Chapter IV: The Pyramus. Giaour Dagh and Marash

_April 28th._—Rose at daybreak, and went down to the river. It is here fully 200 yards in width, and flows with a swift and even current of some five miles an hour. The banks are so hollow and brittle that it is dangerous to approach the water’s edge, and anyone falling into the stream would certainly be lost.

We started at 8.50 A.M.; our road crossed a grassy plain, cultivated in a few little patches; the soil is magnificent, a rich black earth, equal to the finest part of the Delta in Egypt. Most striking is the lonesomeness of the country. We met a few wandering Turkmans, and saw only one little village, Azizlü, on the mountain side to our right. Below it is a large ancient cemetery, full of tombstones of lava, inscribed with Roman numerals.

We were now approaching the edge of the plain, which in this quarter is bordered by an immense marsh, full of tall canes, and traversed by a clear and rapid stream, a tributary of the Jeyhoun (or Jeyhāan, as the people of the country call it). The range of the Amanus here gradually sinks into low, rounded hills of lava, and the black and porous stone projects from the soil everywhere. In front of us, upon a lofty, conical hill, was a large castle, built entirely of black lava. We halted near it at a Turkman summer encampment, consisting of half a dozen huts of sticks and cane, plastered over with clay; and after rest and refreshment, ascended the steep hill to visit the old fort known as Toprak Kalesi. It is a fortress of the middle ages, probably Armenian, and evidently constructed in order to command the approach to the plain on this side. It has a double line of walls (the inner line of very great solidity), and a keep, with great vaulted halls under it; all round the walls are small chambers, loopholed; below these are the stables and magazines, and in the middle of the great courtyard is a large cistern for receiving the rain-water. The whole surface of the hill is so thickly overgrown with brushwood and plants that it was not easy to make a way through it. In all these old Cilician fortresses snakes abound, many of them extremely poisonous, and half-way up the hill my friend pointed out to me a large black snake in the brushwood. Below the fortress had once been a considerable village, but all is now in ruin, excepting a handsome minaret of black lava and limestone. Several antique pillars had been used in building the mosque attached to it, and I noticed one handsome Corinthian capital of white marble.

Our arrival excited much curiosity among the Turkman villagers, but they were very civil, and the women came round us unveiled. Their headdress was a tall cap of white muslin, folded under the chin, and many had large gold or silver coins hanging at the temples.

The valley, at the mouth of which is the fortress of Toprak Kalesi, leads into another wild and uncultivated valley, lying between the main chain of Giaour Dagh, and the low hills in front of it. The valley is watered by a fine little stream (the Arra Sou), but nearly the whole district consists of marsh land and pasturage, covered with low brushwood.

The aspect of Giaour Dagh from this side is very fine, the front range being thickly covered with forest, while behind it tower the main ridges, white with perennial snow.

In about an hour and a half after leaving Toprak Kalesi, we came to the village of Osmanieh. Near it we met some 150 recruits on their march down to Adana, a fine-looking set of fellows, though for the most part in rags; several of them saluted us very civilly as we passed. Nowhere, indeed, during my whole journey had I any reason to complain of the behaviour of the people on the score of politeness. I was a foreigner, a Christian; my appearance, dress, and manners, could not fail to present many distasteful, many ridiculous points; yet never once was I treated with rudeness, and once only, viz. in this very village of Osmanieh, was there even the smallest laugh raised at my expense, and even on the occasion referred to it was all in good humour. The Osmanli, whether of high or low rank, is naturally a gentleman; whatever may be his faults, low buffoonery or laughter at the expense of other people is not amongst them. I wonder what the experiences of a foreigner would have been under similar circumstances in many a village nearer home?

The village of Osmanieh is only about ten years old, and was established under the following circumstances.

It is well known that at all times the border between Syria and Turkey has been one of the most disturbed and unquiet districts in the empire, owing to the mountaineers and robber chiefs who inhabited the Giaour Dagh. At present the country is tolerably safe, but this has only been the case for about five years past. Before that time the route we took would have been most dangerous, to a European perhaps fatal, as the fierce mountaineers would never have permitted a foreigner, and a Giaour, to pass through their country unmolested. Until about five years ago these men were completely masters of this district. They robbed, murdered, and made raids in all directions at their pleasure. Caravans could not pass; at times even a strong armed escort could not afford protection. At length even the inert authorities in Stamboul felt that something must be done, and about eleven years ago Dervish Pasha was expressly sent from Stamboul to take the command of a strong force, and put an end to this state of things. But the mountaineers made a stubborn resistance, and it required four or five years of active warfare before they were subdued. The loss of life on both sides was great, and Dervish Pasha was succeeded by Ismail, Jevdet, and Daoud Pashas in the operations against the rebels. The mountain villages were at length captured, the chiefs taken prisoners and sent either to Constantinople or “interned” in some remote part of the empire, the villages were destroyed, and the common people removed from the mountains and forced to settle in the plains. For a long time small detachments of soldiers were kept in the mountains, at distances of three or four hours apart. Most of these are now withdrawn, and there is no one living in the mountains, but the passes are still kept by strong guards. Yet even now robberies and murderous attacks are common, especially on the side towards Alexandretta. We heard of a case which had just occurred a little to the south of Osmanieh, where the mountains are much lower, and the caravan route to Alexandretta crosses them. Indeed, if the Government at all relaxed its vigilance matters would soon be as bad as ever.

Osmanieh was one of the villages in which the mountaineers had been forced to settle. It is a primitive little place, with a cold, bracing air in winter, but in summer it is nearly deserted, owing to malaria. The people live almost entirely by their flocks and herds, and, although the soil is fertile, there is but little cultivation. From a distance its whitewashed houses and high minaret give the impression of a flourishing little place, but it consists of only 140 to 150 scattered houses.

We entered it just before sunset, and stopped at the shop of a Syrian tailor to rest, while our interpreter tried to find us a lodging. In a few minutes nearly all the population gathered round to stare at us; conspicuous amongst them was a fine-looking Keurdt, with a long beard, beautiful teeth, bright eyes, and a profile resembling the handsomest faces on the Assyrian monuments. He seemed extremely amused at us, and his observations caused a little merriment among the crowd. However they were not rude, but we were glad to retire to a shed offered us by an Armenian. It was not a luxurious lodging, being simply an outhouse in his garden, with great holes in the wall and roof, freely admitting sun and air, but here at all events we were secure from intrusion, and so no doubt more comfortable than if we had lodged in the Government House, the usual resort of travellers like ourselves, and been obliged to hold a kind of levée, which to a tired traveller could not fail to be irksome, though meant in all kindness by the visitors.

Our host told us that there were only five Armenian families in Osmanieh, and complained much of the hard treatment they endured from the Muslims. He seemed a good, simple kind of man. He had lately lost his wife, and was left in a miserable state of poverty with two or three little children. He told me that owing to the wildness of the country, and the want of population, wild animals were numerous, and sometimes dangerous. A year ago a leopard had killed four children and a man before it was itself hunted and killed. In severe winter weather the wolves are dangerous; about three years back five persons had been killed by them in that neighbourhood. The cattle and sheep must be driven into the villages every night to secure them from wild animals and robbers.

In the middle of the night I was suddenly awakened by the cry of a pack of jackals, and the furious barking of the village dogs.

_April 29._—Left Osmanieh at 8 A.M. Rode up the wide valley, which is marshy, but with here and there a bit of finely cultivated land. It is well watered. Half an hour from Osmanieh we crossed a stream running left to right, soon afterwards another flowing right to left. This our guide called Yalpouzi Tchai. The banks of these streams are well wooded, and literally alive with birds of many kinds, especially the thrush (or blackbird), and the nightingale filled the air with melody.

On our right was the village of Tchardak, and above it, on a towering peak of the mountains, the ruined fort of Tchardak. The mountains on either hand, thickly covered with oaks, pines, ash, myrtle, and arbutus, gradually closed up the extremity of the valley. At 10 A.M. we reached the military post of Devrishli, from which the pass has its name, Devrishli Bel. This pass traverses a chain of mountains connected with the Giaour Dagh, but not the main chain; this could be seen at intervals, rising far above all the mountains round it.

The Yalpouzi Tchai issues from the pass just at the point where we entered it, and the same stream (I think) enters the pass on the other side by a tremendous gorge, at the point of our exit from the pass. It is the same stream which flows down from Bagtche and above it, but it is there called by another name. Almost every village gives a different name to the river adjoining. Some of the peasants only know a river as “the river,” e.g. in the Billali Pass above Bagtche I asked a man the name of the river, to which he replied “Neh olour? Sou olour!” “What should it be? It is ‘the river.’” The entrance to the pass is very marshy, and the road was rendered worse by a heavy thunderstorm, but we made our way through thick bushes of myrtle and jasmine rising high above the horses’ backs, and began the ascent of the pass.

Though the Devrishli Pass has no very steep, precipitous ascents, as the mountain passes of Western Anatolia, it is very long and difficult, and in winter quite impassable. It runs across the crests of a succession of broken heights, the offsets of the main chain, but diving deep at times into ravines. The ridges along which the pass runs are separated from the rest of the mountains by deep ravines and river channels. The slopes on the other side of these ravines run up to heights more elevated than our path, but still far lower than the main range, the snowy ridges of which were visible at intervals. Many spots on the slopes, to all appearance almost inaccessible, were nevertheless cultivated, for there were here and there cleared patches sown with wheat.

The wanton and insensate destruction of the forest is very striking. In some spots spaces had been cleared by burning, and the blackened stumps formed a strong contrast to the bright verdure of the crops below them. In other spots the trees had been ringed, and then left to fall through time and decay; and in others, again, the axe had levelled a whole plantation, which still cumbered the ground, and would probably never be used, even for fuel. All the finest pines had been cut and fired at the base, to make “tcheragh.”[8] It was melancholy to see such wanton and mischievous destruction. The Government is said to be taking up the question of the forests in earnest, and assuredly it is high time to do so, but it may be doubted whether anything will really be done.

We met many parties of peasants on their way down to reap the harvest in the plain of Cilicia. They were very poorly clad, and appeared a strong, lithe set of men; not one in twenty of them was armed.

One party seemed well off. They had their women with them, who were all well dressed, and wore no veils, but had many ornaments, amongst others two large bronze or silver medallions, hung at the left temple. Their headdress, like that of all the women in this district, was a tall, square coif of white muslin or cotton, the ends wrapped under the chin.

At about the middle of the pass, on a rock with precipitous sides from 400 to 500 feet high, and cut off by deep gorges from the surrounding heights, was a ruined fort “Keupèk Kalesi” (Dog Castle), perhaps one of the many robber holds destroyed by the Government troops a few years ago. So far as we could learn, these mountains are only traversed by the pass through which we came, and its continuation, the “Billali Pass.” The whole group of mountains lying N.W. and N. of the high chain of Giaour Dagh, and E. and N.E. of the continuation of the Amanus, up to the south edge of the plain of Marash, forms one chaotic, intricate, and lofty mass, the scenery of which is of the grandest order. A few streams make their way through it, but their channels are impassable and their course only known by conjecture. No wonder that caravans and travellers, and all the country round, were at the mercy of the ruffian chiefs who lived in this great natural fortress.

The general direction of the pass, with but slight variation, was eastwards. It occupied us nearly three hours to traverse, and then we made our way through pleasant, winding valleys, watered by a considerable river, and amidst well-wooded heights to the village of Bagtche. This is prettily situated at the junction of two deep ravines, down which flow the head-waters of the Yalpouzi. It consists of a few solidly built houses, clustered round the village mosque, a graceful and pretty building, the whole buried in a grove of poplar and walnut trees. The inhabitants consist of fifteen Muslims and about one hundred and fifty Protestant Armenians, connected with the American Missions at Marash and Aintab. But the Mohammedan is evidently the dominant and established faith. The village seems new, at least we looked in vain in its extensive cemetery for any antique remains. The kaimakam, a fine-looking, elderly gentleman, who was in very bad health, invited us to drink coffee; afterwards we adjourned to the shop of the village dyer. The only food we could procure was a little very bad bread, and yet worse yaourt, and I was tired, cold, and faint with hunger, having only been able to get a little bread and coffee at 6.30 A.M. The villagers—evidently miserably poor—clustered round us, glad to exchange a few words with Europeans. They said they were twenty-four hours distant from Aintab, which lay to the east, and thirty-six hours from Aleppo. They had no resident minister, but at stated times a native clergyman came round from Marash or Aintab, and sometimes one of the American Missionaries. They were not at all molested in their worship by their Mohammedan masters, but showed their dislike to them very clearly.

The land all round the village is thickly strewn with great blocks and boulders of stone, red, white, black, greenish, and yellowish, which rendered the paths intricate and difficult; some of these rocks were extremely beautiful in the clear water of the river.

After a short repose we entered the Billali Bel (Whetstone Pass). Its general direction is N.E., and it is traversed by a comparatively good road, which is kept up with some care, but its declivities are numerous and very steep. Some of the slopes across which it passes are at so steep an incline, that a stone could be thrown down directly, and without effort, into the roaring river hundreds of feet below. The scenery is grand and beautiful, with lovely views down the pass of the great ridges of Giaour Dagh. All is well wooded, especially the river ravine, which is full of fine planes, walnuts, and other trees, few as yet in leaf. The stream itself is very lovely, clear as crystal, now roaring along in rapid torrent, now foaming in cascades over great masses of green or red marble or dolomite, now curling round roots of gnarled and aged trees, now sleeping in a placid pool, and every side valley brings its tribute of waters.

Here and there are lonely cottages, with a few patches of cultivated ground round them, perched high up in positions almost inaccessible on the sides of the ravine. What a life their owners must lead! And yet I am convinced that on the whole it is a far happier life than that of most persons of a similar rank in Western Europe. Though poor, their wants are few, and at least they can enjoy the bright sun and free air of heaven, and are not condemned to pass an existence of monotonous toil and trouble—only varied by an occasional drinking bout—in the thick, murky, joyless atmosphere of some great manufacturing town, or in the close courts and reeking alleys of some populous city.

They are a simple-minded, honest, and really religious race, free, moreover, from many of the vices of civilized society.

After all, life is a system of compensations!

I thought we should not require more than two hours to traverse the pass, but it occupied us four and a half hours. We followed the course of the river till it received a large tributary from the east, and then we approached the water-parting, which, according to my friend’s mountain barometer, was about 3500 feet above the sea, and was formed by a series of low, rounded hills, full of magnificent pine forests. Just then darkness came on; our cavass hesitated, he had lost the way, and we had the unpleasant prospect of spending the night out in the cold. But presently we met a party of woodcutters returning to the village, who took us back in quite a different direction, and at 8 P.M. we reached the Armenian mountain-village of Kizil Aghadj Oldousou, and alighted at the house of the mukhtar, a rich Armenian landholder, named Toros Chakrian, welcomed by the fierce baying of a pack of huge wolf dogs; but I was so cold, so stiff, so exhausted by fatigue and want of food, that I could scarcely mount the staircase of wood that led up to the house. The hospitable host kindly helped me up, and we entered a handsome room, well carpeted, well lighted, and with cushions and silken coverlets on the floor. A raised daïs ran along one side of the room, and a blazing wood fire cast its cheerful gleam over the company. Nothing could exceed their hospitality. I was so benumbed that I could not take off my boots and riding gaiters (a necessary piece of etiquette for a guest), so that the master himself kindly helped me, and I was soon seated at the fireside. Two more candelabras were brought in, and coffee and cigarettes offered. Two splendid silver narghilehs succeeded, which Toros himself lighted for us. Then, seeing that I was still shivering with cold, he ordered glasses of hot tea to be prepared, but it was long before I could recover the natural heat, so chilled was I by the sharp mountain air and by want of food; and our host, with the best intentions, kept us waiting till nearly eleven o’clock for an elaborate supper, instead of giving us what was at hand. In the meantime we sat and conversed. Our host was a well-made man of about thirty-five years of age, with handsome features, splendid teeth, bright eyes, and a look of great determination. His dress was of the Marash style, a maroon-coloured woollen robe, heavily embroidered with gold and crimson silk, a waistcoat of the same, thick cloth trousers, and a Syrian silk turban round his fez. He had been indulging in a little raki, and was very voluble. He seemed delighted to welcome us, and repeated twenty times at least, “memnoùn im̆,” “I am thankful” (i.e. that you are come). Now, pleased at finding that I could converse a little with him, he would take me by the hand and squeeze it affectionately. Anon he would order one of his children, or servants, to bring out something for our honour or amusement, a plate of preserved violets, Samsoun and Latakia tobacco, fresh narghilehs, a bag of antique coins (very few of the least value, but I saw one good Demetrius Theos), a Persian decoration—an order of some kind, but I forget how obtained—a handsome rifle, which he said he had taken about eight years before in the attack on Zeytin, a semi-independent Armenian village, where he had served under Atesh Pasha. In the meantime his tongue ran on incessantly. He told us about his land, his cattle, his business transactions, how at times he drove down herds of his own cattle to Alexandretta for sale, and only a short time back had been attacked by robbers on the road, whom he had beaten off, but not before one of their shots had wounded his horse in the breast. He had been to Constantinople, and showed us his photograph taken at Sabah’s, with all his “accoutrements” on, and with his captured rifle in his hand. Our interpreter said that Toros had an income of about $4000 a year, a very large revenue for this country, but the Government taxes absorb a considerable part of it. With the remainder he lives a happy life enough, keeping open house, and exercising the greatest hospitality. It is a pity the Government do not employ men like this in the public service. This man I am sure would serve the State well, and as an officer would lead his men valiantly. But they dare not give power to men of this stamp. If they did so to any extent, the present miserable system of misrule would soon come to an end.

Supper was at length announced, and our host took my hand, led me into an adjoining room, and placed me near the great copper tray on which the dishes were arranged. Small pieces of calico were given to us as napkins. Raki and home-made wine were served, the latter very palatable. It is invidious to criticise the _cuisine_ of an hospitable host, but the result after three hours’ preparation was but poor. The only really good things were the bread and the yaourt.[9] The rice pilaff was gritty, the meat so tough that one could not eat it, and one dish so strongly flavoured with garlic that I did not venture upon a second taste of it. By way of grace before meat, a young Armenian, who acts as schoolmaster to the village, and as a kind of extra servant to Toros—no very pleasant berth, by the way—chanted the Lord’s Prayer in Turkish; the children accompanied him, and I noticed that they turned the palms of their hands upwards all the time (“manus supinas”). Then, while we were eating, they stood in front of us and chanted hymns in Turkish, with those peculiarly loud and nasal intonations which are only to be heard amongst the Eastern Christians. The master of the house kept time during the intervals of eating by gently waving his spoon, and when the hymn languished he would rap the dish sharply, and utter a loud “ha!” with a few words of command, which acted like an electric shock on the performers, and set them off again vigorously. I did not eat as much as I could have eaten, in pity for the chorus, and so rose hungry but warm. The attendants quickly finished the remains of our supper. We returned to the “salaamlik,”[10] smoked a narghileh, and at midnight lay down to sleep.

_April 30th._—Rose at 6 A.M.

Toros Chakrian’s house is of two stories, the upper used as the lodging of the family. The projecting roof, supported by great pine trunks, forms a covered gallery extending along the front of the house, and into this the various rooms open. The house is stone built, and one of the best I saw in the country. In front of it rise mountains thickly covered with forest, and with a great quantity of snow only a few hundred feet above us. Our host was sitting in a summer-house, near which lay a number of pretty white marble capitals, which he told us he had brought from Anazarba, and meant to use some day in building a church.

The morning was bright and sunny, but the wind was piercing, and we waited so long for breakfast that we all became miserably cold, but, _en revanche_, Toros supplied raki and cigarettes in abundance. Breakfast consisted of rice soup, some milk, and another garlic-flavoured dish, so that I only took bread and milk. The same prayer and hymn as the evening before accompanied our meal. After breakfast our host brought his children to show us. They were one boy and two girls, the eldest a fine girl of thirteen to fourteen years, with handsome, strongly marked features, and dark, rich complexion. She wore a thick necklace of gold coins, and made haste to escape when the inspection was over. When we left, Toros escorted us a little distance, and I noticed that the wound in his horse’s breast was even yet not thoroughly healed.

We descended through hills, partially cleared and sown with grain, the direction of the pass being still N.E., but after mounting a ridge the road turned S.E., and we began to descend. Before us in the plain was a lower mountain, which our guide called Giaour Dagh, and a lake of considerable size, which we were told abounds with splendid fish, but few are ever brought to market, as the Turks do not like fish; they think it produces fever. The fish of the Jeyhoun and Sarus are of very poor quality.

The road gradually descended into a valley full of oak, and of hawthorn in full bloom, and with a beautiful little river, the Imalu Sou, flowing towards the lake. The extensive plain that runs up to Marash was so inundated that we had great difficulty even in skirting the edge of it owing to the marshes. The number of brooks and streams is very great; besides the Imalu, we passed two large brooks, and soon after I observed another large and rapid stream running parallel with the road. Our cavass, whose pronunciation was very imperfect, called it the “Keulpoir Sou” (i.e. “Keulpongar Sou” = the Ash Springs River), and said that it burst all at once out of the ground. Soon after, we passed the villages of El Oglou Tajirlis and Tchakallu and came to the “Ak Sou” (which our cavass called the “Āās̄i”), a rapid, eddying torrent, turbid and muddy, spanned by a bridge of six arches, none of them even or alike. It is of the same style as the bridge of Messis, and is doubtless a work of Justinian, but repaired at various ages since. Marash was visible a long way off on the hill side across the plain, but we were obliged to make a long détour to avoid the marshes along the Ak Sou. We reached the town at 4.30 P.M., wet, tired, hungry, and shivering from the cold north wind, which swept down from the mountains.

Our choice of a khan was unfortunate, our room very bad, the khanji’s _cuisine_ detestable, and the people, especially the Armenians, impertinent and inquisitive. I was obliged literally to close the door in their faces, but I slept soundly, for I was exhausted by cold, hunger, and fatigue.

_May 1st._—The khanji inclined to be troublesome, but he changed his tone considerably, when he found I could talk with him in his own language.

We have made a most unlucky choice of lodgings. The bazaars are close beneath, and all night long the “bekjis” (watchmen) keep up an intermittent sound of howls, fifes, and whistles. Our door is exactly opposite the staircase, up which people came to stare at us. They would calmly take a bench or chair, and watch us for half an hour at a time. Then, too, an inspection of the weights and measures of the town was being held, and this khan had been chosen as the place in which the examination should take place, so that all the tradesmen of the town were obliged to bring their weights and endazeh (measure) to have the Government stamp fixed upon them, and loud and long were the protestations, reproofs, abuse! All these people could look directly into our room as they came up the stairs, and it was laughable to see their surprise and curiosity. The “endazeh” measured exactly 2 feet 3 inches, but it may be a local measure.

Marash is the chief seat of a most flourishing American Protestant mission (United Presbyterian), with branches at Killis, Aintab, and throughout the whole district as far to the west as Nigdeh. The number of Armenians in Cilicia is estimated at 153,000 souls, and nearly 14,000 of these are Protestant, with twenty-six churches and chapels, many of them having schools attached. In Marash alone there are four chapels and eleven schools (large and small), with an attendance of 450 children for five days in the week. In each chapel divine service is held twice on Sundays and twice during week days.

I called upon the Rev. Mr. Montgomery, who is in charge here. He was absent, but I was most kindly received by Mrs. Montgomery, from whom, and from some of the principal members of the congregation, I gathered much information about this town. Marash contains from about 25,000 to 30,000 people (this is a probable estimate). Of these 7000 to 8000 are Christians, principally Orthodox Armenians and Protestants—the Protestants being about 2700 in number.

Of Greeks, there are scarcely any, and only a few Roman Catholics, although there is a Jesuit mission here, which expends much money, and has a large and finely built college, situated on a hill in the middle of the town. On the other hand, the success of the Protestant mission is surprising. I was told that even many Muslims would join if they did not fear the persecution that would assuredly result. Much depends on the case of a Muslim named Mustafa, who had become a Protestant Christian, but had suffered severe persecution. Indeed, his life had only been spared at the strong instance (so at least I understood) of the American and British ambassadors—this probably was an exaggeration on my informants part—but he had been exiled to Smyrna.

The American mission lives on good terms with the Orthodox Armenians, but, with few exceptions, the leading Muslims, and indeed all classes of Muslims, are hostile. Sometimes the governors are favourably disposed, but dare not display their good will to any great extent, lest the influence of the rich and powerful Beys should be used against them at Constantinople; and a fear was openly expressed, that should any disturbance or war of Europeans against Turks take place, the native Christians would be the victims. The bitterness of the Osmanlis had much increased of late. Above all, the influential Turks are opposed to the opening of schools.[11] Yet Mrs. Montgomery spoke highly of some of the Turks, and said that very often men of high probity and honour were found amongst them. The condition of the poorer Christians is very pitiable, and they suffer extremely at times, more so than the poorer Muslims, the latter being here greatly assisted by their own people, who are better able to afford help. The bedeliyeh, or exemption tax from military service, presses heavily upon the poorer Christians, although its amount is trifling, and cases of Christians becoming Muslim were not uncommon; sometimes an Armenian would apostatize in order to spite and vex his relations.

Except during a part of the summer, the town is healthy. This is chiefly due to the fine supply of water, which descends from a group of springs in the mountain above the town, and flows in many channels down the declivity on which the town stands, thus also the place is kept tolerably clean. A surprising quantity of water bursts out from these springs, which give to the river its name “Kirk-geuz-pongar Sou,” “the river of the Forty-eyes Springs.”

The people suffer much from ophthalmia, doubtless caused by damp and the sudden changes of temperature, but they attribute it in great measure to the violent winds which prevail at certain seasons. These winds are almost entirely local, for at the summer station of the mission, a place called Kara Khan, two hours up in the mountains, they are never felt, and seldom far beyond the town; Kara Khan is situated in a gorge of the mountains, and whenever there is a thunderstorm in the high ranges of Taurus, a violent gust of wind sweeps down through it upon the plain. The local wind is doubtless caused by some peculiar formation of the mountains round the town. The people look robust, but all the weakly die out before they are three years of age, and the loss of a child is very little thought of.

The height of the town above the sea is about 2500 feet; the heat in summer is great, and changes of temperature are very sudden. Living is extremely cheap. Meat in winter costs 3 T. piastres per oke (equivalent to about 7_d._ per 2¾ English lbs.), in summer, 1½ piastres per oke. Milk, in summer, 30 paras per oke, in winter, 40 to 50 paras (equivalent to about 2_d._ per 2¾ lbs.). Eggs very cheap; peaches 5½ piastres per batman of 2½ okes; apples not of good quality, about the same price; grapes are amazingly cheap, viz. 30 paras per batman. But in the town the fruit sold is not of good quality, owing to the mutesarrif, who, with the best intentions, and with a view to benefit the poor, has fixed an arbitrary price on all fruit brought to market, in consequence of which law the cultivators send only their worst fruit into the town, and consume the best at home. All octroi duties are now removed.

At present the trade of Marash, as also that of Adana, is suffering in consequence of the famine in the interior. The chief trade of Marash is the manufacture of woollen fabrics used for clothing. Some of these are very beautiful, being embroidered or interwoven with gold and silk, and all are wonderfully cheap, so great is the lack of money in the country. The leather work of all kinds is excellent, and we saw some fine specimens of saddlery inlaid with gold. The boots are very good, being strong and well made, but the waste of leather in them is strange. In the goldsmiths’ bazaar I saw some jewellery, principally bracelets and brooches; it was strong but not elegant.

Marash contains about twenty mosques, some with very graceful minarets in the style usual in Cilicia. In one mosque, which bore some resemblance to the beautiful Olou Jamaa of Adana, was a fine Norman zigzag arch. There are twelve Christian churches, but some of these are rather houses used as churches.

The old fort stands upon a conical hill to the west of the town; it is Saracenic, but built, I think, on earlier foundations. The arches of the gateways are made of stones, mortised in the style so common in Cairo, but less elaborately. The stones, which are cubes of limestone, yellow and brown, cause the whole building to appear, at a distance, of a deep orange colour. On the wall near the great gate are the statues of a lion and a panther, exactly like the lions of the Alhambra. The fort is dismantled and ruinous, but the thick iron ribs with which its ponderous gate is covered, pitted and dented all over with balls, testify to many a desperate combat for its possession. The sentry at first refused us permission to enter, but through the kindness of the second surgeon of the Military Hospital, an Italian, we were allowed to visit the interior. The hospital is very clean, and well kept, and the diet and treatment of the sick soldiers good, but the dispensary seemed poorly furnished.

The site of Germanicia is a little to the east of Marash, but absolutely no remains, except a few lines of foundation wall, are to be seen; nor did I notice any antiquities in Marash, save one or two sarcophagi, used now as water troughs. At the mission house, however, a curious bronze statuette was shown to me. It was the figure of a woman wearing a tall, conical cap, and mounted on a bull or ox, hunched like the Brahminy cattle. It had been washed up by the rain, in a ravine upon the mountain behind the town. I bought a similar figure of an ox only at Karaman, the figure mounted on it had been lost.

_May 2nd._—Went at 8 A.M. to visit the churches of the Protestant community. The first church, a plain but very spacious building, contained a congregation of 380 to 400 people, the men together on one side, the women on the other, all seated on the ground, and listening to the reader, who was reading a Psalm. The order, the cleanliness, the devout attention of these poor people was truly admirable. At the conclusion of divine service they formed into little circles of fifteen to twenty each, with the instructor of each class addressing them from a book, either a Catechism, or some portion of Scripture. The quiet, unassuming attention of all was in strong contrast with the noisy confusion usually prevailing in a Greek or Armenian church. In an adjoining building was a school of about 150 children.

From this I went to another and larger church, where a congregation of at least 450 were present. The spectacle was exactly the same, and a school of not less than 200 children was attached to this church. All the books used are in Turkish, but printed in the Armenian character. Lastly I visited the Theological School. The instruction is from a translation of the United Presbyterian Theological Catechism. A small class of little children was here also, and the pupils were being catechized on “duty to parents.”

These people are all served by their own native pastors, and the churches are self-supporting, the American clergymen simply directing and superintending; the only support sent from America is for the Theological School. A piece of land had been bought for the purpose of building a Theological College, but permission to build had not yet been obtained. The land is “wakf” (mortmain), and the Muslims of Marash object to buildings being erected on it, as they say “no fruit can then be grown from it,” their real reason probably being their dislike of education for the rayahs. At the same time it is only just to say that in Alexandria I have known most advantageous offers of purchase for “wakf” lands refused for the same reason alleged by the Muslims of Marash. Mr. Montgomery was then at Aleppo, endeavouring to obtain the Wali’s permission to go on with the building.

The students, after graduating, are sent out as preachers to the various villages throughout the district. Their farthest station on the west is Nigdeh, on the east Aintab; at Killis and at Kashab (on Mount Cassius) are flourishing little Protestant communities, but at Aleppo very little is effected.

The ladies of the mission used to take part in the work, but from ill-health and other causes had ceased to do so.

It was truly a touching sight to see this zealous little community of Christians. Many of the women had brought their little children with them, some quite infants, and there were many lovely children’s faces to be seen. A great number of elderly men and women, too, were present. The whole congregation was most attentive, and though in large part poorly dressed, of exemplary cleanliness.

After the inspection I paid a visit to the mission house, which is on the hill above the town, and commands a most extensive view of the plain of Marash and the mountains round it. Looking south, one sees on the extreme right two peaks of Karajah Dagh. This mountain is visible from Adana. Next, Dourbin Dagh (Telescope Mountain); lower than this, and between it and Marash, is Seur̀r̀ Dagh; next Giaour Dagh, sweeping off towards the S.W.; then the long line of Kapujan Dagh, across the extremity of the plain; lower than it, and between it and Marash, the smaller Giaour Dagh and its lake before mentioned; almost due south, and faintly visible, is what is called in Mr. Montgomery’s manuscript map of the country “Saddleback Mountain”; one of the Armenians called it “Keurdt Dagh.” The higher ridge of Achyr Dagh, the mountain behind Marash, cannot be seen from the town; only its nearer and lower ranges are visible. Its continuation (Nadjar, Sakar, and Kanlu Daghler) stretches far away to the N.E., and forms a long wall of snowy heights.

I sketched out a conjectural map of our route through the Devrishli and Billali passes, and was told that we had taken a long and difficult road, that the easiest way of coming to Marash is from Osmanieh, to a place called Tejli Ova, which is five hours from Baghtche, on the side towards Adana. Then from Tejli Ova to Baghtche. From Baghtche four hours through the mountains to a place called Kazan Ali, which is on the edge of the plain, six hours farther from Marash than the spot at which we came down upon the plain. The reason why muleteers preferred the route we took was that the descent to Kazan Ali was very abrupt, and did not suit their loaded animals. This route, moreover, was very interesting, because the pass between these two places had been closed up by an ancient fortification, of which considerable remains yet exist. About one hour and a half from Baghtche, on the side towards Kazan Ali, was a deep gorge, through which the road passed; on the left or north side of this the mountain ended in a vast, precipitous cliff, and a wall of great hewn stones had been built at an angle with this precipice so as completely to block the passage. This wall had been pulled down, and through the breach Mrs. Montgomery had once travelled with her husband; but a piece of the wall some thirty to forty feet high was still standing, and on it were several Greek inscriptions. Mr. Montgomery and another of the American missionaries had examined the whole line of the mountains, and thought that this must be the true Pylæ Amanides, which are usually placed much farther south. I afterwards asked our muleteer about these passes, and he confirmed what I had heard from Mrs. Montgomery, only he declared there was no other pass from Osmanieh to Baghtche except the Devrishli Bel by which we had come.

There is a bed of extremely fine slate on the table-land at the top of the pass between Baghtche and Kazan Ali.

Giaour Dagh in the distance

_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]

I took leave of my kind hostess with regret and a feeling of high esteem. She is a good, zealous woman, very sympathetic, and full of sound good sense. Unfortunately her health is not strong, perhaps from the malaria of the climate. Her two sons were fine, healthy little fellows, speaking Turkish better than English, and often employing Turkish idioms when speaking English, which had the oddest effect.

There is a direct road from Marash to Alexandretta (36 hours) through a place called Islahiyeh, marked in Mr. Montgomery’s manuscript map. This is one of the villages formed by the forcible settlement of the mountaineers removed from the Giaour Dagh after the government troops had subdued them. It was a very marshy and unhealthy place, and _corvée_ labourers, masons, and carpenters, had been sent from Marash to build houses for the forced immigrants. The health of the place had, however, now much improved. The country is so level (until the road reaches the pass of Beylan above Alexandretta) that very little would be needed to make a good carriage road, and there are fine oak forests along the route. But the unhealthiness of the country would be a great obstacle to colonization.