war, and plainly conscious, even in these solitudes, that the eyes of the world are upon him. His horse is munching government grain in every roadside khan, and in the stables of the many military posts throughout Transcaucasia; the jingle of his spurs and the clatter of his sabre are in every posthouse all the way to the Persian border.

It is a long and perplexing road that the Russian has had to travel on this side of Asia, to arrive at his present vantage point on the way to the Persian Gulf. Over a portion of it he has been compelled to journey more than once, but, observant of a schedule made long ago, he has made haste slowly, watching, waiting, keeping the peace, and winning most of his later victories by the rouble-or, some say, the franc-and by his colossal vigilance and patience. The forward movement in the West in its present stage is still, but it is ceaseless, and more rapid by far than when the chief agencies were powder and the sword. One need be in Persia only a little time to discern the Russian predominance. Persia is Russian. It is manifest in

the conditions of trade, the management of the military, and the incessant increase in the number of Russian subjects and the volume of Russian commodities in the bazaars, and it is recognized by the populace. More eloquent than all other indications is the custom, arisen of late among the Persians-some of them the foremost in wealth and influence-of adding the Russian termination "off" to patronymics as old as Iran itself. This is, to be sure, an illustration of the business sagacity of the Persian, but it shows which way the wind blows. It is all a study in the efficacy of the peaceful method, a revelation of Muscovite versatility.

Everywhere, behind him, along this Western tier, the tenacious marks of the Russian's predecessors are disappearing; everywhere he is substituting for them his own memorials in brick and stone, steel, and the enginery of steam and electricity.

In Batoum, not so long ago a dirty, straggling Turkish village, stagnating in the midst of of a miasmatic swamp, there are straight streets, boulevards, excellent hotels, well

ANCIENT MOSQUE AT KASVIN. One of the wonderful glazed-tiled temples which are scattered throughout Persia.

stocked stores, and a large shipping anchored under the wakeful guns of long fortifications whose strength is past finding out. From thence a railroad which, using petroleum for fuel, knows not smoke nor cinders, bears the traveler across the Caucasian isthmus, where once was a rough and most perilous way. Troglodyde dwellings of incalculable age, and crumbling castles taken by the Russians in storm and assault, look down now on massive causeways, bridges and culverts which bear witness to the engineering skill of the new rulers. All along the way are comely habitations; only here and there, in the long reaches, are seen the black felt tents and earth-burrows of the nomads who have turned out their sheep over some river bottom. There are crowds about the tidy stations, crowds of cleanly, well-ordered people, but seldom a European costume. Instead, one sees the flowing skirts of the Georgian surtout, with cartridge cases across the breasts of it, the boots, the enormous felt cloaks, reaching to the heels, the prodigious sheepskin hats, and the penetrating eyes and bristling beards of the reconstructed. They are quiet, dignified, ceremonious, but alert. It is hard to realize that these are the once half-savage people whom the Russian had to fight back step by step through these all but impassable mountains until he won to the Kur and there set up his capital. The twoedged handjar, a species of short, straight sword, still swings in its sheath at their girdles, but its mission is chiefly one of ornament; the cartridge cases are filled with

dummies, sometimes of silver, sometimes of steel or bone, according as the wearer has prospered.

In Tiflis, which crouches beside the river, one reads the same story of a new birth. Perched on a mountain side, overlooking the busy city of 160,000 souls, is the ancient Georgian stronghold, a ruin, with decorations in stone on its towers, telling of Oriental dynasties long ago passed into tradition. Under its hoary watchmanship long trains come and go, in and out of a handsome station, more crowded at train time than the Grand Central at Forty-second street in New York. Hundreds of cabs, whose bushybearded drivers have faces like ripe red apples, ply hither and thither; European prime donne are singing in the theatres; clawhammered waiters are running about under the electric lights, serving dinners that one might expect to find on Upper Broadway. On the Mall in the great park there is the clinking of many glasses and the murmur of many voices, and music until far into the night. It is Europe. It is thus that Russia is making the Caucasus forget.

But the old civilization dies hard. Everywhere it asserts itself in sharp and really pathetic contrast with the new. Along the river bluffs cling decrepit rookeries which belong to the old order. belong to the old order. Here the unregenerate dwell and barter. The wares of the wine shops are still exposed in great ox skins; the costumes of Asia are here, and the Mohammedan cries to his God and his Prophet. So in Baku; there are Persian mosques going to decay, and a few overfaithful Guebers, fire-worshippers, still fall into occasional ecstasy at the sight of the flames which roar and dart skyward above some ignited oil well. That is the last survival, probably, of the original Iranian life and faith on Russian soil. All down through Transcaucasia the ruins are being converted into homes of the soldiery or the priesthood, or destroyed to furnish stone for road building, and the brick schoolhouse, with its boys in uniform, is rising to mark the place where they stood.

There is peace; there is an unceasing presentment of the light side of life; diversion is made easy. But behind all, dominant over all, not to be overlooked or forgotten, is Force. Force. Every third man you meet is in a uniform of some sort. The train conductor is a high military personage, the guards are

fighting men, who stand at attention while the train halts, who salute soldier-fashion, and who wear their signal flags on the hip, after the manner of the bayonet. The street-car conductor of the town may be ordered to the front in China to-morrow, and the policeman who shouts commands to Mohammedan muleteers in the streets of Tiflis, brandishing his sword for emphasis, is a very decent model of a swashbuckling cavalryman. As it is here, so it is coming to be on the Persian border; so it is always and everywhere where this magician of the East sets foot-the Cossack in reserve.

Over this new building up, the watch and ward. camp in war time. tition here; there is

civilization which he is Russian keeps sedulous It is the scrutiny of a There is no talk of parno talk at all if he can prevent it. The passport system is ironclad almost beyond belief. You can have neither food nor lodging in any hostelry, however humble, without surrendering your passport, which is promptly sent to the Chief of Police, by him to be examined, entered upon his books, and stamped. No more can you give up your apartment and leave the place without a repetition of the formality. The passport of a traveler returned from Persia looks like a collection of postmarks. All this has its purpose and its indubitable advantages. With empire at stake, the Russian never relaxes his scrupulous attention to the playing of the game. He is particularly careful to see who and what goes into Persia. Every post station is in effect the office of an ex

amining board, and to renew your billets you must answer whatever questions the inquisitor-invariably polite and invariably solemn -sees fit to propound. This guard over the approaches to the Shah's country is more than the ordinary solicitude of the creditor. It is parental. The "shadow" is everywhere. All the way down from Akstafa note is made and track kept of all travelers, with a special lookout for the Englishman. Russet ridingboots, which by the more ignorant of the Russians are looked upon as an accoutrement peculiarly British, are by them accounted almost prima facie evidence of some hostile intent.

In Nahkitchevan, the burial place of Noah, and the last city of any importance within the Russian confines, my passport, along with some others, was long considered. At last the Chief of Police, a Jupiter in most elaborate uniform, came out from the conference he had been holding, and, with Chesterfieldian grace, taxed me with being an Englishman. It transpired that another American citizen, whose papers were submitted at the same time, had been in the city of Tabriz, and in the absence of any American representative had his credentials passed upon, before leaving Persia for Russia, by the British Consul. Some Russian clerk, seeing the British seal, and either unable to decipher the words, charged with American affairs," or willing to do a small mischief, had written him down English, and the Chief of Police, taking inventory of the waiting voyagers, had picked me out as the subject of Her Majesty. I

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