[Rev. George E. White, of Marsovan, Turkey, in the Missionary Herald.]
OUR school geographies years ago taught us that, for the finest representatives of the human race, we must look to the Caucasus, that billowy expanse of mountain and plain where Europe and Asia meet, between the Black and Caspian Seas. Of the different peoples that, from time immemorial, have ranged those highlands, the Circassians are certainly one of the finest physically, tho they have never attempted much in the way of schools or books. They belong to the Aryan part of our human household, but in the sibilant, slippery, whistling dialects that they speak it is impossible for a stranger to detect any familiar words. The men folks are tall, lithe, and muscular, and their faces, however sunburned and weather-beaten, always show that by nature they are white and fair. Like his cousin, the Cossack, the Circassian may almost be said to be born on horseback; and his heart's desire is attained in the possession of three things, namely, a good horse, a good riding outfit, including saddle, bridle, and whip, and a good gun. The women enjoy the reputation of being the handsomest beauties in the harems of the Orient, and one way of political preferment open to young Turkish officials is the judicious presentation of Circassian girls, bought at high prices from their fathers, to the Constantinople pashas.
About the middle of the last century the Russians waged a long war, in which they gradually wore down the Circassians by the weight of superior numbers and equipment, and included the Caucasus within their expanding empire. The defenders fought a brave but losing battle for their ancestral domain.
In this struggle the most revered Circassian leader was the sheikh Schamyl, half Mohammedan prophet and half a military commander. His lightest word was implicitly obeyed by his people to the last man, and, at the call of this chief, who was distinguished by a well-known robe of fine white fur, the humblest guerilla rider would willingly respond with his life.
It is related that once, after a battle, the defeated Circassians took refuge on a mountain height, at the foot of which the victorious invaders encamped when night overtook them. In the darkness a Russian sentinel detected a slight noise, and, straining his eyes in the direction from which it came, saw a lone Circassian stealing down from the woods and crags to where a little boat lay at the head of a mountain stream. Restraining his impatience, the sentinel watched, and saw a second stealthy fugitive, and then a third, whose shoulders bore the famous white fur robe of the renowned Schamyl. The soldier could contain himself no longer, but roused his comrades, and together they rushed upon the Circassians, and soon despatched them. But the white fur was worn that night not by the sheikh Schamyl, but by one of his men, who had volunteered to lay down his life for his beloved chief; and, while the Russian sentinels were absorbed with the three doomed men who had cunningly attracted their attention, the real Schamyl had made his escape in another direction, to resume the warfare elsewhere another day.
In the end the Circassians were beaten, and then a sad stream of emigrants abandoned the home now ruled by a power that bore the name of Christian, and took refuge beneath the crescent flag of their Mohammedan co-religionists in Turkey, for the Circassians are, without exception, Mohammedans. The Sultan welcomed them as adding strength to the hordes of Islam, and appointed them places in the spacious uplands of Asia Minor where they might build their villages, clear fields for corn and grain, and pasture their horses.
It must be admitted that the exiles at first were a lawless set. They swooped down from their mountain eyries, harried the weaker Turkish villagers, and plundered the Christians of all races, or they appeared upon the highways, and robbed the passers-by without mercy. Many a poor farmer has tracked a lost ox or cow or sheep to the border of a Circassian settlement, whence it ne'er returned to its former owner. Many a traveler's heart has beat quickly when, toiling along the road, he has heard the quick clatter of horses' hoofs, and then met a group of fine Circassian riders, wearing round caps of black lamb's wool and square fur capes, armed with the finest weapons, laughing at the government officials, known to all as freebooters, and proud of their reputation.
One way of forestalling injury from such men is to retain their services. I once engaged a "Cherkez" to take me to an outstation I had occasion to visit, and, as we climbed the hills together, I made some inquiry about his occupation. He answered: "When I find a traveler like you to escort, I escort him; but my regular business is smuggling. In our village every man has a trade; some are farmers, some are smugglers, and some are robbers." Several times I have met courteous entertainment in that village.
On another trip home from an outstation, a party of us engaged four Circassians, with their horses, to carry us. As we prepared to mount, the Bey said: "Let us go the mountain road, for the mountain road is short and direct, but the valley road is long and roundabout; the mountain road is cool, but the valley road is hot; the mountain road has beautiful scenery, but in the valley you can not see a thing; the valley road has no good water, but the mountain road has springs so cold that you can not drink the water for the toothache it will give you."
One of my companions, an Armenian, slowly shook his head in protest against the mountain road. I said, "If you know any good reason why we should not take that road, state it, or else let us go as our men desire."
"Well," he burst out, "they say there are robbers on that road."
"We're the robbers," answered our guide, cheerfully; "there is no danger when we are along, and protect you." We enjoyed a safe and charming ride two days long, camping at night under a tree on the mountain road.
Latterly the Circassians have been settling down to more orderly habits. Their little homes of wattle and daub, often white plastered inside and out, and usually kept neat, are dear to them, and their fields and forests are yielding a less precarious living. Many of the bolder spirits have found openings in the civil or military offices of the government. Some of the finest cavalry seen by tourists in Constantinople at the great display on Friday, when the Sultan goes to mosque, are Circassians. Some of the ablest administrators throughout the provinces belong to the same race, for the weary Ottoman officials find it cheaper to put the head of a band of horse thieves into office than into prison. Besides all this, another venerated sheikh has risen up among them, and, for years, has been making the round of their settlements, preaching sermons to this effect: "There are two recording angels on high, the one putting down for every man the full record of his good words, deeds, and thoughts; the other putting down a similar record of every evil thought, word, and deed. Live as you will now, do as you please now, only remember that, at last, you must square accounts with these two angels." This appeal to conscience has had its effect with many, freebooters and smugglers tho they were.
It saddens me to remember that I have never heard of a Christian Circassian. They believe in God, in sin, in the future life, and in a righteous judgment, indeed, in all the Mohammedan theology, but they have no Christ, no Saviour, no divine Master. Some of them dread the future world, feeling that they are not ready for it, and are not satisfied with the light they try to walk in. As their language is unwritten, they have no open avenue of approach to the Scriptures, which are able to make wise unto salvation. Many resort to missionary hospitals, and there see what Christianity really tries to be. Missionaries have frequent conversation and occasionally intimacy with men of all ranks, from the slave to the pasha. Once, as I was riding with a Circassian, he told me of some years of service he had rendered certain missionaries, and, as he spoke in warm terms of them, their work, their treatment of him, I asked, "How could you live with them so long, and not come to believe the truth?" He turned quickly, and replied, "How do you know that I do not believe the truth?" But he would not continue the conversation. We have recourse to prayer, in which all friends may join. The avenue of approach to any heart via the Father's throne of grace is always open.