arrival among them, General Pavalo-Shveikovsky gave a grand evening entertainment. At nine o’clock the Englishmen came over wearing their handsome, yet serviceable, full-dress uniforms. In front of each of the Russian yurts was stationed a guard of Cossacks, holding lighted torches, which shed a wild and tremulous flood of light across the bank of the Ak-su. The guests assembled in the large reception yurt of white felt. The interior was draped with Oriental cloth and variegated carpets from Kashgar. The table glittered with bottles and decanters of European wines and liqueurs; while dotted about among them were dishes of solid silver, heaped with grapes, apples, and duchesse pears from the governor’s own garden in Margelan. We took our seats in light and comfortable tent-chairs, lined with rugs and so forth. While some of the company played cards, the majority kept up an animated conversation in different languages. Meanwhile the military band went through a long programme of Russian melodies, well known marches, and "God Save the Queen"; and heard under such circumstances, at such a lofty altitude on the Roof of the World, the music was especially charming. After supper, the Russian general accompanied his guests by torchlight to their own quarters.

August 29th and 30th were proclaimed holidays; and the officers got up a tamashah (spectacle, i.e., sports) for the entertainment of the men of their escorts and the Kirghiz of the neighborhood. The first item on the programme was a shooting competition at 250 paces. In this some of the officers took part; and the first prize was carried off by Colonel Wahab, upon whom after that I bestowed the title of Champion of the Roof of the World. The scene around the firing-point was gay in the extreme, owing to the variety and magnificence of the various uniforms. The 1st Lancers, Hyderabad Contingent, made unquestionably the bravest show. Their uniform was a light brown, decorated with gold braid, yellow leather bandolier and sword-belt, tight fitting breeches, and a tall, gold-embroidered turban, with blue points hanging loosely down. The uniform of the 20th Punjab Infantry was very similar, except that the turban was adorned with a black, bushy plume, and had a gold-embroidered, upstanding centre-piece. The Afridis, natives of the districts around Peshawar, were tall, handsome fellows, with a martial bearing. A vendetta of a more than usually stringent character obtains among their tribes. A murder is sometimes avenged, not only upon the nearest blood-relatives of the delinquent, but also upon his distant kin.

Among the onlookers I observed Gulam Moheddin Khan, the Afghan Boundary Commissioner, accompanied by his suite. The Emir Abdurrahman Khan’s representative, whom I was nearly forgetting, wore a uniform that was resplendent with gold lace and ornaments.

At the end of the shooting competition the two generals distributed the prizes, consisting of a silver cup, cases containing knife, fork, and spoon, khalats, Asiatic cloth, and money (rubles and rupees). Hereupon General Pavalo-Shveikovsky invited us all, including the Afghan Commissioner, to a splendid dejeuner. Champagne flowed like water, and healths were drunk to all the world, even to the Crustaceans of the Indian Ocean, the special favorites of Dr. Alcock.

After dejeuner we went out to witness the second half of the programme, which was of a more lively and varied character. It began with a tug-of-war, a team of Cossacks being pitted against a team of Afridis, and then a team of Kirghiz against a team of Kanjutis. In each case the first-named won, although the struggle between the Kirghiz and Kanjutis was both tough and long. The excitement among the onlookers grew intense; some of the officers even were infected by it, as well as myself, though I of course preserved a strict neutrality. After that came footraces, partly on the flat, partly in sacks, in which the winners hopped or, rather, turned summersaults over the tape at the winning-post. There were also three-legged races. The Ivanjutis gave us a sword-dance, with mimic fights, and combats with the naked sword, a spectacle which put me in mind of similar games practised by the Chinese. At intervals the English offered various refreshments, among the beverages being punch.

August 30th was Derby Day on the Pamirs. Some three hundred horsemen assembled on a piece of level ground at Kizil-rabat, nearby. The course was a trifle under a mile. The Cossacks, being matched against the Indian cavalrymen, easily beat them, with a good two minutes to spare. But Her Majesty’s soldiers had their revenge in the next event, lemon-slicing, although potatoes perforce did duty instead of lemons. The next contest, tiffins; at the rins, was opened by General Gerard himself. He carried off two out of the three rings, and proved to be the victor.

Then came a comic interlude, namely, races between camels and yaks. The camels, unaccustomed to the rules of sport, burst away in a wild gallop, and, screaming lustily, dashed in among the spectators, creating a mild panic. The yaks, on the contrary, took matters with imperturbable placidity; the spirit of emulation could not be driven into them by any provocation. Two remained stock-still, notwithstanding that the cudgels of the Kirghiz played a lively tune upon their ribs. One turned to the right about and marched off in the opposite direction. Some progressed sideways at a jogtrot. Only two went straight down the course, walking with their accustomed grave, philosophic calm.

The last event was not pleasant to watch, and must have been still more unpleasant to take part in. Two bands of Kirghiz horsemen, twenty in each, took up positions facing one another at 250 paces apart. At a prearranged signal they dashed towards each other at full gallop. Some few came through the shock unmoved; but the greater part went headlong to the ground, men and horses rolling over one another in indescribable confusion. Yet, strange to say, only one horse suffered any injury. It took all day till twilight to get through the whole of the programme; and just as the gay throng of riders started for their respective camps the racecourse was swept by an icy buran.

The combined camp of the Commissioners made a striking picture. It stood on a patch of level ground, at the foot of a conglomerate terrace, on the left bank of the Ak-su or Murghab. The Russians were quartered in a dozen large, handsome Kirghiz yurts; the Englishmen and Indian soldiers in some fifty or sixty white army tents. Round about the outskirts of the camp were the yurts of the Afghans, Kirghiz, Wakhanlik (men of Wakhan), and karakeshes (caravan attendants) of different nationalities. The camp thus presented a kind of epitome of various types of Oriental life, side by side with the highest civilization of the West. A painter would have found never-ending subjects for his brush. The pencil of a dilettante like myself was kept hard at work all day long, for, unfortunately, I had lost my photographic apparatus in the desert.

Both the Russian and the English generals were perfect patterns and ensamples to their officers and men. Both had gone through many a stiff brush with the enemy. General Pavalo-Shveikovsky had an inexhaustible fund of stories and anecdotes from the Russo-Turkish war of 1877-78. General Gerard was famous throughout all India as one of the most daring spirits that ever tracked a tiger. With his own hand he had accounted for no fewer than 216 of the kings of the jungle, a number which, considering the relative scarcity of tigers now in India, must be accounted worthy of the most passionate lover of the chase. To General Gerard the tracking of a tiger was what the coursing of a hare is to ordinary sportsmen, a mere harmless pastime, combining exercise with pleasure; ail the same, he had had many adventures and hairbreadth escapes which it was very interesting to listen to.

CHAPTER LV. FESTIVITIES ON THE ROOF OF THE WORLD

Every evening at eight o'clock the Cossacks had religious service. Then there echoed through the thin mountain air the moving melodies of the solemn malitva (chant) and the Russian national hymn. Huge fires blazed all round the camp, both close in and at a distance, for the various Asiatic races to cook their suppers at; but all fires were extinguished long before the lights were out in the officers' quarters. The moon gleamed out at intervals between the rapidly scudding clouds, and lit up the broad, open valley of the Ak-su. A chain of mountains, the Emperor Nicholas II.’s Range, the highest summit of which is Salisbury Peak, shut in the valley on the north; another range, the Mus-tagh chain, bordered it on the south. The effect was enchanting in the extreme when a cloud came between the moon and the camp, so that the tents were in the shade, while the eternal snowfields of the distant mountains glittered as though silvered over.

These desolate plateaus, uninhabited save by a few half-civilized nomad Kirghiz, had never witnessed such a gathering as that which I have just described, and are hardly likely to witness anything similar to it again. I imagined the shy tekkes (wild goats) and wild sheep (Ovis poll) gazing in stupefied amazement from their lofty pasture-grounds beside the glaciers over the bustling scenes below, rudely violating the century -long peace and tranquility of the Ak-su valley. Where the frontier-line between the possessions of England and the possessions of Russia should fall was to them a matter of perfect unconcern. The jarring interests of men never invade the solitude of their sublime abodes. They are the subjects of none; they share their empire with the eternal snows alone.

Meanwhile the clays flew past like hours, and I was amazed when September came and I still found myself among that bright circle of officers of the two most powerful nations of the world. Several times I spoke of breaking camp for the little-known mountainous regions which tower up like fierce, snow-crowned giants around the headwaters of the Yarkand-daria. But every time I sounded that note both of the generous generals, whose personal friend, I am proud to say, I gradually became, urged that I should remain a few days longer.

But finding nothing else would do, and as there were important matters calling me back to Kashgar, I determined to try a little ruse de guerre. One fine day I bade Islam Bai have the caravan all ready for a start and went to General Pavalo-Shveikovsky to take my leave of him, telling him my caravan was ready and waiting for me. With a twinkle of mystery in his eye the general answered that if I would wait just one day longer, I should witness a remarkable event. Thus my little plot was nipped in the bud. I stayed on, not one day longer, but several.

The remarkable event, which, rightly enough, did happen on the following day, was the arrival of a telegram sent by Lord Salisbury to the telegraph station which lay nearest the northern frontier of India, conveying the important announcement that the British Government accepted the frontier which the Russians proposed to them.

This intelligence occasioned the greatest rejoicing in both camps. At every step I met happy, contented faces. The younger officers even danced for joy. During the following days the frontier pillars Nos. IX. to XII. were erected, thus finishing the labors of the Commission. They had defined and marked the frontier between England's and Russia's possessions on the Pamirs and had nothing more to do except to strike camp and return home.

Stay — I am wrong — there was still one thing to be done. The two commissions had been at work together some three months in all. It was inconceivable that they should separate, perhaps never to meet again, without dining together in each camp in turn. To these high and solemn functions I, although strictly maintaining my neutrality, was cordially invited; and as public dinners are something of a rarity in exploration journeys in Central Asia, I did not scruple to sacrifice two more days to the pleasure of taking part in them.

The dinner in the Russian camp took place on September nth. General Gerard and I were given the places of honor on the right and left respectively of our host. My more than plain travelling suit, which was, moreover, woefully threadbare, and which had never at any time been guilty of possessing such superfluities as collar and cuffs, presented a glaring contrast to the full-dress uniforms of all the generals, colonels, captains, and diplomatic agents — laces of the general staff, scarlet facings, gold braids, orders and medals for valor in the campaigns of Turkestan, the Russo -Turkish War, Burma, Chitral, Afghanistan. But, then, when I left Kashgar I had not the remotest idea that that summer excursion was to bring me into contact with such distinguished company, and therefore had brought no suitable clothes with me. However, I kept up my courage, and the warriors flattered me by saying that my journey across the desert was a stiffer piece of work than many a hard campaign.

And then the surprises that were in store for us — real paradoxes of circumstance when you call to mind that all this happened at the foot of the Hindukush, in the centre of Asia! The sakuska, or ante-table of Russian usage, consisted of caviar, preserved meats, Swiss cheese, pâté de fois gras, and almost every conceivable delicacy, while for dinner we were served, among other courses, with crayfish soup, lobster mayonnaise, asparagus, and so forth. The only thing which failed to make a due impression upon me was the glacés; I had been completely spoiled for glacés by the glaciers on the Roof of the World.

The wines were not from Turkestan, but from the choice vintages of France. What! Champagne on the Pamirs? Yes, even so. The first time it was handed round our host asked for silence, and then proposed a conjoint toast to Queen Victoria and the Emperor Nicholas II. The next toast was drunk in honor of Abdurrahman Khan, Emir of Afghanistan, who was represented at the table by his general, Gulam Moheddin Khan, and a mufti (Mohammedan doctor of laws). With the third toast was coupled the name of Oscar, king of Sweden and Norway, who also had one subject present at the banquet. At midnight the official part of the proceedings came to an end, with the Englishmen chairing their host. Their arms were strong, and so it was "up to the roof on the Roof of the World.” Then, while the spirit of festivity was still in the ascendant, we had several humorous speeches and songs, each and every one followed by a rousing cheer, and, last of all, sung with tremendous dash and "2:0,” the stirring English refrain, "For he’s a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny.”

The next day General Gerard gave an equally excellent banquet, over which the same spirit of jollification reigned, and at which there was an equally long series of toasts. With a happy inspiration Captain McSwiney proposed a toast to the ladies, and somebody suggested the extraordinary idea that I was a fit and proper person to reply on the ladies’ behalf. Being a devoted admirer of the sex, I was, of course, proud to speak for them. After various more or less apposite remarks, I came to my peroration, which ran to this effect: that if the ladies in the distant lands of Russia and England were as hospitable and as cultivated as their husbands and lovers, whose acquaintance I had had the pleasure of making, they must assuredly be no ordinary ladies, but angels from heaven, and their society an earthly paradise.

At the close of dinner yet another surprise awaited us. Immediately outside the bounds of the camp a huge pile of fagots and other inflammable materials had been built up. Curiously enough, the fuel had all been brought for the purpose from Kanjut, on the other side of the Hindukush. As soon as dinner was over the bonfire was lighted, and its leaping flames lit up with weird effect the barren steppe and white tents which dotted it. Then representatives of the different races comprised in the English escort came forward one after the other and gave an exhibition of their several national dances. Among these perhaps the most striking was a sword-dance, which produced a somewhat startling effect in the red light of the bonfire. We watched the spectacle from a semicircle of camp-chairs, while turbaned servants handed round punch and other refreshments.

Early on the morning of September 13th, we were all photographed together in one big group by the Indian pundits. After that came the handshaking and the "goodbyes.” The Englishmen went off towards the south, intending to travel to Kashmir and India via the Darkot pass, while the Russians turned their steps towards the north. General Gerard, who was going to England across Russia, accompanied his Russian colleague. Lieutenant Miles, who was stationed in Gilgit, was likewise given permission to go with the Russian Commissioners as far as Fort Pamir. That day we only travelled 14 ½ miles — as far as the Kirghiz aid of Ak-tash. Here we pitched our tents and spent another right pleasant afternoon together.

General Pavalo-Shveikovsky pressed me to accompany him all the way to Margelan. But that I could not do; it would have taken me too far away from the scene of my labors. Not that it would not have been especially interesting to travel for a whole month across the Pamirs under such unique circumstances, as well as to witness the great reception which I knew awaited the English general in Margelan. He was to be met outside the town by a bevy of maidens clad in white, who would scatter flowers under his horse’s hoofs, and was to be feted, and honored with a military concert and display of fireworks. But I withstood the temptation, steeled by the thought that I had not come to Asia for the sake of pleasure; besides, I already knew the route to be travelled over.

General Gerard also had his temptation for me. He cordially invited me to go with Colonel Holdich and the rest of the English Boundary Commissioners to India. Which drew me with the strongest fascination, that distant land of fable and mystic dream, or the society of Colonel Holdich, I cannot say; but this I can say, I have seldom met a nobler-minded, pleasanter gentleman than Colonel Holdich, and I left him with the desire strong in my heart that we might soon meet again.

But my sense of duty got the upper hand at last. My road lay towards the east. There was still much exploring work to be done in the deserts around Lop-nor and in Northern Tibet. Moreover, there was another powerful attraction in Kashgar — namely, the post from Sweden, which should be in again by this. I therefore, on September 14th, bade farewell to the two generals and other officers, and watched them trot out of sight; then, accompanied by my own attendants, I turned my face towards the silent, solitary mountains which border the Pamir plateaus on the east.

The doings of the Anglo-Russian Boundary Commission belong henceforth to history; their labors fill a permanent niche in the story of the political relations of England and Russia in Central Asia. The territories of the two great powers on the Pamirs now touch one another; there are no ownerless districts, no buffer zone, between them to afford a handle for political intrigues. Kirghiz and Afghans are not now allowed to cross the new frontier-line unless they are provided with a proper pass.

Will that be the last boundary commission appointed by England and Russia in Asia? It might well be supposed so; and yet — the destiny of Persia is not yet decided. Besides, who knows what the future shall bring forth? Be that, however, as it may, it is certain that the members of the Boundary Commission of 1895 carried away home with them many a pleasant memory of their stay on the cold, inhospitable plateaus; the which plateaus no doubt, had they possessed the capability, would have been amazed at finding themselves the objects of so much interest.

I am very proud of having been so fortunate as to have witnessed such a signal episode in the political history of Central Asia, and that not only because of the importance of the event itself, but also because of the real pleasure vouchsafed me in making the acquaintance of such an excellent set of officers and gentlemen.

CHAPTER LVI. OVER THE MOUNTAINS TO THE YARKAND-DARI A

From Ak-tash we travelled eastward, and the same day crossed the Sarik-kol range by the pass of Lakshak (15,240 feet high) and encamped on the other side at Keng-shevar, a place garrisoned by eight Tajiks and two Chinese. As far as a point a little beyond our camp the rocks bordering the route had been black clay-slates; but after that they consisted of a number of varieties of gneiss, some of them exceedingly beautiful in appearance. Consonant with the change in the rock formation, a marked change took place also in the landscape. The very name of the district we had just quitted, Kara-korumning-bashi (the Head of the Black, Stony Country), indicated a different region. The track we were following, which wound for the most part among gigantic fragments of rock which had crashed down from the mountains above, led northeastward through the deep transverse gorge of Shindeh, which cut through the eastern declivity of the Sarik-kol range. Beyond Yarutteck (the Boot Terrace), a small side-glen on the left, the cliffs frowned upon each other at close quarters, there being nothing more than a narrow chasm between their perpendicular walls. The gorge was almost entirely obstructed by huge blocks of gneiss, whose sharp angles and fresh, clean-looking fractures revealed that they had been hurled down during the recent earthquake shocks. It was anything but pleasant travelling. We frequently rode under ponderous arches of overhanging rock, full of cracks and crevices, which threatened every moment to come crashing down upon our heads. Time after time we crossed the little mountain-stream, whose blue, limpid water gurgled along between the bowlders of gneiss. At length we came to the end of the gneiss. It was succeeded by granite. The gorge of Shindeh opened out like a trumpet upon the broad, troughlike valley of Taghdumbash. The mountain-stream was divided into several branches, so that its water might be led off to irrigate the cultivated fields. We again pitched our tent a short distance from the fortress of Tash-kurgan.

We had now crossed the first of the great meridional mountain-ranges, which like bastions fence in the Pamir plateaus on the east. On September 16th we crossed the second by the pass of Sarghak. We had considerable difficulty in procuring a guide. The Tajiks excused themselves on the plea that they must look after their fields; but the truth was they dreaded the wrath of Mi Darin, if it should become known that they had guided a European through such a strategically important pass. At last we discovered a man who agreed to go with us on foot; but before we reached the summit of the pass he lagged behind, and we never saw anything more of him.

We crossed over the valley of Taghdumbash between the scattered fields and houses. The river possessed only one third the volume it had when I measured it some six weeks earlier, and the water had become perfectly clear. On the east side of the valley, we struck into a narrow gorge, which rose steeply, and was dry along the bottom. The predominating rock throughout the whole of that day’s journey was micaceous schist. We climbed up the mountainside along a steep, narrow ribbon of a path, which was exceedingly trying to both men and horses. In some places the rocks were so smooth we were obliged to roughen them with the pickaxe to enable the horses to get a proper foothold. Upon reaching the top of the spur— an undulating series of rounded eminences — we saw the valley of Taghdumbash, with its winding river and its green and yellow fields, far, far below our feet. Once more the landscape underwent a complete change. All round us the predominating feature was low hills, with easy slopes, covered with hard silt, sand, and gravel debris, partly the results of weathering of the clay-slate, which in this part of the range cropped out but seldom. These undulating, hilly uplands were intersected by several zigzag canon -like ravines. Not a drop of water was to be seen; though there were plenty of dry watercourses, showing where the rains ran down. Our road was not difficult, but went up and down, up and down, as though it never meant to end; and we crossed several secondary passes before we attained the culminating point of the range (13,230 feet).

From that spot I obtained a broad, general view of the surrounding regions. The range on which we stood was continued towards the south in several great snow -covered mountains, then curved round by the southeast towards Tibet, and finally became merged in the Kwen-lun mountain system. Northward the range we had just climbed stretched to Mus-tagh-ata, and thus formed a direct continuation of the Mus-tagh or Kashgar range. Deep down on the east lay the glen of the Utcheh, which flows into the Taghdumbash-daria.

Our road ran down into that glen, sometimes winding among the fantastic spurs and buttresses of the eastern slopes of the range, sometimes running steeply down an eroded ravine, and occasionally crossing a minor pass or saddle. The last part of the descent, just before we reached the glen, was inconceivably steep. We encamped in the little village of Beldir, which consisted of a single household. Its yuz-bashi (chief) was, however, chieftain over some fifty households, scattered throughout the glen. They were Tajiks— graziers and agriculturists — and spent the summers in the upper part of the glen, but for the winter moved lower down nearer the confluence of the Utcheh, a fair-sized stream, with the Tagdidumbash-daria. After the confluence the river turned sharply to the east, and flowed directly into the Yarkand-daria. Close beside the confluence stood the large village of Beldir, which gives a second name, the Beldir-daria, to the Utcheh. The transverse defile by which the Taghdumbash breaks through the range is, as I have already said, called Shindeh. It is impassable because of the perpendicular cliffs which hem it in. Thus Beldir lies, as it were, at the end of a mountain cul-de-sac.

September 17th. We ascended the glen towards the southeast. It was sometimes squeezed between the conglomerate cliffs, then widened out considerably, so as to make room for patches of cultivated ground, upon which wheat, barley, and clover were grown, and finally opened out into a spacious caldron-shaped valley, with an almost level floor and shut in on all sides by mountains.