I.

FEW portions of the globe, and few races of men, in this age of adventurous travel and restless inquiry, are less known to science, to literature, and to the civilized world generally, than the vast steppes of Northeastern Asia, and the wild tribes of wandering Ishmaelites, who roam with countless herds of reindeer over their desolate expanse. All other parts of the world, from the glaciers and bergs of Northern Greenland to the tropical forests of Central Africa, have been repeatedly traversed by enterprising explorers, and their scenery and people are familiar, through the graphic sketches of Kanes and Livingstones, to all the reading world; but Kamchatka and Northeastern Asia still retain their primitive freshness, and offer to the modern traveller an as yet untrodden field. The remoteness and climatic severity of the region, as well as the comparatively unattractive nature of the country itself, have hitherto deterred all save a few hardy Cossacks and adventurous fur-hunters from attempting its exploration; so that, although nominally a portion of the great Russian empire, it has remained for ages in almost undisputed possession of the aboriginal tribes. Its boundless "tundras," barren, during most of the year, of all vegetation, stretch away, beyond the limits of vision, in long undulations of storm-drifted snow, without a single tree or bush to relieve the weary eye or cheer the heart with the semblance of fife. Solitude and desolation reign supreme, and chill the spirit of the lonely traveller with their all-pervading influ

When the November sun sinks

at last below the horizon, and the long winter-night darkens over the silent land, it seems abandoned by God and man to the Arctic Spirit, who hangs out in the north his colored banners of auroral light, as tokens of his conquest and dominion. Yet even here man disputes with the polar god the sovereignty of his barren empire, and indicates, by successful resistance, his right to occupy and possess the land. On the most desolate steppes, and among the barest, bleakest mountains, the wandering tribes of Asia pitch their small black tents, and bid defiance to the hostile powers of storm, cold, and darkness, which their enemy arrays against them. Without any of the luxuries, and with but few of the absolute necessities, of civilized life, these nomadic tribes have sustained themselves for centuries, in a country whose very name is synonymous with every thing cold, barren, and inhospitable.

It was my fortune, or, more accurately, perhaps, my misfortune, in the course of explorations for the Russian-American Telegraph, to be brought into relations of close, though not always agreeable, intimacy with the wandering bands of Tchucktchis and Koraks who roam over the territory between the Okhotsk Sea and Behring's Straits; and as the information which I acquired relative to their life and habits is entirely new, I venture to bring it before the public, as an humble contribution to the world's knowledge of a hitherto undescribed pcople. Aside from its novelty, the subject has, I frankly confess, little intrinsic attractiveness to recommend it.

starvation, we must inevitably fall upon

among people whose choicest luxuries are frozen entrails, half-digested moss, and clotted blood, is neither interesting in experience nor engaging in narrative; and I cannot conscientiously recommend its trial to the modern tourist. The ethnologist, who is desirous of verifying his theories by personal observation, and whose scientific enthusiasm is sufficiently strong to overcome the depressing influences of cold, smoke, filth, bad food, and solitude, may find life in a Korak tent endurable; but to the ordinary traveller, whose tastes are æsthetic rather than scientific, it is a living death. I no longer wonder that the Russian navigator, Billings, after several weeks' travel with the Tchucktchis, fell on his knees and thanked God for the sight of a Russian church-steeple. Two of our own party, who, for the purpose of exploration, spent sixty-four days in wandering with the same tribe over the steppes near Behring's Straits, expressed, upon their final escape, no less lively emotions of gratitude and joy.

The little party of four men, to whom was committed the exploration of Northeastern Asia, arrived at Petropavlovski, Kamchatka, in the latter part of August, 1865. We had undertaken the exploration of this forbidding region with a very vague and indefinite conception of the nature of the obstacles to be overcome; and our first duty, after our arrival in Kamchatka, was to learn from the Russians as much as possible concerning the country and its inhabitants, and the facilities which they afforded for summer and winter travel. Our own ideas upon the subject were chiefly obtained by a diligent perusal of "The Exiles of Siberia" and "Wrangell's Travels," and were hardly definite or accurate enough for our guidance through a wilderness of nearly three thousand miles. The information, however, which we could gather from the rambling, disconnected stories of the Russians, was as discouraging as it was meagre. If we were fortunate enough to escape the Scylla of barren steppes and lingering

whose uncompromising hostility to foreigners in general, and to poor telegraphers in particular, was notorious. The doctrine of total depravity, according to our veracious informants, derived its clearest illustration and its most incontestible proof from the conduct of these savages. Human sacrifice and cold-blooded murder of relatives were among their most amiable traits, and to our startled imaginations was left the conception of their sterner characteristics. Such questionable amiability as this certainly presupposed an almost inconceivable amount of original sin; but we fairly stood aghast when we were coolly informed, that immolation upon the altar of some Korak or Tchucktchi god was the very least which we could expect, if we persisted in our insane resolve to explore, with so small a party, the territory of the northern tribes. This was a contingency which had not occurred to us in the calculation of our chances, and it met us with all the force of a new and very disagreeable fact. We had prepared ourselves for all kinds of ordinary and extraordinary hardships; but we had never imagined that the exploration of this region would involve the unpleasant necessity of being offered up as a propitiatory sacrifice to the savage deities of native theology.

"You don't mean to say," we exclaimed, "that they offer up human beings to their confounded gods?"

Certainly," responded our informant, cheerfully; "but," he added, as a consolatory reflection, "they permit their victims to choose their own mode of death, you know; and you can be shot, speared, or have your head knocked in with stones, just as you may prefer!"

"A very generous concession to the tastes of the victim," we ventured to observe, as soon as we recovered from the effects of this astounding piece of intelligence. "But suppose a man is conscientiously opposed to all of these delightful alternatives, and is strongly

Our friend shook his head dubiously, as if he were reluctant to shatter our last hope, and yet felt it his duty to stand firm in his adherence to truth.

born. Despite, however, the world's persistent ignorance of their existence, and their own lamentable ignorance of the world's existence, they managed in some way to get along, without ever being brought to a realization of their benighted condition. If they lacked the culture of a higher civilization, they avoided also its accompanying vices, and their own rude principles of civil and social polity were better adapted,

Closer examination of our Kamchadale friends elicited the important fact, that no one of them had ever witnessed the ceremonies of human sacrifice, nor did they know of an instance which had occurred within the memory of the present generation; but that such had been the custom of the wandering tribes in years gone by, they still strongly affirmed.

The Tchucktchis and Koraks, of whom these startling facts were predicated, descended, probably, in some long-past pre-historic era, from the Tartars of Central Asia. At the time of Wrangell's explorations they still retained, in a slightly modified form, the wandering pastoral habits of their ancestors, living in tents, travelling in bands, and watching the vast herds of reindeer, which constituted their wealth, very much as did their Tartaric forefathers long before the days of Genghis Khan. Aside, however, from these most general and salient features of their nomadic life, little concerning them was known to the civilized world. No Russian Catlin had yet been found, willing, in the interests of science, to live in their dark, smoky tents, subsist upon a sometimes scanty diet of frozen entrails, and depict, with graphic pencil, the varying aspects of their social life. No wandering tourist, with indispensable "Murray," had ever "done" the Koraks. Alone and self-dependent, they wandered, for centuries, over their snowy steppes, herding their deer and sacrificing dogs to their heathen gods, in entire ignorance of any higher or better

the generalizations of modern philosophy. The wants incident to he complex and artificial relations of civilized life, never suggested themselves to the simple Korak, who, by proportioning his desires to his necessities and his ambition to his capacity, attained the true end of all philosophy.

Notwithstanding the discouraging reports of the Russians and Kamchadales in Petropavlovski, preparations for our northern journey went steadily on; and with the falling leaves of early autumn, we rode out over the grassy hills which encircled the village, and turned our faces toward the land of the wandering Koraks. Our prospective immolation, strange as it may seem, cast no shadow of despondency over the brightness of our present life. Youth and health are proverbially hopeful, and our trust in Providence was sustained and justified by the shining barrels of the revolvers which hung at our belts, and which, we felt confident, would prove efficacious in turning the misguided Koraks from the error of their way.

The desolate steppe, known to the Kamchadales as the "Dole," over which the Korak tribes wander, lies more than six hundred miles to the northward of Petropavlovski, at the junction of the Kamchatkan peninsula with the main land. The rugged range of volcanic mountains, which divides the peninsula longitudinally into halves, breaks off abruptly, about the fifty-ninth parallel of latitude, into the Okhotsk Sea, leaving to the north a wide expanse of tableland, which stretches, in monotonous

uniformity, from the Okhotsk to the Pacific, and whose moss-covered surface affords abundant food for the reindeer of the wandering tribes. Long before we reached the southmost verge of this desolate steppe, the stern winter of northern latitudes overtook us, and we exchanged our canoes and horses for the dogs and sledges of the Kamchadales. The deep snows of early winter blocked up the mountain ravines, and day after day we toiled slowly and wearily on, breaking a road with snow-shoes for our heavily-loaded sledges, and camping at night among the pines or under the shelter of the mountain-cliffs.

Late one afternoon in November, as the long northern twilight was fading into the peculiar steely blue of an Arctic night, our dogs toiled slowly up the last summit of the Jamanca Mountains, and we looked down, from a height of more than two thousand feet, upon the dreary expanse of snow which stretched away from the base of the mountains at our feet to the far horizon. It was the land of the Wandering Koraks. A cold breeze from the sea swept across the mountain-top, soughing mournfully through the pines as it passed, and intensifying the loneliness and silence of the white wintry landscape. The faint pale light of the vanishing sun still lingered upon the higher peaks, but the gloomy ravines below us, shaggy with forests of larch and dense thickets of trailing pine, were already gathering the shadows and indistinctness of night. At the foot of the mountains stood the first encampment of Koraks. We had long since learned to distrust the statements of the Russians and Kamchadales as to the hostility of this tribe, and we looked forward with curiosity and pleasurable excitement, rather than with any emotion of fear, to our first meeting. Their wild, isolated life, peculiar and barbarous customs, and the strange stories which we had heard of their savage religious rites, had invested them in our imaginations with a mysterious interest, which a little spice of personal danger only deepened. As we rested our dogs a few moments upon the sum

mit before commencing our descent, we tried to discern, through the gathering gloom, the black tents, which we knew stood at the foot of the mountain; but nothing save the dark patches of trailing pine broke the dead white of the level steppe. The encampment was hidden by a projecting shoulder of the mountain.

The rising moon was just throwing into dark, bold relief the shaggy outlines of the peaks on our right, as we roused up our dogs and plunged into the throat of a dark ravine which led downward to the steppe. The deceptive shadows of night, and the masses of rock which choked up the narrow defile, made the descent extremely dangerous, and it required all the skill of our practised drivers to avoid accident. Clouds of snow flew from the spiked poles with which they vainly tried to arrest our downward rush; cries and warning shouts from those in advance, multiplied by the mountain-echoes, excited our dogs to still greater speed, until we seemed, as the rocks and trees flew past, to be in the jaws of a falling avalanche, which was carrying us, with breathless rapidity, down the dark cañon to certain ruin. Gradually, how

ever, our speed slackened, and we came out into the moonlight, on the hard, wind-packed snow of the open steppe. Half an hour's brisk travel brought us into the supposed vicinity of the Korak encampment; but we saw, as yet, no signs of either reindeer or tents. The disturbed, torn-up condition of the snow usually apprises the traveller of his approach to the yourts of the Koraks, as the reindeer belonging to the tribe range over all the country within a radius of two or three miles, and paw up the snow in search of the moss which constitutes their food. Failing to find any such indications, we were discussing the probability of our having been misdirected, when suddenly our leading-dogs pricked up their sharp ears, snuffed eagerly at the wind, and, with short, excited yelps, made off at a dashing gallop toward a low hill which lay almost at right-angles with

our previous course. The drivers endeavored in vain to check the speed of the excited dogs: their wolfish instincts were aroused, and all discipline was forgotten as the fresh scent came down upon the wind from the herd of reindeer beyond. A moment brought us to the brow of the hill, and before us, in the clear moonlight, stood the dark, conical tents of the Koraks, surrounded by a dense herd of at least four thousand deer, whose branching antlers appeared like a forest of dry limbs around the yourts. The dogs all gave voice simultaneously, like a pack of foxhounds in view of the game, and dashed tumultuously down the declivity, regardless of the shouts of their masters and the menacing cries of three or four dark forms, which rose suddenly up from the snow between them and the frightened deer. Above the tumult I could heard Dodd's voice, hurling imprecations in Russian at his yelping dogs, which, despite his most strenuous efforts, were dragging him and his capsized sledge across the steppe. The vast body of deer wavered a moment, and then broke into a wild stampede, with dogs, drivers, and Korak sentinels in full pursuit.

Not desirous of becoming involved in the mêlée, I sprang from my sledge, and watched the confused crowd as it swept, with shout, bark, and halloo, across the plain. The whole encampment, which had seemed, in its quiet loneliness, to be deserted, was now startled into instant activity. Dark forms issued suddenly from the tents, and, grasping the long spears which stood upright in the snow by the doorway, joined in the chase, shouting and hurling lassos of walrushide at the dogs, with the hope of stopping their pursuit. The clattering of thousands of antlers dashed together in the confusion of flight, the hurried beat of countless hoofs upon the hard snow, the deep hoarse barks of the startled deer, and the unintelligible cries of the Koraks as they tried to rally their panic-stricken herd, created a Pandemonium of discordant sounds, which could be heard far and wide through

the still, frosty atmosphere of night. It resembled more a midnight attack of Comanches upon a hostile camp than the peaceful arrival of three or four American travellers, and I listened with astonishment to the wild uproar of alarm which we had unintentionally aroused. The tumult grew fainter and fainter as it swept away into the distance, and the dogs, exhausting the unnatural strength which excitement had temporarily given them, yielded reluctantly to the control of their drivers, and turned toward the tents. Dodd's dogs, panting with the violence of their exertions, limped sullenly back, casting longing glances occasionally in the direction of the deer, as if they more than half repented the weakness which had led them to abandon the chase.

"Why didn't you stop them?" I inquired of Dodd, laughingly. "A driver of your experience ought to have better control of his team than that."

Stop them!" he exclaimed, with an aggrieved air; "I'd like to see you stop them with a rawhide lasso round your neck, and a big Korak hauling like a steam windlass on the other end of it. It's all very well to jump from your 'nart,' and cry, 'Stop them;' but when the barbarians haul you off the rear-end of your sledge, as if you were a wild animal, what course would your sublime wisdom suggest? I believe I've got the mark of a lasso round my neck now; and he felt cautiously about his ears for the impression of a scal-skin thong.

As soon as the deer had been gathered together and a guard placed over them, the Koraks crowded curiously around the visitors who had entered so unceremoniously their quiet camp, and inquired, through our interpreter, who we were and what we wanted. A wild, picturesque group they made, as the moonlight streamed white and clear into their swarthy faces, and glittered upon the metallic ornaments about their persons and the polished blades of their long spears. Their high cheek-bones, bold alert eyes, and straight coal-black hair, suggested an intimate relationship with our own Indians; but the resem