Day by day the feeling of pain grows stronger to see that, while Nature has been so generous, so profuse in her valuable gifts, man will not even take the trouble to avail himself of the luxuries she offers with so lavish a hand.
Undeterred by the sad fate of the poor soldier, and confident in the valour of the gallant Cossacks and of the Russian officers who accompanied us, we made as many rides as possible in the neighbourhood of the town, but it was in vain to look with longing eyes towards the mountains. They were pronounced unsafe, and we dared not venture near them. Still the hilly low ground was so wondrously lovely that we could have ridden for months instead of days, and have found fresh beauties to charm us. The last ride we can never forget, perhaps because it had the sad charm of being the last—because we knew that each long lingering glance would never be renewed, that our eyes would never again rest upon the marvellous beauties of form and colouring that were lying in such abundant loveliness around us.
Soon after leaving the town we skirted a long narrow valley that gradually inclined towards the hills. We were riding through masses of fern, that began here and there to show a few bright autumnal tints. On the grassy slopes above and below were groups of magnificent trees, their long shadows almost stretching across the valley. Far away to the left the giant mountains reared their lofty heads, great dark lines marking the many ravines that scored their rugged sides.
So still was the air, so absolute was the hush of evening, that not a bush rustled, not a leaf moved in the great calm. We could only hear the tinkle of a little brook as it ran merrily amongst the brushwood beneath, and as we occasionally stopped to listen, there came the faint murmur of many a distant streamlet, as it threaded its way through the far away valleys and passes of the mountains.
The sun, that had been very oppressive before we entered the valley, now only glowed upon the tops of the hills, making the trees and rocks on one side quiver in the flood of light, while all was cool and fresh around us.
We pursued our way through fern and underwood, up hill and down, sometimes crossing the little stream that rippled with a thousand pleasant voices over shining stones and gravel, then again entering a thick wood, where the trees grew so closely together that the sunbeams in vain attempted to pierce the interlaced boughs above, and where we had to bend low over our horses’ necks to avoid the masses of climbing plants that hung like ropes from the branches of the trees, until we arrived at an open space or plateau on the summit of a steep hill, and here we had a view as beautiful as it was extensive.
In this lovely region the atmosphere is so transparent that space seems almost annihilated. The eye travels far into the deep blue distance, tracing peak after peak in the wondrous clearness, until at length sky and mountain are blended into one line of quivering light, and the sight, fatigued with the magnitude and remoteness of objects on the vast horizon, seeks rest by gazing on the tender green of the fair valleys spread so invitingly around.
Far, far away, glittering with dazzling whiteness, was the range of mighty snow-mountains, some of the nearer peaks frowning majestically above the sombre masses of the great pine forests that stretch for more than a hundred miles into the interior of the country. The chain of the Caucasus is considerably more lofty than that of the Alps. The highest point of El-Barouz is rather more than 2,000 feet higher than Mont Blanc; but from the climate being so much warmer, there is apparently less eternal snow here than in Switzerland.
The valleys very much resemble those of the Tyrol, near Botzen. The same rich pastures, the same fertilizing streams, sunny slopes, and wooded hills are found here, but, unlike happy Tyrol, in the sister vales of Circassia not a house is to be found, and, unless a warlike band should pass, not a human being may be met with for hours.
During this day’s ride the only man we saw was a goatherd, who, fully armed with sword and gun, was tending his flock of Circassian goats. These pretty creatures, smaller than those of Greece and Syria, are covered with long delicate hair, with which the Abasian women make many fine stuffs. The man was sitting under a tree up which a vine had climbed, and the ripe grapes were hanging in great clusters, high on the upper branches. Seeing that we looked both thirsty and tired, with the courtesy of a true gentleman and mountaineer, he threw down gun and sword, climbed the tree with the activity of a squirrel, and in a few minutes descended, laden with bunches of the lovely purple fruit, which he offered us with a grace of manner both simple and dignified. We had come into his native woods, and with the easy bearing of a stately host he offered his guests the best refreshment in his power. He then showed us his matchlock, of which he seemed not a little proud. It was made of beautifully-polished walnut wood, had scarcely any stock, and was so small that it looked like a pretty child’s toy.