From a newspaper point of view, the situation was full of interest. No correspondent had been here for weeks, and as the cables were long since out of commission, the cream of it was mine. What I learned in effect in the hour or two that I talked with my guest was that from the Black Sea to the Caspian the entire Caucasus was in a state of convulsion, revolution and anarchy. Street fighting and incendiarism had been rampant in practically all of the cities, both large and small. Only a few days before a mob had been dispersed by machine guns and Cossacks in the streets of Batuum. The latter had become quite lawless, and it was the custom to kill any suspicious character first and investigate afterwards. If the aforesaid killed character proved on investigation to be a reputable citizen—well, then the joke was on him. Anyway, he ought to have stayed at home where he belonged, instead of roaming about the streets like a common Armenian. The latter, by the way, are always the red rag to the government bull, anywhere in this region, and the motto might be well adopted, “When in doubt, kill a few Armenians,” just as one takes a dose of quinine when one gets wet. I gathered that Armenianitis had been having quite a run in Batuum about this time. Not because they were specially offensive just now, but just for luck. Street fighting in Russia is as well recognized a stage of revolution as an increased temperature and a quickened pulse is in typhoid fever. The cure is usually Cossacks and machine guns in hourly doses until improvement is noticed. This street fighting rarely means much except that people are voicing a long repressed sentiment of resentment and finally march in irresponsible bodies and are promptly dispersed with heavy losses. The Russian officers get medals, the dead are buried, and all moves on much as before. This was much what happened in Batuum the week before my arrival. A lot of poor ignorants had been killed. The town was in a state of siege, and people were being murdered in the name of the law every day. Poti (the port we had aimed at and been turned back) was filled with armed revolutionists, who were said to be well organized and preparing to move on Batuum, which was the then center of Russian military strength in the Caucasus. Tiflis, up the railroad line (which had stopped running), was rent with strife and was the stage on which the Armenians and the Tartars were fighting over some involved question among themselves. For a month before these same two peaceful races had been tearing Elizabethpol (a town in the interior) into small fragments with their perpetual fights. Our town was full of refugees, who were stiff with lurid details. It was generally believed that Russian agents had started these inter-race troubles, always at fever heat, to prevent both from combining against Russia. The Armenians and Tartars are always ready to fly at one another’s throats at two minutes’ notice. It was quiet