Chapter V

THE KURSOULOU AND KAYISH RIVERS. BAZAAR. BOUDROUM.

_May 3rd._—We had forgotten to engage our muleteer for the return journey to Adana; we had some difficulty in finding him again, and could not start till 10.45 A.M. Of all the unpleasant khans it has been my lot to inhabit, this of Marash is amongst the worst. The inspection of weights and measures had not ceased when we left, so that the staircase was always full, and a group of curious idlers was constantly inspecting us and our doings. After crossing the bare hills which extend from the foot of Achyr Dagh we came, at 12.30, to the little village and mill of Oongoot, and at 1.25 we reached the bridge over the Jeihaàn. It is of pointed arches, the main arch very wide and high, and five small arches. The remains of another bridge are still to be seen in the stream a little above.

Close to the bridge on the west side of the river is a range of conglomerate hills intersected by great veins of sandstone. Some of the conglomerate may vie with the Dunuk Tash of Tarsus in hardness, and it contains the strangest variety of stones of all sorts, sizes, and colours. The geological features of the district were most varied. The great rib of conglomerate extended far back into the country to the foot of the mountains. It was plainly to be distinguished by its deep colour, by the rounded forms it assumed, and the complete absence of vegetation.

After crossing the bridge, we turned towards the left. Before us rose the serrated, broken summits of Khadj Bel Dagh, over which our route lay. Delik Tash was on the N.W., and great ranges of snow mountains were visible in every direction. The country is full of bush and pasturage, and with a considerable breadth of land sown with grain; some peasants were at work, but there were few houses, and until we came, on the evening of May 5th, to Ajemli there was nothing deserving the name of a village, only scattered houses and Turkman huts (summer). This scarcity of inhabitants is the more remarkable, as the district we were traversing must be extremely fertile, to judge from the aspect of the crops. The soil is a rich yellowish-brown loam, with scarcely a stone or pebble in it, thickly overgrown with bushes, and falling in steep slopes towards the river, or towards the little brooks, of which there was one at the bottom of every ravine we passed. These ravines were numerous; no sooner was one rounded height surmounted, than we had to mount up from the ravine to another. For some distance our road lay along the river, but the difficulty of advancing was very great, owing to the continual and extensive landslips. Wherever a spring bursts forth or a rain gully descends, there a landslip occurs, often so marshy that it could not be passed except by making a long détour. It seemed as if the whole surface of the hill side was slipping downwards bodily towards the river, and hence it is that the waters of the Pyramus are so thickly charged with mud.

As I was descending one of the banks a brace of rock partridges rose with a great clamour, and the moment afterwards I caught a glimpse of a wild cat as he rushed off. This is the only game I saw; the scarcity of game is caused by the peasants, who kill the game in season and out of season. We had started so late, and the passage of the banks, full of landslips, delayed us so long, that we were forced to stop at a small Armenian (Christian) hamlet called Tchairlan Tchiftlik, at the confluence of the Kursoulou River with the Jeihaàn. Here the river is forded when the water is low; but now both rivers are furious, deep streams, swollen by the melting snows. The family with whom we lodged consisted of a weaver, his wife, a good-looking young woman, and two children. They were so poor that, as the man told me, they never drank coffee, and his wife did not seem to know what it was, for it required much persuasion from the interpreter before she would accept a cup. After a long search the villagers found us a few eggs, which our interpreter at once put aside for our breakfast. But he made a large rice pilaff from our stores, to which all did justice, and then I unadvisedly slept inside the house, which was spacious enough, but by its very look indicated fleas! Slept, did I say? No! it was a wretched doze, and when I arose I was covered with innumerable bites. My arms presented twenty bites at least to the square inch. The man is a weaver of native cotton cloth, which in this district they make very strong and good, and his trade no doubt encouraged fleas.

_May 4th._—Started at 6.30 A.M. Our course led up the Kursoulou River, in order to cross the bridge, and then returned along the opposite bank to the spot over against our last night’s lodging; a loss of two and a half hours, but unavoidable, as that is the only line by which loaded animals can cross the Khadj Bel. The number of ravines and small streams is very great, in some places there is a ravine every 200 or 300 yards, and some are deep and with abrupt banks.

Much more use seems to be made of the streams for irrigation than in West Anatolia. We were forced continually to cross dykes and deep currents of water directed to some distant cornfield, and this rendered our progress slow and difficult. The birds are very numerous in this district; I noticed this especially, because in some parts we rode for hours and saw scarcely a bird, but here the bee bird, oriole, and blue jay were seen in great numbers, and the thrush or blackbird was as numerous as in England. We reached the bridge at 7.45 A.M. It spans the river by a single pointed arch, broad and high to allow free passage to the swollen stream. Long, sloping banks of earth, generally at a steep angle, border the river, some of them 700 to 800 feet in height, and the soil is being constantly washed down by the river; one perpendicular bank was kept in its place by horizontal bands and veins of sandstone.

At about nine o’clock we reached the mouth of the Kursoulou, and from this point began the ascent of the pass. As we mounted we could see the respective courses of the Jeihaàn and Kursoulou for many miles. The river enters what appears from the heights above, a narrow ravine between Dourbin Dagh and Khadj Dagh. The mountains seem as if they rose straight up from the river, but from the river valley the highest ranges could not of course be seen, as the nearer heights would obstruct the view. But we could see all, and grand and vast indeed was the prospect! The summits and deep ravines of the mountains were covered with dense forests of pine. Here and there, far up the mountain side, were patches of cultivation (cornfields). But although we carefully examined the whole range of country before us with the telescope we could see only one small village. On our side of the Pyramus there was a little hamlet called “Kaia Sholi,” just under the ridge of Khadj Bel, and below the pass the village of Dŭngălă, or Dunkalaat, and that was all, in a district rich enough to support a large population. The highest point of the pass was still high above us, the ascent to it was along a great rib of sandstone, and we reached the top about 1 P.M. Here we bade adieu to the plain of Marash, and a new prospect opened before us. In front rose the high and jagged peaks of the main chain of the Giaour Dagh; they resembled huge slates set edgewise, and the range stretched backwards till it culminated in the rounded, snowy Dourbin. These jagged peaks are so abrupt that the snow only lodges in the deep crevices on the mountain sides, and it looks like a number of narrow white streaks on the dark blue-grey of the limestone or lava ridges. Whilst the horses were resting I made a pencil outline of the scene, but it is impossible to give any adequate idea of the wild beauty of these mountains.

From the bottom of the first great descent, on the other side of Khadj Bel, a deep ravine runs up without any break to the top of this great mountain wall, so that there is an uninterrupted view of the rugged edge, towering far over head, and supported by its mighty rock buttresses, like so many huge, square, projecting towers. The descent occupied us nearly as long as the ascent, at length we reached a narrow and beautifully wooded valley, watered by a little river that took its rise in the watershed of the mountain pass. We were still encompassed with lofty and well-wooded mountains; but after leaving the top of the pass we could not see the higher snowy ranges. Scarcely a human habitation was visible, and during the whole day we did not meet more than two or three peasants or travellers, the country seems almost a wilderness. At last, just as night was closing in, and after we had been nearly twelve hours in the saddle, the muleteer halted, saying that it would be impossible to reach any village to-night. There was not even a house for a long distance; if I liked he would try to go on still, but it would soon be dark, the road was bad, and we had better rest here until the morning. The spot was evidently often used for a resting place, as the remains of camp fires testified. It was a group of large rocks in the forest; from the side of one of them a shelf of rock projected six or seven feet, thus forming a kind of shelter. The river was near, and a beautiful spring of ice-cold water burst from the rock close by. There was abundance of firewood, so we kindled a huge fire, prepared our well-earned evening meal of pilaff and tea, spread our mattresses, and slept comfortably enough; the night was excessively damp, but I found that my mackintosh spread over the blanket kept off both cold and dew, and a silken keffieh protected head and eyes. The “keffieh” is an effectual protection against sun and damp, and an invaluable defence to the traveller in the Levant. The river by the side of which we bivouacked is called the “Sara Toprak Sou” (Yellow Earth River).

_May 5th._—Left our bivouac at 6.30 A.M. Whilst at breakfast two travellers came up and stopped to warm themselves at our fire, for the early morning was cold. The muleteer had told me the road was bad, but I little expected how bad. The track passed over sheets of smooth limestone lying at a considerable inclination. I have seen similar roads in Anatolia, but there at least there is much traffic, and in the course of ages holes have been worn in the rock into which the animals can place their feet, and so scramble along; such roads are difficult, but not dangerous, at least with a sure-footed horse. But here the traffic was only enough to render the surface of the stone slippery. These sheets of rock extended for hundreds of yards together, and sometimes the only means of passing over them is to follow the fissures up and down. Here and there, in the worst places, a few loose stones had been placed in a row to catch a little earth as it was washed down by the rain, and so form a footway. In most places no such pains had been taken, and riding over these smooth surfaces would have been a nervous matter at any time; but, added to all this, my horse was very restive, and a great enemy of my friend’s horse, continually trying to bite or kick him, and then rushing off without noticing in what direction he went. Many times we slipped a yard or more at a time, once, especially, he rushed on to a large sheet of smooth rock that sloped rapidly to the river, and stood fast in the middle of it, afraid to move, and trembling in every limb. I dared not try to dismount, but gathered up my feet on the top of the saddle, so that if he fell I might not have a leg broken. At length he slipped down to a slight crevice, and thus we escaped from this dangerous position. After about an hour’s riding over rocky slopes of this kind we entered a district of stiff, yellow clay, tenacious as pitch, and filled with great angular pieces of black lava, which rang like metal under our horses’ hoofs. Into this pudding-like mass of tenacious clay, mud, and stones, the horses plunged up to the knees, at times up to the belly. The river had to be crossed continually, where it flowed over sheets of smoothly worn rock. For hours the poor animals floundered along in this way. No epithet can be too strong to describe the difficulties of a road like this. At length we emerged from this district, and entered another of clay and limestones. I noticed here a number of fossils, mostly like the scallop; others, of a round form, seemed as if vitrified and embedded in the stone.

Next came a succession of grassy meadows, with some ploughed land, where a peasant was turning up a rich humus with a wooden plough and a pair of half-starved oxen, but the soil was so sodden by long rains that the horses’ feet sank deeply into it at every step. Altogether it was a most wearisome and painful route, trying alike to temper and to physical endurance. Our animals, however, did their best, and if anyone would form an idea of the pluck and strength of these hardy little Cappadocian horses, and of the dreadful tracks over which they will carry their riders, let him make the journey from Marash to Sis by the same road as ourselves.

After leaving the cultivated ground we passed through a tract filled with nodules of black lava as large as a man’s head, and polished like glass, and with other lava of many and varied colours. But this was not a difficult road, as the disintegrated lava formed a dark soil over which the horses moved in full security. Beyond this was a region of great, rounded limestone hills, but their surface cloven into innumerable blocks, and these again split up and cracked into countless fissures and crevices. It seemed as if these hills had been forced up in a state of glowing heat from the earth, had been suddenly exposed to the action of intense cold or water, and so had been riven into innumerable fissures great and small. The term “ragged” rocks exactly expresses their appearance. The supply of water from these rocky hills was plentiful, and of good quality. The hills were covered with large oak and ash trees, but with the exception of the pines on the higher ranges, and the plane trees in the river valleys, the country for the most part produced no finely grown trees. Three-fourths of the soil, even in the plains, is covered with brushwood, and only affords pasture for great herds of goats, which gnaw off and destroy the young trees, while the axe strikes down all the larger specimens, often, as it seemed, in sheer waste. All this fine land, which now only supports a scanty and poverty-stricken population by means of goat pasture, might grow great crops of grain, and doubtless did produce them in the old times.

The whole region is very wild, but the absence of birds and wild animals is remarkable. The natives never stir out without a long flint-and-steel gun at their back, and being merely pot-hunters, nothing comes amiss to them at any season, for a meal of flesh is an attraction they are unable to resist.

At midday we came to the little hamlet of Sooranji Oushara, inhabited by Armenian Christians. It is at the side of one of these ragged rock mountains, and overlooking the plain, but high enough to enjoy a cool and healthy climate. For hours we had been hoping to find a place in which to rest, and obtain some food and a draught of milk, but one rough mountain ascent and dangerous descent followed the other, until we were quite exhausted. At last the muleteer told us that after passing one more mountain ridge we should reach the long-expected village. The latter part of the way was most dangerous, and my spirited little horse again gave considerable trouble.

Our route followed the course of a small stream, which here descended into the plain; and the path passed along the face of steep banks 200 to 300 feet above the river, so that the stream appeared almost under our feet, without even a fringe of bushes or vegetation to mask the descent; in such spots the path seemed to run in a kind of shallow track at the side of the bank, over and around great masses of rock, and along a narrow rim of earth. One false step would have sufficed to roll both horse and rider to the bottom. In the middle of this difficult passage the baggage horses were jammed, and unable to advance; my own horse began to be restive, and nearly backed over the precipice. Becoming aware of his danger, he rushed forward up a small goat-track above the path on which we were standing, and could neither go forward nor backward. To look down was enough to make one giddy, so I hastened to slip off on the side next the bank, and left him to take care of himself; this he did by drawing his feet together, trembling all the while, and then slipping down to the path below, where we had some difficulty in securing him again. Very serious, if not fatal accidents, might easily happen in places of this nature.

The women of the hamlet gathered round us, and brought some milk and a little native bread. They were tall and good-looking, somewhat masculine in manner, and, in spite of their poverty, wore many ornaments, large silver armlets, gold coins hanging at their temples, and belts of bright red, or yellow, or green leather, studded with large knobs of silver, and with a great silver clasp in front. Their hair was plaited in a number of tails, secured at the end with silk and with small silver coins attached.

The descent from Sooranji to the plain was long and tedious, and the heat intense; the sun’s rays nearly all day had been absolutely scorching, but once fairly upon the plain we felt the oppression less, as the sea-breeze can penetrate thus far, while the ranges of hill and mountain prevent it from reaching the valleys, which, as summer advances, are like so many furnaces. Yet, owing to the abundant rainfall, the verdure of the plain, and of the hills round it, is very lovely.

On the edge of the plain were the ruins of a small church and of a castle; with some difficulty we found a ford upon the Andren Sou, the river which here flows through the plain, passed it, and after about another hour’s ride through hills covered with brush and low trees, all bursting out in their spring foliage, we came to the village of Ajemli.

We had been nearly eleven hours in the saddle, and both men and horses were exhausted. The house in which we were lodged was inhabited by three brothers, Armenian Christians, each with his wife and family, and, strange to say, they seemed to agree very well. I may observe, indeed, that never once in Turkey have I heard bickering, quarrelling, or abuse amongst the people, either Christian or Muslim; this seems to me a very creditable trait in their character. Each of these families had a separate portion of the house, but at present all were lodging, both day and night, in the open gallery which ran along the whole front of the house, some fifty or sixty feet in length, the heat of the lowlands being already too great for sleeping inside the house. One end of this gallery was assigned to us, our hosts occupied the other end; the lodging was clean and airy, but the pertinacity and inquisitiveness of the visitors was very annoying, and at last I was obliged to request them to leave us, as we required rest.

Our interpreter killed a large brown centipede just before he retired. The people say its bite is worse than the sting of the scorpion; one of the children who had been tending sheep had been stung by a scorpion, and was crying bitterly from the pain; a little ammoniac and a plaster of moist earth relieved him, and the people wrote down in Turkish characters the word “ammoniac,” in order to procure some from the Greek pharmacy at Adana on the first occasion any of them went to that town. The hot weather is bringing out all these venomous creatures. In reply to my inquiries, the people said there were many poisonous snakes in the country, and that the old ruined forts, of which there are many in Cilicia, abound with them. They mentioned two kinds as sometimes giving mortal bites; one rather black, but not very large, and a smaller thin snake, of grey or “dust” colour as they called it. The black one puffed out his neck when about to strike. If true, can this be the cobra? I asked them whether they actually knew any instance of a mortal bite, but from Orientals precise information can seldom be obtained, and with them it was all hearsay. However one of the minor exports of Cyprus is a kind of wooden shoe, for the peasants of Karamania, said to be used on account of the dangerous snakes that abound in their province.

Our hosts’ principal means of livelihood seems to be their flocks. A large quantity of milk is brought in every evening to be turned into “yaourt,” and their bread, eggs, milk, and yaourt are excellent. Their house is a large stone-built edifice, situated in a most beautiful position, but looking south, which causes it to be very hot in summer. It commanded an extensive view down the river valley of the Kayish Sou and the plain along its banks, bordered with low hills on either side, low mountains in the middle distance, far to the south the Amanus, and on the east the romantic, jagged ridges of the Giaour Dagh, with vast sheets of dazzling snow on the rounded summit of Dourbin Dagh, above 10,000 feet in height.

In answer to my inquiries about the antiquities of the country, one of the villagers said he knew a place called Boudroum, lying about ten hours south of Ajemli, where he had seen many columns still erect, and very many prostrate, besides old buildings, &c., so we decided to go there next day, and thence to Bazaar (or Kars, as it is also called). The man agreed to guide us all the way for 1½ mejidiehs = about 6_s._ 3_d._

_May 6th._—Rose at daybreak. Took a paper impression of a Greek inscription carved on a block of limestone built into the wall of the gallery where we lodged. The inscription had been inserted upside down. The letters are cut in relief, and between each line is a rib, also in relief. It was brought from a village to the west of Ajemli, not far distant. Our guide could not be found, having drawn back, owing, it seemed, to his fear that we should not be able to ford the Kayish. A second, however, offered his services, and as the people thought the river would prove to be fordable, we started at 8 A.M. The heat was great, and the sun’s rays very powerful. We passed due southwards over the same kind of hills as yesterday, thickly covered with brushwood and low trees. Our route lay along a range of low heights in the middle of the plain, and on all sides stretched a rich and beautifully green pastoral district; the hills that bounded the plain being wooded to the top, while beyond, as already described, were the high ranges. After passing a Turkman encampment we came to the Turkish village of Bahadurli. The villagers thought that we could pass the ford, but when I saw the rapid stream, with its sinuous course and muddy, snow-fed waters, I began to have misgivings. However, we descended to the plain, and for nearly an hour rode through thick brush and low trees. The country in front of us and on the west side of the Kayish was well wooded with trees of a size uncommon in this district, and in a dell on the other side of the river was one of the old border fortresses in ruin, which our guide called Koum Kalaat.

AMENDED TEXT.

Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν θεός
τῶν θεὦν πάντα διά αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο
Ἔτους πέμπτου καὶ δεκάτου Φ Ἰν
δικτιῶνος ιδ’ † Θεοῦ θέλοντος
καὶ τοῦ ἁγίου Ἰωάννου συνευ
δοκοῦντος ἐγένετο το εργον
τοῦ ἁγίου Ἰωάννου † ἐπὶ τῶν
γαληνοτάτων καὶ θεωφυλάκτων
ἡμῶν βασιλέων Μαυρικίου
Καὶ Θεοδοσίου τοῦ υἱοῦ αὐτοῦ
Καὶ τοῦ ὁσιωτάτου ἐπισκόπου Πέτρου
Γεώργιος ὁ μεγαλοπρεπέστατος συν
Ἰωανναλίῳ τῷ ὑιῷ ἀυτοῦ ἐπλήρωσε τὴν εὐχήν, κ. τ. λ.

TRANSLATION.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was God
of Gods; all things through Him had their being. In
the fifteenth year (i.e. of the Emperor’s reign) in
the fourteenth year of the indiction (i.e. the current
indiction), God willing (it), and S. John approving (it),
the work of S. John was accomplished (i.e. probably a
church dedicated to S. John) in the time of our most
serene and God-protected Emperors Maurice and Theodosius
his son, and of Peter the most holy Bishop, Georgius the
very magnificent, with his son Joannalius fulfilled his
vow, &c.

“In the fifteenth year” (i.e. of the reign of Maurice), Maurice
reigned twenty years, from A.D. 582 to 602; this fifteenth year
was, therefore, A.D. 596.

“Ινδικτιῶνος ιδ” (i.e. in the fourteenth year of the current
indiction).

The “indiction” was a period of fifteen years, or thrice the
Roman lustrum; perhaps originally some fresh arrangement of
taxation or new assessment was made every fifteen years. The
imperial indiction was established in memory of Constantine’s
victory over Maxentius on VIII. Kal. Octobres, A.D. 312, by
which entire freedom was given to Christianity. The Council of
Nice, in honour of the emperor, ordained that account of time
should no longer be reckoned by olympiads but by indictions.

The indiction of Constantinople, established by Constantine,
was calculated from Sept. 1st, A.D. 312.

From 596 subtract 312 = 284. Divide this by 15, the result is
18 full indictions, and a remainder of 14 years, which belongs
to the 19th indiction. It is strange that in inscriptions of
the Byzantine times the number of the indiction itself is not
given, but only the year of the current indiction (as here).

Ornamental signs are often found in Greek and Latin
inscriptions of the times of the Emperors in the middle or at
the end of a line in order to fill up a vacant space. The Φ in
the third line is an instance, it is not to be considered here
as a letter.

“ἐπὶ τῶν γαληνοτάτων,” &c., &c. “In the reign of our most
serene and God-defended emperors.”

In the Byzantine language γαληνότατος means “serenissimus,”
βασιλεύς means αὐτοκράτωρ—“Imperator”: thus βασιλεύς Ρωμαίων =
Imperator Romanorum.

In contradistinction—Kings were styled Ῥῆγες: thus, the
King of France was Ῥηξ Φραγκίας, Rex Franciæ; Ῥηξ Ἀγγλίας,
the King of England Γεώργιος ὁ μεγαλοπρεπέστατος, “Georgius
magnificentissimus,” a title equivalent to “illustrissimus,”
which was borne by high functionaries of equestrian rank.
Ιωανναλιω = Ιο(υβεν)αλιω, i.e. Juvenal.

The faults of grammar and orthography in this inscription
attest the barbarism of the age, and of this province, at the
end of the sixth century.

The Emperor Mauricius Tiberius was dethroned in A.D. 602
by his revolted troops, who proclaimed Phocas Emperor. The
ex-emperor endeavoured to escape with his family by sea, but a
tempest forced him to land at a place about eight leagues from
Constantinople. He was there captured, and his four sons Peter,
Paul, Justin, and Justinian successively beheaded before him,
Nov. 27, 602 A.D.; last of all he was himself slain. There is
a very affecting account, that as in each case the fatal blow
was struck the unfortunate emperor exclaimed, “Righteous art
Thou, O Lord, and upright are Thy judgments” (Psalm cxix. 137).
Theodosius, his eldest son, escaped for the moment, but was
arrested whilst endeavouring to make his way to the Court of
Khosroes II., King of Persia, and put to death, with his uncle,
by order of Phocas.

Two years later (in 604) the ex-empress and her five daughters
were beheaded at Chalcedon by order of Phocas, and thus the
family was exterminated. It is perhaps the most hideous amongst
the many hideous tragedies in the history of the Byzantine
emperors.

About half-way to the ford we passed the remains of an ancient bridge. Two of its piers, and much masonry of solid construction, still stood on our side of the river; the opposite pier was destroyed, and lay in huge fragments on the bank. With a very little expense and engineering skill a wooden bridge might be thrown across the stream, and thus save the trouble, delay, and at times even danger of crossing the ford, for our guide admitted that three persons had been drowned in trying to cross it during the last five months. At length we came to the spot. Our guide, after long hesitation, entered the water. It was very rapid, and soon reached above his waist, so the interpreter went in with his horse, and the guide holding by the stirrup, they struggled to the opposite side, the water coming up to the middle of the saddle. That was enough; the ford was certainly not passable for the baggage horses, and dangerous even for a single cavalier; but when the interpreter reached the opposite bank he found that the stream had hollowed it away beneath, and the water was so deep close in shore, and the ascent so steep, that it would have been impossible to climb the bank. A horse would probably have fallen back in trying to do it, both the horse and its rider would have been washed away by the rapid stream, and the man at least would inevitably have been drowned. With some difficulty our interpreter came back, his clothes and saddle-bags all wet, and we returned disappointed, after losing six hours in this vain attempt. We were exhausted by the heat, and my friend’s horse having broken down, we determined to remain at Ajemli, and go on to Bazaar next day. Such is the stupidity of these people, and the general carelessness of a dragoman, that I found out afterwards from the guide that had we gone “up” the river about three-quarters of an hour’s distance we should have found a bridge, and that he knew the way on that side also. When I asked the dragoman why he had not found this out, he stoutly maintained that there was no road on that side, although the guide had just told me there was, and that he had gone by it. So the antiquities of Boudroum are left for some more fortunate travellers to explore. The heat did not abate till six o’clock.

_May 7th._—Awakened early by a great splashing, and discovered that the mistress of the house was engaged in churning. The churn was a large goat-skin full of milk, and suspended to a triangle of three small poles; in this she was working up and down a wooden churner. It seems that they have now but little cows’ milk, as the pasturage is beginning to become scarce. What they now use is goats’ milk, and out of this large skin of milk only about 1 to 1½ okes of butter (about 4 lbs.) could be made, and this is entirely for home consumption. The butter is worth upon the spot about 16 piastres per oke, a price which seemed to me very dear for Turkey, being at the rate of nearly a shilling per pound.

We left Ajemli at 7.30 A.M.; course N. and N.E., over a series of lofty hills, such as those which bound the plain on every side. The material of these hills is a conglomerate of black lava mixed with stones, in great part limestones rounded by the long action of water. About half an hour north of Ajemli is a bridge over the Kayish, of two small and two larger pointed arches, which seems to be of the same age as the bridge of Adana. After crossing it we went up the course of a beautiful and clear stream (towards west), called the “Akar Jarun Sou.” This whole district is thickly wooded with oaks of considerable size. After crossing the stream many times, we left it at 8.45. From this point for a long distance there was no spring or water of any kind. Our direction was N. and N.W. The ground was covered with rounded limestones, disintegrated from the conglomerate. Here and there sandstone and chalk, with red loam, are mixed with the conglomerate. Very little of the surface of these hills can be cultivated, except where the earth has been washed down into the ravines, the rest, forming forest or scrub, serves only as a pasture for goats. There was a thick undergrowth of myrtle and other shrubs; some of them had bright magenta-coloured flowers, and others a flower like the snowdrop, which has a faint, sickly fragrance, like honey. The absence of birds, indeed of all animal life, was strange. I only saw the blue jay, some hawks and vultures, and one or two small birds; even insects seemed rare, and the deep silence of these forest hills was very remarkable. The flora, too, was poor. I saw variegated trefoil, salvia, cystus of various colours, but scarcely any other flowers, and no cyclamens, so plentiful in the Khadj Bel. At 10.20 we reached the top of the ridge, and again beheld the great plain stretching out level as the sea, with its border of hills, and a few heights rising here and there in it like islands. The Amanus was faintly visible; the Bulghar Dagh veiled in vapour; Kizil Dagh and Giaour Dagh clear. The temperature here was delicious, affording a striking contrast to the stifling heat of the less elevated districts, and so exhilarating was the air that our muleteer, who rejoiced in the name of “Kesh,” burst forth into one of those melancholy, howling, nasal songs of which the Turks are fond!

As we approached the end of our journey the oak woods gradually gave way to woods of red arbutus. We reached Bazaar at 1.40 P.M., and found the heat in the plain by no means so great as it had been in the valleys we had traversed during the preceding two days. There was not a tree to be seen on the great plain, but many Turkman tents, and great herds of cattle and sheep attended by the shepherds, all armed with gun and yataghan. We were so exhausted by fatigue, heat, and hunger, that we at once lay down and slept till nearly six o’clock.

The lodging provided for us by the kaimakam was a small room in the house of a dyer, having on either side a raised ledge, used as a seat. The walls were of unplastered mud bricks. Before taking possession of the room we had it thoroughly swept and then washed out, but despite this precaution the fleas were very annoying, and to add to this inconvenience I was troubled with fever, in consequence of the bad food and heat of the last few days. The utmost care and precaution are needed in this malarious country, and from its position and its filthy condition Bazaar must be exceedingly unhealthy. When summer has fairly set in, the place is nearly deserted, and the people enjoy the purer air of the mountains.

In the evening we went out to see the place. Bazaar is one of several small villages known by the general name of Kars. It is on the edge of the great plain, surrounded by fine fields of barley, already nearly ripe. All these villages together may contain about 700 houses, and Bazaar is the largest. It occupies the site of some ancient town, which, to judge from its remains, must have been a place of considerable importance. Everywhere are columns, whole, or in fragments, pieces of white marble, architraves, &c.; wherever any excavation is made large hewn stones are found, even to the depth of 10 to 12 feet.

The principal ruin is that of a church or monastery, containing in its enclosure a smaller church, now used as a mosque; both are of late date, probably the monastery of about 500 A.D., the church still later, and both are constructed of fragments from earlier buildings. The monastery measures about forty-four paces by twenty-three (a parallelogram); at the end is a fine apse, still in good preservation. The whole building is made of massive hewn stones of all sorts and sizes. To the apse, the Christian church, now the mosque, had been attached at a later period, but the church is much smaller than the original building. A kind of corridor, entered by a number of strong arched doorways, runs round both sides of the court thus formed. Above the corridor are square windows in the wall. I had examined the south side, and was proceeding to examine the north, when I was interrupted by the Imām of the mosque, who came up in a state of towering indignation. For some time I allowed him to proceed, till having quietly written down my description of the place I turned to him, and addressing him in the most polite Turkish I could command, told him that I had a firman from the Sadr-el-Azum (Grand Vizier) to examine any building in the country, and if I pleased could even enter the mosque. I have always found it produces the best effect, when one is able to converse a little with a Turk in his own language. So it was now; the man was quite mollified, permitted me to draw the apse and the doorway of the mosque, and we parted good friends. My guide said there were inscriptions inside the mosque, but defaced. Not far from the church was another large building, constructed of old materials put together _pêle-mêle_, large blocks with small portions of ornamented work inserted in the wall, &c., &c. This also was a reconstruction of a later age; and there are vaulted remains of some large building near the church, the arches pointed. The walls and courtyards of the houses are full of funereal inscriptions (much defaced), pedestals, sarcophagi, &c. In the courtyard of the village school are several finely preserved inscriptions, carved on polished pedestals of grey limestone.

ΑΓΑΘΗΤΥΧΗ
ΑΥΤΟΚΡΑΤΟΡΙΚΑΙΣΑΡΙ
ΚΟΜΜΟΔΩΘΕΩ
ϹΕΒΑϹΤΩΙ
ΙΟΥΛΙΑΝΟϹΑϹΚΛΗΠΙΑΔΟΥ
Γ ΤΟΥΔΗΜΗΤΡΙΟΥΙΕΡΕΥϹ
ΤΟΥΑΥΤΟΚΡΑΤΟΡΟϹ
]

ΙΚΛΑΔΑΙΟϹ
ΙΛΛΑΡΕΙΝΗΙ
ΤΗΓΥΝΑΙΚΙΚΑΙ
ΠΟΠΙΔΙΑΝΟϹ
ΤΗΑΔΕΛΦΗΚΑΙ
ΔΟΜΕΤΤΙΑΗΜΝΤΗΡ
ΜΝΗΜΗϹΧΡΙΝ
]

The name Commodus has been carved in place of another name erased.

Round the courtyard of the Government House are columns, to the number of twenty-five or thirty; none rise more than a few feet from the ground, some are quite level with it. It is not possible without excavating to say whether or not they are on their original site. A small statue was shown to us, it was about 1½ feet long, of inferior workmanship, and broken; probably it had been part of some monument, for it represented a youth asleep, reclining on his left elbow. A number of antique coins were brought for sale, but none of any value; amongst them I noticed two false silvered coins (as if electroplated), perhaps antique forgeries. A considerable river, the Savroon, runs through Bazaar. There is no bridge, but we saw a few remains of the old bridge. Nearly all the population of Bazaar are Muslim; there are, however, a few Armenian Christians, and amongst them from twenty to thirty Protestants, connected with the American mission. In reply to my questions, the guide told me that the Muslims here were not bad or oppressive, and that the Government behaved with tolerable justice and fair dealing, “only they are ‘up,’ and we Christians are ‘down.’” The “Bedeliyeh” (exemption tax for military service), is paid by every Christian of military age, till he is seventy years old. It amounts to 35 piastres per annum, equal to about 6_s._, not at all a heavy charge, considering the benefit it secures to the Christian payer; our guide of yesterday told us that he paid 30 piastres, and that he preferred “not serving,” but if it must be so, he would go and serve with a good will. This I found to be a very general feeling. The misfortune is that so much depends upon the personal character of the Wali, Mudir, Kaimakam, or whoever may be the superior Government official; the whole administration will take its tone from him. It is not just to conclude that there are not upright and good officials, but unfortunately they are in a hopeless minority.

_May 8th._—Our host confirms what we had heard about Boudroum, and says it is easily reached from Bazaar, so we determined to go there, and engaged a cavass as guide. We started at 7 A.M. Our direction was southwards, towards a low conical mountain. On a spur of it stands the fort of Hemita, close to the Jeihaàn. After riding about an hour, we had Anazarba on our right; between us and it, so that all were in a line south by west, were two villages, Waiwai and Nazli; farther off on our right, and N.W. from Anazarba, is a large village Kereli. Great flocks of goats and sheep were feeding on the plain, but not a tenth of the land is cultivated, much being covered by a kind of wild lily.

A pleasant sea-breeze was coming in, the sky overcast, and the air so full of mist, that even the high snow mountains could not be seen. Anazarba, and several other rocky heights, rose from the plain like so many islands in the sea. At 9.15 we reached Bozkoyou Keui. There is here a magnificent cistern of excellent water, doubtless antique. The name signifies “the village of the ice-well.” At about 10 A.M. we were opposite the rock of Hemita, but we turned away from it towards our left, in a S.E. direction, through some wild valleys. Here were some very extensive and ancient Muslim cemeteries, but the villages to which they once belonged have disappeared. The country is gradually becoming a little more peopled, though even yet it is almost deserted, but a dozen years ago there was not a house, much less a village, in all this district, and the marauders from the mountains around, and the wild Turkman tribes, rendered the passage through it always more or less dangerous. For about two hours we continued to pass through valleys filled with dense herbage, amongst it acres of fine clover, as deep as the horses’ knees, growing as nature sowed it. There was not a tree nor a bush for miles around, and scarcely a living being to be seen, only at long intervals a boy or an old woman tending a little flock of goats, and watching a patch or two of barley. At length we crossed a rocky ridge to our left, and at about midday saw before us the fort of Boudroum on a lofty spur of the mountain, faced by deep precipices of dark grey rock, and all down the slope of the hill beneath it, the remains of the old city. Between us and it extended magnificent fields of wheat and barley. Opposite to us, on the east side of the Pyramus, we could see the country through which we had ridden on our way to Marash. We could see Toprak Kalesi lying S.W. by S. from Boudroum; even the white houses of Osmanieh were faintly visible; and the opening of the pass of Devrishli. We left our people with the baggage, in a patch of deep clover, to which the baggage horses began to do ample justice, and passed on towards the ruins. The first building was a solid masonry tomb. It had once borne an inscription, now obliterated. As we approached we could distinguish the row of columns, and almost in a line between us and them, were four sepulchral buildings, one of which had been a large and handsome edifice, like the temple tombs at Isaura. Its inner wall was of rubble, faced with hewn stone blocks, but it had no inscription. The other tombs were not remarkable. Crossing a marshy brook at the bottom of the bank, I mounted the slope towards the left. The whole space under the S.W. side of the cliff on which the fort is built is full of tombs quarried in the rock, on the surface of the ground, intermixed with tombs of solid masonry, vaults, and many sarcophagi. All the sarcophagi have been overturned from their bases of native rock, or masonry, and smashed to fragments; not one remains in its place, or is left entire. There were also some funereal pedestals, like those at Bazaar. This resemblance, coupled with the name Commodus on the monument at Bazaar, and the general similarity of these ruins to those of Pompeiopolis, would seem to show that this old town was of the time of the Antonines, but other ruins prove that it was subsequently reconstructed, and later still again renewed, on the last occasion during Christian times, as appears from the remains of the two large churches near the colonnade. There seems to have been a double row of columns, as at Pompeiopolis, passing entirely through the town; they begin not far from the bottom of the hill, run all up the slope, and extend for some distance beyond the top. Their direction is nearly due east and west. Of the row on the north side only two perfect columns still remain erect, these are immediately under the fort; portions of five others still stand. One of the perfect columns has a bracket for supporting a bust, or statue, the only example of the kind we saw here. Of the row of columns to the south eight perfect columns still stand, and two without their capitals; of the rest belonging to this row portions of sixteen or eighteen still stand, the remainder of the colonnade is lying broken in pieces, amidst heaps of huge stones, portions of the architrave and capitals, few of which last remain unbroken. The material employed was limestone and conglomerate, the latter rock being very common throughout this district. There was no marble, but a few columns of granite near the top of the bank. I saw no monolith; the shafts are of two, three, or four pieces. The capitals are Corinthian, less ornate than those of Pompeiopolis, but the bases Ionic, and placed on a low plinth. The diameter of the shafts was on an average 2 feet 8 inches, their height 20½ feet, the two rows sixteen paces apart, and the entire length of the colonnade nearly 320 yards. So far as I could make out, each row had contained seventy-eight columns, and the portion at the bottom of the hill seems to have belonged to some building, as a very massy wall, now level with the ground, connects their bases. Just at the brow of the hill, and in the line of the colonnade, appears to have been the Agora, on a site slightly elevated above the level of the colonnade, and now covered with huge blocks of stone. On one side of it ran a line of square pedestals, with doorways at intervals between them. The colonnade seems to have extended beyond this over the brow of the hill, but it is difficult to trace; and fragments of columns are scattered in all directions. Just at the brow of the hill, and on the south side of the colonnade, are the ruins of a church. It has an angular apse with three arched windows, the apse had been domed, the stones being cut to follow the inner curve. This church has been built of fragments from the old city, some of the capitals of the colonnade having been employed in the windows; and an entablature of egg and abacus work runs round the apse, and serves as the window sills. In a line with the church to the east is a building of Roman brickwork faced on the west with great hewn stones; under it is a large arched vault, the entrance to which is on the south side.

At a distance of about 200 yards to the south is another church, which is almost a counterpart of the first; the west doorway still in part remains. From the north side of the church another line of colonnade once ran, in a direction E.N.E. and W.S.W. The north row of this has entirely disappeared; of the south row portions only of seven columns remain; but there are many bases left in their original site. The theatre is at the east end of the town, and faces south. The scena is gone, only a few stones remaining; there is no sculpture, except one or two masks, defaced. An arched corridor on either side opened on the proscenium—both now blocked up—and from the corridors again were arched doorways to the scena. I counted fourteen rows of seats from the ground to the diazoma, others probably are buried; the rows of seats above the diazoma are nearly all removed or destroyed. There are two arched passages from the outside to the diazoma, and many scalæ; these are simply steps, cut in the stone seats; the height of each seat is 1 foot 3 inches, and the row immediately below the diazoma had a high back. The breadth of the scena is about 44 paces, the depth of the orchestra about 36. The latter was entirely covered by a fine crop of barley, nearly ripe. I could find no inscription. The priest of the Armenian church at Sis told me that he had seen an inscription in the theatre (“steps,” as he called it), on a small marble slab, but it has doubtless been removed. The thermæ and gymnasium, constructed of rubble faced with brick, was about 150 yards south of the theatre; its thick and solid walls are rent and shattered, and the roof has fallen in. A ravine runs up through the city towards the east, becoming shallower as it rises; at distances walls are built across it.

There did not appear to have been in the old city either a town wall, stadium, arch of triumph, or aqueduct, nor did I observe any cisterns. We searched carefully for inscriptions, hoping thus to discover the name of the town, but found only one, on a broken slab, at the south side of the colonnade, and in about the middle of it. (See page 133.)

The Pyramus is from a half to three-quarters of a mile distant towards the south. It runs here nearly due north and south, and many miles of its course can be seen from the top of the sloping hill on which the old city stood.

The whole site of the city is overgrown with rank vegetation and thick grass, and it was no easy matter to drag the horses after us, over the loose blocks and amidst the masses of ruin.

ΟΙΑΥΤΟ
ΔΙΩΝΥΠΗ
ΛΟϹϹΠΟΥΔΗΤ
ΝΥΠΕΡΛΑΜΠΡΩ
Ι ΕΠΑΡΧΩΝΚΑΙΤΟΥ
Ϲ ΚΑΙΜΕΓΑΛΟΠΡΕΠΕ
Ϲ ΚΑΙϹΤΡΑΤΗΓΟΥΕ
ΝΑΜΕΩΝϹΙΜΠΛΙΚ
ΠΟΥΗΜΩΝΦΛΟΝΙ
ΤΑΡΤΟ
ΤΛΙΤΕΥ
ΤΟΥ
]

We did not ascend the rock in order to examine the fort, for evening was fast approaching, and our guide was impatient to be gone. For some time he had seemed ill at ease, and at last insisted on our leaving this wild and solitary place before nightfall, as he said that the whole of this border country was far from safe, and both mountaineers and Circassians would have but little scruple in plundering us if the occasion offered. Accordingly we contented ourselves with looking at the castle from below. It is one of the many mediæval border fortresses of Cilicia, built probably by the Armenians (unless, indeed, it be one of Justinian’s fortresses). It is constructed of reddish yellow limestone, in hewn blocks, obtained from the ruins of the city. It stands on a projecting spur of the neighbouring mountain; on three sides the rock is quite precipitous, like a huge slab of dark grey slate. It is separated from the mountain on the fourth side by a deep cutting quarried in the native rock. A round tower to the S.E., immediately overhangs the upper end of the colonnade, and here was the gateway of the fort, though it seemed almost impossible for men, much more for horses, to mount up to it. I made a conjectural plan of it by walking round the base of the rock and carefully noting the position of the walls.

We left Boudroum at about 5.30 P.M., and followed the bank of the Pyramus towards Hemita. In about an hour and a half we came to the summer encampment of the villagers of Hemita. The village, which was on the other side of the mountain, consisted of about fifty houses. The banks of the river are here low and marshy, and the stream appears to be often changing its channel during the season of inundation. A great number of horses were tethered in the plain, the property of the Circassian villagers in the neighbourhood. These people are great horse-breeders, and we were told that their head Bey had as many as 2000 horses for sale. In a cleft of the rock on the right side, as we neared Hemita, I noticed a palm tree, the only one we had seen since leaving Adana. We were received with the usual hospitality by the villagers of Hemita; a large hut made of a framework of wood, with walls of reeds, and thatched with reeds and rushes, was our lodging. These summer encampments are generally clean and comfortable, and our present resting-place formed no exception. Yorghans were brought out, a fire kindled, the usual fussy ceremonial of coffee-making gone through: a boy seated himself near the fire, placed some coffee berries in a large iron spoon hinged in the middle. When roasted, the berries were placed in a wooden mortar, the boy took an iron pestle, and with much ceremony and noise pounded the coffee. In about half an hour we were presented with a few teaspoonfuls of a bitter muddy mixture, without sugar. Our interpreter prepared a pilaff; some yaourt was brought, and after the usual amount of staring had been gone through, and the usual style of conversation kept up, our hosts left us, and we slept.