and that Morality, or Civil Polity without Art (implied, at least, as possible and desirable) must as inevitably tend to corruption as Art without Morality; or either, or all, without Religion. In other words, we cannot banish Sentiment from the atmosphere of any region of human life. It is certain, again, from the nature of the case, that false Sentiment can never be banished from any community until Art has taken its true place in the circle of existence. This may appear a barren proposition, because Art and Sentiment must react upon each other- but so do all things. To beautify life is so great a problem, and there are so few likely to address themselves to it, that I have observed, for some years past, with unspeakable horror- with a ceaseless incubus of dread, so to speaka growing tendency to make light of Sentiment. This is, in other words, to brutalise existence. Is this what we want, then? Did you ever go into a music-hall, or a low place of worship, and look round upon the coarse, sodden faces there? If so, does it seem to you that to preach down Sentiment is precisely what is required? "No," you perhaps reply," but let Sentiment keep its place and Jurisprudence, for example, is not one of them. That is all." Pardon me, it is not all. If we had, or could have, a perfect machinery of life, it might be; but, in the meanwhile, we must import our checks and compensations from where we can, and as we can -- not violating principles, but acknowledging that compensations are what they are. Again, we should all consider not only what we mean, but what we shall be taken to mean, by the majority of those who are reached by our words. Now dare we say that the majority of our fellow-creatures are disposed to be over sentimental? My British brethren and sisters, I find that you are in all things too artistic, too finely-fibred, too full of sentiment," there would be an exordium for a popular discourse; and who cannot see, in a reporter's parenthesis "(shouts of laughter)?" No, no: this will never do. We are entitled to put concerning anything and everything, the homely question, fetched from laundry experience of colours that are not "fast" - will it wash? But whatever will wash, whatever stands the labour-test, we must respect in the first place; and then, if it be a source of delight, increase if we can; especially if the delight be of an ascending order. The useful encourages itself: let us, as old Goethe said, encourage the beautiful; and, so long as Pandora's box remains unshut, and the brood abroad, let us not give up our right to gather in compensation, as we may, from the suggestions of that sense of Mystery and Loveliness which, propagated in gradually lessening pulses from shocks of emotion in sight of great facts like Death, Love, Birth, and diffusing itself in endlessly recruiting tides over human existence, takes the name of Sentiment. MATTHEW BROWNE. From the Argosy. 66 THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT. "THE Chil menzili Turkestan, or the Forty Stations across the desert of Turkestan," I often heard my friends say, are far more troublesome and much more difficult to get over than the Chil menzili Arabistan, or the Forty Stations on the Pilgrims' route from Damascus to Mecca. On this last one finds every day fresh cisterns, which furnish drinkable water for thousands; the pilgrim is sure to get fresh bread, a good dish of pilaw or meat, cool shade, and all the comforts he longs for after the exhausting day's march. But on the former route, man has done nothing for the support of the poor traveller. He is in constant danger of dying from thirst, of being murdered, of being sold as a slave, of being robbed, or of being buried alive under the burning sand-storm. Well-filled water-skins and flour sacks, the best horses and arms, often become useless, and there is nothing left to one but to strive to get forward as fast as possible, while invoking the name of Allah." The readers of my Travels in Central Asia, may be supposed to have some idea of the awfully imposing journey from Persia to the Oasis-lands of Turkestan. I may here furnish a few additional particulars about the experience of our caravan. I have several times being blamed for being too concise to be graphic, and this charge, I confess, is not altogether undeserved. I propose here to make up for my faults of omission. - During the first three days' march, the impressive, endless silence of the desert—a silence as of the grave cast a most powerful spell over my soul. Often did I stare vacantly for hours, my eyes fixed on the distance before me, and, as my companions believed me to be sunk in religious meditations, I was very seldom disturbed. I only half observed how, during the march, certain mem. bers of our caravan nodded in sleep on the backs of their camels, and by their ludicrous movements and sudden starts, afforded our company exquisite amusement. Any one overcome with sleep, would lay hold of the high pommel of the saddle with both hands, but this did not prevent him from either, with a forward lurch, knocking his chin with such force that all his teeth chattered, or, by a backward one, threatening to fall with a sommersault to the ground. Indeed this last often happened, arousing the hearty laughter of the whole party. The fallen became the hero of the day, and had to support the most galling fire of jokes on his awkwardness. The most inexhaustible fountain of cheerfulness was a young Turkoman, named Niyazbirdi, who possessed no less liveliness of spirits than agility of body, and by every word and movement contrived to draw laughter from the most venerable of the Mollahs. Although he was owner of several laden camels, he was, nevertheless, for most part, accustomed to go on foot, and running now right, now left, he alarmed by cries or gestures any group of wild asses that showed themselves along our route. Once, indeed, he succeeded in getting hold of a young wild ass, which, through fatigue, had loitered behind the rest. The young shy creature was led along by a rope, and was the occasion of really droll scenes, when its lucky captor gave a prize of three spoonfuls of sheepstail fat to any one who dared to mount it. Three spoonfuls of mutton fat is a tempting prize for Hadjis in the desert, so that many were seduced by the prospect of gaining it. Nevertheless they could make nothing of this uncivilized brother of Balaam's charger, for the unfotunate Hadjis had no sooner seated themselves on its back than they were stretched sprawling in the sand. traveller is accustomed to stretch himself Scarcely have the hungry camels betaken themselves to their pasture-ground, when a solemn stillness fills the caravan. This stillness is, I may say, a sort of intoxication, for every one revels in the enjoyment of rest and refreshment. The picture of a newly-encamped caravan in the summer months, and on the steppes of Central Asia, is a truly interesting one. While the camels, in the distance but still in sight, graze greedily, or crush the juicy thistles, the travellers, even the poorest among them, sit with their tea-cups in their hands, and eagerly sip the costly bev-' erage. It is nothing more than a greenish warm water, innocent of sugar, and often decidedly turbid; still human art has discovered no food, has invented no nectar, which is so grateful, so refreshing in the desert as this unpretending drink. I have still a vivid recollection of its wonderworking effects. As I sipped the first drops, a soft fire filed my veins, a fire which enlivened without intoxicating. The later draughts affected both heart and head; the eye became peculiarly bright and began to gleam. In such moments I felt an indescribable rapture and sense of comfort. My companions sank in sleep; I could keep myself awake and dream with open eyes. After the tea had restored their strength, the caravan becomes gradually busier and noisier. They eat in groups or circles which are here called koosz, which represent the several houses of the wandering town. Everywhere there is something to be done, and everywhere it is the younger men who are doing it, while their elders are smoking. Here they are baking bread. A Hadji in rags is actively kneading the black dough with dirty hands. He has been so engaged for half an hour, and still his hands are not Only after a march of several hours is clean, for one mass of dough cannot absorb general weariness to be remarked. All the accumulations of several days. There eyes are then turned towards the Kervan they are cooking. In order to know what bashi, whose gaze at such a time wanders in is being cooked, it is not necessary to look every direction to spy out a suitable halting-round. The smell of mutton-fat, but espeplace, that is to say, one which will afford cially the aroma, somewhat too piquant, of most plentiful fodder for the camels. No sooner has he found such, than he himself hastens towards it, while the younger members of the caravan disperse themselves to right and left to collect dried roots, or scrub, or other fuel. Dismounting, unpacking, and settling down is the work of a few moments. The hope of much-desired rest restores the exhausted strength. With speed the ropes are slackened, with speed the heaviest bales of merchandize are piled up in little heaps, in whose shade the wearied camel or horse cutlets, tells its own tale. Nor have the dishes when cooked anything inviting to the eye. But in the desert a man does not disturb himself about such trifles. An enormous appetite covers a multitude of faults, and hunger is notoriously the best of sauces. Nor are amusements wanting in the caravan-camp when the halt is somewhat prolonged. The most popular recreation is shooting at a mark, in which the prize is always a certain quantity of powder and shot. This sort of diversion was very seldom possible in our caravan, as on account of our small numbers we were in continual danger, and had therefore to make ourselves heard as little as possible. My comrades were accustomed to pass their leisure time in reading the Koran, in performance of other religious exercise, in sleeping, or in attending to their toilette. I say " toilette," but it is to be hoped that no one will here understand the word to imply a boudoir, delicate perfumes, or artistical aids. The Turkomans are accustomed to pluck out the hair of the beard with small pincers. As to the toilette of the Hadjis, and, indeed, my own, it is so simple and so prosaic as to be scarcely worth alluding to. The necessary requisites were sand, fire, and ants. The manner of application I leave as a riddle for the reader to solve. Certainly, of all the nations of Asia, the Tartar seems to fit in most appropriately with the bizarre picture of desert life. Full of superstition, and a blind fatalist, he can easily support the constant dread of danger. Dirt, poverty, and privations he is accustomed to, even at home. No wonder then that he sits content in clothes which have not been changed for months, and with a crust of dirt on his face. This inner peace of mind could never become a matter of indifference to me. At evening prayers, in which the whole company took part, this peace of mind struck me most forcibly, and I thanked God for the benefits they enjoyed. On such occasions the whole caravan formed itself into a single line, at whose head stood an imâm, who turned towards the setting sun and led the prayers. The solemnity of the moment was increased by the stillness which prevailed far and wide, and if the rays of the sinking sun lit up the faces of my companions, so wild yet withal so well satisfied, they seemed to be in the possession of all earthly good, and had nothing left them to wish. Often I could not help thinking what would these people feel if they found themselves leaning against the comfortable cushions of a first-class railway carriage, or amid the luxuries of a well-appointed hotel. How distant, how far distant are the blessings of civilization from these countries! So much for the life of the caravan by day. By night the desert is more romantic, but at the same time more dangerous. As the power of sight is now limited, the circle of safety is contracted to the most immediate neighbourhood; and both during the march and in the encampment every one tries to keep as close as possible to his fel lows. By day the caravan consisted of but one long chain; by night this is broken up into six or eight smaller ones, which, marching close together, form a compact square, of which the outmost lines are occupied by the stoutest and boldest. By moonlight the shadow of the camels as they stalk along produces a curious and impressive effect. During the dark starless night everything is full of horror, and to go one step distant from the side of the caravan is equivalent to leaving the home circle to plunge into a desolate solitude. In the halt by day each one occupies whichever place may please him best. At night, on the contrary, a compact camp is formed under the direction of the Kervan bashi. The bales of goods are heaped up in the middle; around them lie the men; while without, as a wall of defence, the camels are laid, tightly packed together, in a circle. I say laid, for these wonderful animals squat down at the word of command, remain the whole night motionless in their place, and, like children, do not get up the next morning until they are told to do so. They are placed with their heads pointing outward and their tails inward, for they perceive the presence of an enemy from far, and give the alarm by a dull rattle in the throat, so that even in their hours of repose they do duty as sentinels. Those who sleep within the rayon find themselves in immediate contact with these beasts, and, as is well known, they have not the pleasantest smell. It often happens that the saline fodder and water which these animals feed upon produce palpable consequences for such as sleep in their immediate neighbourhood. I myself often woke up with such frescoes. But no one takes any notice of such things, for who could be angry with these animals who, although ugly in appearance, are so patient, so temperate, so goodtempered, and so useful? It is no wonder that the wanderers over the desert praise the camel as surpassing all other beasts of the field, and even love it with an almost adoring affection. Nourished on a few thorns and thistles, which other quadrupeds reject, it traverses the wastes for weeks, nay, often for months together. In these dreary, desolate regions, the existence of man depends upon that of the camel. It is besides so patient and so obedient that a child can with one “tshuck” make a whole herd of these tall strong beasts kneel down, and with a "berrr" get up again. How much could I not read in their large dark blue eyes. When the march is too long or the sand too deep, they are accustomed to express their discomfort and weariness. This is especially when the nomads. During the hot season of the year, when the scorching sun has dried shrubs and grass till they have become like tinder, it often happens that a spark, carelessly dropped, and fanned by the wind, will set the steppe on fire. The flame, finding ever fresh fuel, spreads with such fearful rapidity that a man on horseback can Except during a particular season of the with difficulty escape. It rolls over the year, when through the operation of the laws scanty herbage like an overflowing stream, of nature it is in a half-intoxicated, half- and, when it meets with thicket and shrubs, stupefied condition, the camel has always a it flares up with wild wrath. Thus traversstriking expression of seriousness. It is im- ing large tracts of country in a short time, possible not to recognize in its features the its raging course can only be checked by a Chaldee-aramaan type, and in whatever por- river or a lake. At night such conflagrations of the earth he may be found at the tions must present a terrible appearance, present day his original home is unquestion- when far and wide the horizon is lit up with ably Mesopotamia and the Arabian desert. a sea of flame. Even the bravest heart The Turkomans disturb this serious ex-loses its courage at the appalling sight. The pression of countenance by the barbarous cowardly and hesitating are soon destroyed, manner in which they arrange the leadingrope through the bored nose. With the string hanging down to the chest, the camel resembles an European dandy armed with his lorgnon. Both of them hold their heads high in the air, and both are alike led by the nose. As the word of command to encamp is enlivening and acceptable, so grievous, so disturbing, is the signal for getting ready to start. The Kervan bashi is the first to rouse himself. At his call or sign all prepare for the journey. Even the poor camels in the pastures understand it, and often hasten without being driven to the caravan; nay, what is more extraordinary, they place themselves close to the bales of merchandize with which they were before laden, or the persons who were mounted on them. In a quarter of an hour everybody has found his place in the line of march. At the haltingplace there remains nothing but a few bones, gnawed clean, and the charred traces of the improvised hearths. These marks of human life in the desert often disappear as quickly as they were produced; sometimes, however, they are preserved through climatic accidents for a long time; and succeeding travellers are cheered by falling in with these abandoned fireplaces. The black charred spot seems to their eyes like a splendid caravanserai, and the thought that here human beings have been, that here life once was active, makes even the vast solitude of the desert more like home. Speaking of these spots where a fire has been kindled, I am reminded of those vast burnt plains, often many days march' in extent, which I met with in the desert between Persia and China, and of which I heard so many wonderful tales from the mouths of but one who has sufficient presence of mind can save himself, if, while the flames are yet a great way off, he kindle the grass in his neighbourhood. He thus lays waste a space in which the approaching fire can find no sustenance, and in this he himself takes refuge. Thus only with fire cần man contend against fire with success. This weapon is often used by one tribe against another, and the desolation thus caused is terrible. It is often used by a runaway couple to secure themselves against pursuit. As long as no wind blows they can easily fly before the slowly advancing fire, but it often happens that the flames are hurried forward by the least breath of wind and the fugitives find a united death in the very means they had taken to secure their safety. It is remarkable that the imposing aspects and most frequent natural phenomena of the desert do not fail to impress even the nomads who habitually witness them. As we were crossing the high plateau of Kaflan Kir, which forms part of Ustijort, running toward the north-east, the horizon was often adorned with the most beautiful Fata Morgana. This phenomenon is undoubtedly to be seen in the greatest perfection in the hot, but dry, atmosphere of the deserts of Central Asia, and affords the most splendid opical illusions which can imagine. I was always enchanted with these pictures of cities, towers, and castles, dancing in the air, of vast caravans, horsemen engaged in combat, and individual gigantic forms which continually disappeared from one place to re-appear in another. As for my nomad companions they regarded the neighbourhoods where these phenomena are observed with no little awe. According to their opinion these are the ghosts of men and cities which formerly existed there, and now at certain times roll about in the air. Nay, our Kervan bashi asserted that he also saw the same figures in the same places, and that we ourselves, if we should be lost in the desert, would after a term of years begin to hop about and dance in the air over the spot where we had perished. at the little Savoyard village of St. Michel. Here the railway terminates; and, consigned to the very untender mercies of the shaky diligence, the traveller, after a drive of twenty-five miles through the barren valley, reaches Lans-le-Bourg, at the foot of Mont Cenis; and crossing this to Susa, there again takes rail, and on to Turin. In a little more than four years hence, if no unforeseen event occur, this route will be materially changed, and voyagers, giving St. Michel with its dingy houses and bad dinners the go-by, and continuing in the railway wagon up the banks of the Arc, will take a turn at Modane, ten miles up the valley, and instead of scaling the Alps, will go rushing through their stony heart. These legends, which are continually to be heard among the nomads, and relate to a supposed lost civilization in the desert, are not far removed from the new European theory which maintains that such tracts of country have sunk into their present desolation, not so much through the operation of natural laws as through changes in their social state. As examples are cited the The Arc, rising in the Alps near Mont Great Sahara of Africa and the desert of Cenis, pours down the valley which bears Central Arabia, where cultivable land its name, and empties into the Isere, near is not so much wanting as industrious Chamouset. Near the little hamlet of hands. As regards these last countries the assertion is probably not without some truth, but it certainly cannot be extended to the deserts of Central Asia. On certain spots, as Mero, Mangishlak, Ghergen, and Otrar, there was in the last century more cultivation than at present, but taken as the whole these Asiatic steppes were always, as far back as the memory of man goes, howling wildernesses. The vast tracts which stretch for many days' journeys without one drop of drinkable water, the expanses many hundred miles in extent of deep loose sand, the extreme violence of the climate, and such like obstacles, defy even modern art and science to cope with them. "God," said a Central Asiatic to me, "created Turkestan and its inhabitants in his wrath; for as long as the bitter, saline taste of their springs exist, so long will the hearts of the Turkomans be full of anger and malice." ABMINIUS VAMBERY. From The Fortnightly Review. IN THE MONT CENIS TUNNEL. THROUGH the fertile vine hills, and over the broad extended plains of Burgundyby Dijon, Maçon, Culoz, Chambery, and Aix-winding gracefully around, and suddenly darting into and out of tunnels on the borders of the lovely, lonely lake of Bourgy, and then along the banks of the Arc-the railway train, in its progress from Paris toward Turin, finally arrives Fourneaux, eight miles from St. Michel, the river makes a bend in a southerly direction. Upon the opposite side of the Alps, in the valley watered by the DoraRipeira, the Dora very accommodatingly also makes a bend towards the north; and thus, at these two points, the valleys of the Dora and the Arc make the nearest approach to each other in all their course. Here, in these two secluded little nooks, they seem to have had a fancy for making each other's acquaintance, and each here made advances as far as not merely propriety, but Nature herself permitted. But the rugged, frowning, unsympathetic Alps stood sentinel and barrier between them, and roughly rejecting their cooing and wooing, turned them off again in different directions, each to pursue its own course toward the mighty sea. This barrier, skill, science, enterprise, and determination are rapidly breaking down, and before many years shall have passed we may reasonably hope that the Dora and the Arc, though not indeed permitted to mingle their waters together in joy, will be firmly and for ever united in the bands of iron. It was owing to this proximity of the two valleys at those points that Fourneaux upon the French, and Bardonêche upon the Italian side, were selected as the entrances and termini of the great Alpine tunnel. It was found that a straight line between them and through the Alps would measure 12,220 métres, or 13,577 yards, about seven and seven-tenths miles. Fourneaux and Bardonêche were also happily situated for a convenient junction with the railways already constructed, and the geological character of the mountain itself was |