herds and the tents of nomad shepherds. Across this great plain, in all

directions, flow myriads of meandering streams, many of them swelling

into noble rivers, whose waters find their outlet in great seas. Over it

blow the biting winds of the Arctic zone, chaining its waters in fetters

of ice for half the year. On it in summer shine warm suns, in whose

enlivening rays life flows full again.



Such is the land with which we have to deal, Russia, the seeding-place

of nations, the home of restless tribes. Here the vast level of Northern

Asia spreads like a sea over half of Europe, following the lowlands

between the Urals and the Caspian Sea. Over these broad plains the

fierce horsemen of the East long found an easy pathway to the rich and

doomed cities of the West. Russia was playing its part in the grand

drama of the nations in far-off days when such a land was hardly known

to exist.



Have any of my readers ever from a hill-top looked out over a broad,

low-lying meadow-land filled with morning mist, a dense white shroud

under which everything lay hidden, all life and movement lost to view?

In such a scene, as the mist thins under the rays of the rising sun,

vague forms at first dimly appear, magnified and monstrous in their

outlines, the shadows of a buried wonderland. Then, as the mist slowly

lifts, like a great white curtain, living and moving objects appear

below, still of strange outlines and unnatural dimensions. Finally, as

if by the sweep of an enchanter's wand, the mists vanish, the land lies

clear under the solar rays, and we perceive that these seeming monsters

and giants are but the familiar forms which we know so well, those of

houses and trees, men and their herds, actively stirring beneath us,

clearly revealed as the things of every day.



It is thus that the land of Russia appears to us when the mists of

prehistoric time first begin to lift. Half-formed figures appear,

rising, vanishing, showing large through the vapor; stirring,

interwoven, endlessly coming and going; a phantasmagoria which it is

impossible more than half to understand. At that early date the great

Russian plain seems to have been the home of unnumbered tribes of varied

race and origin, made up of men doubtless full of hopes and aspirations

like ourselves, yet whose story we fail to read on the blurred page of

history, and concerning whom we must rest content with knowing a few of

the names.



Yet progressive civilizations had long existed in the countries to the

south, Egypt and Assyria, Greece and Persia. History was actively being

made there, but it had not penetrated the mist-laden North. The Greeks

founded colonies on the northern shores of the Black Sea, but they

troubled themselves little about the seething tribes with whom they came

there into contact. The land they called Scythia, and its people

Scythians, but the latter were scarcely known until about 500 B.C., when

Darius, the great Persian king, crossed the Danube and invaded their

country. He found life there in abundance, and more warlike activity

than he relished, for the fierce nomads drove him and his army in terror

from their soil, and only fortune and a bridge of boats saved them from

perishing.



It was this event that first gave the people of old Russia a place on

the page of history. Herodotus, the charming old historian and

story-teller, wrote down for us all he could learn about them, though

what he says has probably as much fancy in it as fact.



We are told that these broad levels were formerly inhabited by a people

called the Cimmerians, who were driven out by the Scythians and went--it

is hard to tell whither. A shadow of their name survives in the Crimea,

and some believe that they were the ancestors of the Cymri, the Celts of

the West.



The Scythians, who thus came into history like a cloud of war, made the

god of war their chief deity. The temples which they built to this deity

were of the simplest, being great heaps of fagots, which were added to

every year as they rotted away under the rains. Into the top of the

heap was thrust an ancient iron sword as the emblem of the god. To this

grim symbol more victims were sacrificed than to all the other deities;

not only cattle and horses, but prisoners taken in battle, of whom one

out of every hundred died to honor the god, their blood being caught in

vessels and poured on the sword.



A people with a worship like this must have been savage in grain. To

prove their prowess in war they cut off the heads of the slain and

carried them to the king. Like the Indians of the West, they scalped

their enemies. These scalps, softened by treatment, they used as napkins

at their meals, and even sewed them together to make cloaks. Here was a

refinement in barbarity undreamed of by the Indians.



These were not their only savage customs. They drank the blood of the

first enemy killed by them in battle, and at their high feasts used

drinking-cups made from the skulls of their foes. When a chief died

cruelty was given free vent. The slaves and horses of the dead chief

were slain at his grave, and placed upright like a circle of horsemen

around the royal tomb, being impaled on sharp timbers to keep them in an

upright position.



Tribes with habits like these have no history. There is nothing in their

careers worth the telling, and no one to tell it if there were. Their

origin, manners, and customs may be of interest, but not their

intertribal quarrels.



Herodotus tells us of others besides the Scythians. There were the

Melanchlainai, who dressed only in black; the Neuri, who once a year

changed into wolves; the Agathyrei, who took pleasure in trinkets of

gold; the Sauromati, children of the Amazons, or women warriors; the

Argippei, bald-headed and snub-nosed from their birth; the Issedones,

who feasted on the dead bodies of their parents; the Arimaspians, a

one-eyed race; the Gryphons, guardians of great hoards of gold; the

Hyperboreans, in whose land white feathers (snow-flakes?) fell all the

year round from the skies.



Such is the mixture of fact and fable which Herodotus learned from the

traders and travellers of Greece. We know nothing of these tribes but

the names. Their ancestors may have dwelt for thousands of years on the

Russian plains; their descendants may still make up part of the great

Russian people and retain some of their old-time habits and customs; but

of their doings history takes no account.



The Scythians, who occupied the south of Russia, came into contact with

the Greek trading colonies north of the Black Sea, and gained from them

some little veneer of civilization. They aided the Greeks in their

commerce, took part in their caravans to the north and east, and spent

some portion of the profits of their peaceful labor in objects of art

made for them by Greek artists.



This we know, for some of these objects still exist. Jewels owned by the

ancient Scythians may be seen to-day in Russian museums. Chief in

importance among these relics are two vases of wonderful interest kept

in the museum of the Hermitage, at St. Petersburg. These are the silver

vase of Nicopol and the golden vase of Kertch, both probably as old as

the days of Herodotus. These vases speak with history. On the silver

vase we may see the faces and forms of the ancient Scythians, men with

long hair and beards and large features. They resemble in dress and

aspect the people who now dwell in the same country, and they are shown

in the act of breaking in and bridling their horses, just as their

descendants do to-day. Progress has had no place on these broad plains.

There life stands still.



On the golden vase appear figures who wear pointed caps and dresses

ornamented in the Asiatic fashion, while in their hands are bows of

strange shape. But their features are those of men of Aryan descent, and

in them we seem to see the far-off progenitors of the modern Russians.



Herodotus, in his chatty fashion, tells us various problematical stories

of the Scythians, premising that he does not believe them all himself. A

tradition with them was that they were the youngest of all nations,

being descended from Targitaus, one of the numerous sons of Jove. The

three children of Targitaus for a time ruled the land, but their joint

rule was changed by a prodigy. There fell from the skies four implements

of gold,--a plough, a yoke, a battle-axe, and a drinking-cup. The oldest

brother hastened eagerly to seize this treasure, but it burst into flame

at his approach. The second then made the attempt, but was in his turn

driven back by the scorching flames. But on the approach of the youngest

the flames vanished, the gold grew cool, and he was enabled to take

possession of the heaven-given implements. His elders then withdrew from

the throne, warned by this sign from the gods, and left him sole ruler.

The story proceeds that the royal gold was guarded with the greatest

care, yearly sacrifices being made in its honor. If its guardian fell

asleep in the open air during the sacrifices he was doomed to die within

the year. But as reward for the faithful keeping of his trust he

received as much land as he could ride round on horseback in a day.



The old historian further tells us that the Scythian warriors invaded

the kingdom of Media, which they conquered and held for twenty-eight

years. During this long absence strange events were taking place at

home. They had held many slaves, whom it was their custom to blind, as

they used them only to stir the milk in the great pot in which koumiss,

their favorite beverage, was made.



The wives of the absent warriors, after years of waiting, gave up all

hopes of their return and married the blind slaves; and while the

masters tarried in Media the children of their slaves grew to manhood.



The time at length came when the warriors, filled with home-sickness,

left the subject realm to seek their native plains. As they marched

onward they found themselves stopped by a great dike, dug from the

Tauric Mountains to Lake Maeotis, behind which stood a host of youthful

warriors. They were the children of the slaves, who were determined to

keep the land for themselves. Many battles were fought, but the young

men held their own bravely, and the warriors were in despair.



Then one of them cried to his fellows,--



"What foolish thing are we doing, Scythians? These men are our slaves,

and every one of them that falls is a loss to us; while each of us that

falls reduces our number. Take my advice, lay aside spear and bow, and

let each man take his horsewhip and go boldly up to them. So long as

they see us with arms in our hands they fancy that they are our equals

and fight us bravely. But let them see us with only whips, and they will

remember that they are slaves and flee like dogs from before our faces."



It happened as he said. As the Scythians approached with their whips the

youths were so astounded that they forgot to fight, and ran away in

trembling terror. And so the warriors came home, and the slaves were put

to making koumiss again.



These fabulous stories of the early people of Russia may be followed by

an account of their funeral customs, left for us by an Arabian writer

who visited their land in the ninth century. He tells us that for ten

days after the death of one of their great men his friends bewailed him,

showing the depth of their grief by getting drunk on koumiss over his

corpse.



Then the men-servants were asked which of them would be buried with his

master. The one that consented was instantly seized and strangled. The

same question was put to the women, one of whom was sure to accept.

There may have been some rare future reward offered for death in such a

cause. The willing victim was bathed, adorned, and treated like a

princess, and did nothing but drink and sing while the obsequies lasted.



On the day fixed for the end of the ceremonies, the dead man was laid in

a boat, with part of his arms and garments. His favorite horse was slain

and laid in the boat, and with it the corpse of the man-servant. Then

the young girl was led up. She took off her jewels, a glass of kvass was

put in her hand, and she sang a farewell song.



"All at once," says the writer, "the old woman who accompanied her, and

whom they called the angel of death, bade her to drink quickly, and to

enter into the cabin of the boat, where lay the dead body of her master.

At these words she changed color, and as she made some difficulty about

entering, the old woman seized her by the hair, dragged her in, and

entered with her. The men immediately began to beat their shields with

clubs to prevent the other girls from hearing the cries of their

companion, which might prevent them one day dying for their master."



The boat was then set on fire, and served as a funeral pile, in which

living and dead alike were consumed.