The Birmingham age-herald., 1912-10-20

High up along the wall of my den hangs la vEnderfully wrought and curiousiy fashioned brazen samovar that has been my companion over sea and land, noun Itain and desert for many year.
 It is centuries old--in truth l do not knNw its age for I first made its ac- ouiSntance at Nijni-Novgorod many years ago where fell in love with it's gracefu
 outlines and glistening surface and 1t re- quired several hours of negotiation ere could induce its whilom owner to part \ with 1t at a figure that deemed within the bounds of reason. If the Arabian mer- I chant from whom l made the purchase I was to be believed this samovar was no
 ordinary brewing vessel; not at all. It possessed and probably still possesses l mysterious power of imparting the future to any patron who would upon moon- light night brew egg shells in the tea that constituted its contents.
 4 I never tested the vessels prowess In this respect, so my reader may not fear that I am going to pose as rival of E Morier in his inimitable Hajji Baba of ! Jsphahan or emulate the mental orgies of
 
 But my samovar often portrays the past ! to me. sometimes in the glister that it's { furnished surface sheds and sometimes E in the wreathing of the steam that is its breath when I brew the tea upon win ter's night.
 As it sings in it's brewing it speaks to me in fondly reminiscent mood and re- calls the mutual hardships and pleasures 1 that have been ours as we followed to- I gether the ignis fatuus of the wanderiust 1 through lands that are strange and far 1 away.
 Next to my pipe that samovar has com 1 panioned me more closely and more thor i oughly in all my wanderings than any l other of my personal belongings. It has
 tasted of the waters that lave the tomb I of him who sleeps by Philae and gurgled l with the flood of the springs of BaalbeclS
 whose streams never leave home It has
 sputtered with the saline depths of the
 eea which we call dead and the kerosine
 clippings of Batoum where the lake is set on fire But it has also quenched
 its thirst with the palatable draughts of
 the sweet waters of Euprope, the lavings
 
 walls of Zion. the foamy gushing of Nor ways incomparable Espelandsfos and the current of the vale of Avoca where the sweet waters meet" But there is one spot that is, and ever will be the bete noir of that samovar,
 the dryest spot on earth where water is worth its weight in silver, and that Is the city of Alden. whose conduits are compared to tanks above sheol and of which I am going to speak.
 We have all heard of that spot in Greece where water was so scarce that a man building his house found it cheaper
 to mix his mortar with wine, but Alden
 surpasses even that delectable locality in this respect. Ten years ago I panted and
 perspired and I am afraid swore in this
 same Alden and my samovar was With me, but it did not swear. 1t only sizzled,
 or would have done so could it have
 found the water to make it sizzle and
 tonight as l survey the vessel on my den
 wall it spaks to me of that city.
 I have visited the cave near Naples
 where Virgil placed the entrance to hades
 and have realized the potency of the
 legend fascilis decensus averni but Sol-
 fataro does not alone lay claim to this
 distinction in legend and ancient lore.
 Tradition has it that the site of the
 present Alden was once fire-warped rock from whose hollow depths the flames of tophet flickered and where the demons of the underworld spewed forth streams of molten stone and engaged in orgies that put to shame the demoniacal satur- nalia of the witches upon the brow of the Brocken on Walpurgis night even when described in Goethe's inimitable manner.