Chapter XIV: Tchukour. Durgèller. Alata. Khadem

_June 30th._—Rose before sunrise. The air cold and piercing, for snow lay on the mountain immediately above us. The lark and thrush were warbling; flowers all in bloom, quite like early spring in England. Left 6.15 A.M., and passed through the ravines of Altoun Tash. These form little hills and valleys, all so much alike, and so full of cattle paths, that the way is easily lost, which happened to Ali and our baggage, and we were detained fully an hour before we could find him. In these ravines also I noticed a great number of fossil bivalves, and mussels so recent that they seemed deposited only a few years.

Gelibel, on our right, is like a huge shelf, upheaved sidewise. The passage across Muharram Bel is extremely rough and rocky. At the top of the pass, the whole line of Geueu Dagh and the intermediate country can be seen on one side; on the other, range after range of mountains, the farthest faintly visible, like the thinnest vapour or cloud. These were the mountains of the Isaurian country, with which I was soon to make a very unpleasant acquaintance.

From the top of the pass, an extremely steep descent led to a kind of deep mountain hollow, amid a maze of rounded hills, well covered with soil, and thick with magnificent pines. I noticed many 150 feet high, straight as a dart, and of great girth. An ascent almost as steep as the descent brought us to the top of the other side. We halted at a fountain for the horses to graze on the luxuriant grass. From this spot the whole length of Muharram Bel could be seen. The mountain ends in deep red precipices; from them descends a long, undulating grassy slope; then thickly wooded hills and dells, along the foot of the range.

The road from the fountain passed through rocky hills, covered with juniper, and commanded fine views of Allah Dagh and Bozallah Dagh. At 2.15 P.M. we reached the yaila of Kizilja. Our cavass here refused to come farther, as he said his orders only extended as far as Kizilja. Beyond this would be out of his beat. The mudir of Kizilja was absent, but the kadi received us. He, however, scarcely addressed a word to us, but ordered some refreshment to be prepared. I suppose he looked upon us as “giaours,” but thought it a duty to extend his hospitality to us. The refreshment consisted of “kabak” (vegetable marrow) and yaourt; burghoul and yaourt, kaimàk and pekmez—an excellent dish, resembling Devonshire cream and treacle—with fresh bread, made of wheat and barley flour in equal proportions. I mention so often the food we were able to obtain, in order to show with what simplicity even the wealthier classes of Osmanlis live.

At 4.30 P.M. we resumed our journey. We had intended to stop at the village of Aghadj, but a heavy thunderstorm came on, and our road being full of steep descents, especially near Kizilja itself, we were overtaken by the night, and obliged to stop at Yeni Kischla. We found a tolerable lodging; the villagers brought us a miserable kind of supper, and I slept in the open air, on the balcony of the house. The people gave us much information about our route. It seems that our cavass had brought us far out of our way, and that had we followed the line of Muharram Bel, we could have easily reached Alata. They said so much of a long inscription on a rock at a place called Tchukour, near Bostànsu, that I determined to go back next day and see it.

_July 1st._—Rose at 3 A.M. The hills all about resounded with the cry of the cuckoo. Unable to start till seven, for my people are never in a hurry. I engaged as our guide a man who had formed part of Omar Pasha’s unfortunate expedition into Circassia, during the Crimean war. He had been wounded and taken prisoner, and had lived at Tiflis, in Georgia, for a year and a half. He spoke well of his treatment by the Russians. We passed over our old route as far as Kizilja Yaila. Thence a road descending towards S.E. brought us to a terribly steep descent, worse than that of yesterday. Nearly at the bottom is the valley of Atchilan. As it was a little out of our way, we passed on and halted at a mill at the bottom of the ravine.

Here we asked for some food. They had nothing whatever; but being faint with hunger, we persuaded the miller to grind us some barley, so that a woman who was there might make us a little bread. We were obliged to wait long and patiently. At last some coarse cakes, full of bits of husk, and even of whole grains, were brought. Bad as the bread was, we were glad of it, although much could not be eaten. This is the country of starvation!

A villager who was lounging near, and seemed to have nothing to do, told us that he knew the exact spot where the inscription was situated, but refused to act as our guide under 26 piastres. As the day’s pay of a labourer amounts to 3, or at most 4 piastres, I refused to give so much for the proffered service, and we determined to find the way alone. The road was a series of the most difficult ascents and descents, long, steep, stony, and very fatiguing for man and horse. Our guide—the Yeni Kischla villager—every now and then would say that the place was not far distant; but when he pointed down into a maze of deep ravines several miles below, and told me it was there, I felt too wearied to attempt further explorations. Night was fast coming on, so we rode down the last long descent, and at nightfall, utterly exhausted, reached the village of Tchukour. We lodged in the musaffir odasi (strangers’ room). A young Turkish officer, sent to train the redif (militia) of the village, was staying there also, and very amusing it was to hear his doleful complaints, and the sentimental sighs he would utter when he spoke of “Stamboul.” He had been here a long time, and naturally looked upon it as a painful exile. We were received kindly enough by the master of the house in which was the strangers’ room, but the food was scanty and miserable in the extreme. We never expected such penury, or we should have brought our own supplies. The traveller in such a country soon learns to despise superfluous luxuries.

In course of conversation, our host spoke of the _ancien régime_, under the great feudal nobles, the Dere Beys, as he had heard it described by his father. Unless he was simply a _laudator temporis acti_, his account implied the existence in those times of a far higher material prosperity than at present; and when I asked if the country was peaceful under these princes, he said that they governed their fiefs with justice, but with the most cruel severity, and related one or two anecdotes of hideous punishments inflicted on brigands and murderers in those days. He spoke also of the great force of cavalry they could bring into the field when necessary, from their Timariots and Spahis, the holders of smaller military fiefs under them.

I may observe that the Dere Beys of Anatolia and Karamania governed their principalities far better than the Dere Beys of European Turkey. The former had the incalculable advantage of ruling a population almost homogeneous in race and in religion. Colonel Leake, writing more than half a century ago, mentions the great families of Tchapan Oglou, and Kara Osman Oglou, who ruled over most of western and south-western Anatolia, and says that the mildness and equity of their government had attracted thither great numbers of Greeks from Europe. Centralization has certainly not improved the material position of the people in Asia Minor.

_July 2nd._—Started at 6.45 A.M. to see the inscription. The road was across the mountain we had descended yesterday, and then far down into the valley of the Gieuk Sou, across many deep ravines. The inscription is carved on the face of a rock, which stands in the deep glen down which the Gieuk Sou flows. The river passes between sheer precipices of rock, and broken mountains of dark red limestone, which rise to a great height above its channel, and are all of the boldest and most abrupt forms. The rock itself is bounded on one side by the river, from which it rises like a wall from 700 to 800 feet; on the other side it rises sheer up from the mountain slope about 250 to 300 feet. About a mile from it, up the course of the river, is a pretty little basin of fertile land, well cultivated. High mountains rise steeply from it on every side, and the river winding through it passes in a deep gorge under the rock on which is the inscription, and so flows onwards to Bostànsu. The inscription is about 6 feet long by 3 feet 6 inches wide, and is about 35 feet from the ground. The whole surface of the rock is naturally smooth, and the precipice rises above like a wall. It commemorates the capture of this rock fortress, from the brigands who held it, by a force under the command of Bassidius Lauricius, “Comes and Præses,” at the order of the Emperor Constantius and Julianus the Cæsar. A garrison was stationed there to maintain tranquillity, and the name Antiochia was given to the place.

No date is given, but the time must have been a few years before the death of Constantius in A.D. 361. Julian was made Cæsar in 355 A.D. The rock is situated to the N.W. of the village of Tchukour, in a spot called by the country-people “Nounou,” far down in the ravine of the Gieuk Sou. It is most difficult of access, and we were told that within the memory of the people round, no European had visited the spot. At Karaman I had heard the most exaggerated stories about this inscription. “It covered the whole face of the rock,” &c., &c. At Yeni Kishla, they more modestly made it fifteen lines. I found it to be thus:—

IVDSVDDNNCONSTANTITRIVMFATORIS
AVCVSTIETIVLIANINObCAESARIS
CASTELLVMDIVANTEAALATRONIbVS
POSSESVMETPROVINCIISPERNICIOSVM
BASSIDIVSLAVRICIVSVCCOMET
PRAESESOCCVPAVITADIVEADPERPE
TVAMIVIETISFIRMITATEMMILITVM
PRAESIDIOMVNITVMANTIOCHIAM
NVNCVPAVIT
]

“By command of our lords the triumphant Constantius Augustus
and Julian the noble Cæsar, the illustrious Bassidius
Lauricius, Count and Governor, took possession of the fortress
Divantea, which was held by brigands and was mischievous to the
provinces; and in order to maintain tranquillity, garrisoned it
with troops, and named it ‘Antiochia.’”

“Triumfatoris” (not classical), equivalent to “victorious.”
Comes, one of the later Roman or Byzantine titles of honour,
and equivalent to “Lieutenant-General.” There was a “Comes” of
Isauria, Lycaonia, &c. Præses, equivalent to “Civil Governor.”

The date of this inscription is marked by the opening lines,
in which Julian, under the title of Cæsar, is associated with
the Emperor Constantius. Julian, who was the Emperor’s cousin,
had been appointed Cæsar on November 6th, A.D. 355, and in 360
he was proclaimed Emperor by the Gallic legions. The death of
Constantius in 361 gave him undisputed possession of the throne.

So great had been the disorganization throughout the eastern
provinces of the Empire, that the savage Isaurians profited by
it to descend from their rugged mountain fastnesses and ravage
all the neighbouring districts, and in 359 Lauricius (the
Bassidius L. of the inscription) was appointed “Præses” and
“Comes” of Isauria, and sent to establish order. It was during
this government that the capture of “Antiochia” occurred.

Cilicia had been hitherto divided into the provinces of Cilicia
of the Plain (πεδίας), and Rocky or Mountain Cilicia (τραχεῖα).
But under Constantine the latter was called Isauria. In the
reign of Arcadius, the former was subdivided into Cilicia Prima
and Secunda. Heraclius united these to Isauria, and gave to
the entire province thus formed the name of the “Seleucian
Thema.” It remained thus without change until the eleventh
century, when the whole country was conquered by the Seljouk
Turks. Ammianus (xix. 13) notices the troubles in Isauria, and
says that Lauricius was sent to Isauria as Governor, after
receiving besides the title of “Comes.” The capture of this
brigand stronghold, therefore, probably happened between 359
and the spring of 360, the date of Julian’s proclamation as
Emperor. Besides the notice of Lauricius by Ammian, Sozomen and
Socrates, in their ecclesiastical histories, mention that he
was present at the Council of Seleucia, A.D. 359, to maintain
order and defend the council during its session. (Socrates, II.
xxxix. 149, xl. 151-2-5; Sozom. IV. xxii. 163-4.) In none of
these passages is the name Bassidius given, but his titles in
the inscription exactly correspond with those given to him by
the historians; e.g. Socrates calls him ὁ τῶν κατὰ τὴν Ἰσαυρίαν
στρατιωτῶν ἡγούμενος, and ὁ λαμπρότατος ἡγούμενος τῆς ἐπαρχίας·
Sozomen calls him ὁ τῶν στρατιωτῶν τοῦ ἔθνους ἡγεμών.

I have supposed that the DIVANTEA of the inscription may be the
original name of the place; it may, however, be the words “diu
antea,” though I prefer the former explanation.

After copying the inscription, I mounted to the summit by a chink or narrow crack in the rock. Up this the ascent wound steeply through overhanging walls of rock. There may have once been a wooden stair in this chink, closed by a door or gate, but I saw no marks of this. There were a few remains of buildings on the summit. Both up and down the stream the country looks wild and savage; the rocky sides of the glen are many hundred feet in perpendicular height, and broken mountain summits of the strangest and boldest shape rise on every side.

I had ample opportunity whilst returning to notice the geological formation of this district. I never saw so difficult and impracticable a country, and do not now wonder that even the Roman Government failed to put down and keep in order the Isaurians. The mountains are not of very great height, but the deep glens, profound river ravines, and rock precipices with which the whole face of the land is seamed, the constant broken ascents and descents, render the country immensely difficult. The mountains seem to have been forced up by some mighty subterranean explosion, and either to have risen through the softer strata into plateaux with precipitous sides like so many walls, or more often to have been tilted in the process, so that on one side there is a long steep ascent, then from the topmost ridge the precipice sinks plumb down into an abyss. And these great slopes are no mere hill sides, but spaces which it takes hours of painful marching to traverse. Of the material of these mountains I shall speak farther on. Here, they consisted of deep red limestone, often even vermilion in colour, but stained by the exposure and sun and rain of ages, in great blotches of brown and black and cream colour.

Heavy rain cooled the air as we returned, but the ride was very exhausting, and occupied fully six hours exclusive of time for resting.

As we passed the yaila of Kizilja, at the top of the steep ascent from Atchilan, our guide pointed out the grave of a man who had been shot dead here, four years ago. The assassin waited for him in a clump of bushes near the path, and fired at him from behind. The ball entered the back of his head and passed out through his forehead. When news of the murder was brought to Kizilja, the whole village turned out in arms to search for the assassin, but nothing could be easier than to escape pursuit in such a country, and besides he had a start of an hour or two. Both the Government and the people of the villages round made every effort to discover the murderer, but all was in vain. The murdered man came from the village of Khadem, and it appeared that he had a private enemy there. This man was strongly suspected, but there was no proof against him. The murdered man was buried where he fell, and in our guide’s words, “Allah only knows who did the deed.”

We reached Yeni Kishla at 8 P.M. The room was full of villagers, but not one stirred to give us space for sitting down.

After waiting a while, Nahli asked where we were to sit. “Oh,” said one, “there is the balcony empty; go there!” As it was raining, this would not have been pleasant, and Nahli replied in a rage, “What! is this the way in which you treat stranger guests? Get up, and go into the balcony yourselves!” Rather to my surprise they complied, but not one would bring us anything we required, though I had paid liberally for all we had consumed the day before. But our guide, who might be considered a travelled and more enlightened man, went out and brought us some bread; our stores supplied what else we needed, or these inhospitable fellows would have left us without food.

_July 3rd._—As the villagers would bring us absolutely nothing, and Nahli’s eloquence failed, I was obliged to take up the matter myself. I sent for the mukhtar, showed him the bouyourdi from the Governor of Adana, and reproached him for their inhospitality. He tried to excuse the people on the score of the scarcity, but I would not admit this; e.g. we needed a tallow candle for softening the bridles, &c., which were hardened and cracked by the sun—no one would either give or sell one. We needed a little bread, but they would not supply any, and yet I was ready to pay for everything I consumed! At last, thoroughly ashamed, he went off and sent what we required. I made them accept payment to the last para.

Left Yeni Kishla at 8.30 A.M. Fine and cloudy day. Crossed a series of rounded hills, and in about two hours was opposite Aghadj, a little village on the left. A wide plain opens out beyond Aghadj, and about an hour beyond, on a high ridge at the side of the plain, is Durgèller. Under the mountains to the north, and in front of these two villages, the limestone is cleft by a deep ravine, down which runs the Gieuk Sou. In this ravine, at the upper end of the plain, is a great source, which here flows into the river. The greatest body of water rises from beneath a rock not far from the river, on the south side of the ravine, but many other springs burst from the ground all around the large source. These are concealed by a thick growth of brush and underwood, of bramble, wild vine, and rank herbage of many kinds. The water of these springs is charged with carbonic acid gas, and leaves a grey stony deposit, like the travertine of the great source at Hierapolis in Phrygia.

It is curious to see the fields and gardens of the villagers of Yerkooblü (the hamlet and mill near the source), surrounded by walls, once of loose stones, but now formed into a solid mass by means of the deposit from the water.

The miller told me that every second or third year he is obliged to renew the water tubes for his overshot mill, as the deposit rapidly fills them up. The water of the spring is beautifully clear, but not fit to drink, though good for irrigation. The Turks call all such springs “Kara Sou,” “black water,” and prefer to send miles rather than use such water for drinking purposes. There is a similar source above Tarsus, which spoils the water of the Cydnus, and two on the Sarus, at Ak Keupri in the pass beyond the Cilician Gates.

Yerkooblü is a deep depression along the river bed, about 500 feet below the general level of the plain. The descent to it is extremely steep—a succession of sharp curves in the rock road down the side of the limestone precipice which forms the south side of the ravine—and of course we were obliged to descend on foot. I enjoyed a bath in the Kara Sou, which so refreshed me, that I mounted the steep ascent again almost without an effort; not so poor stout Nahli, who came up panting and perspiring, and loudly protested that on no account would he again mount such an ascent on foot.

The land round the hamlet of Yerkooblü is most productive, and the fruit, especially the cherries and apples, equal to good English fruit, but it must be an unhealthy spot and liable to fevers owing to its heat and humidity.

We had sent on our baggage to Durgèller, and rode up the white marble hill side to the house of the mudir. This gentleman was one of the few kind and hospitable men I met in this barbarous district. He is a fine-looking elderly man, named Khalil Effendi of Koniah (Kònialü). His house was one of the best I saw in Karamania. He received us most kindly, and ordered some refreshment, telling me that it was both his duty, and a pleasure, to do all he could for me. The lunch consisted of buttermilk with sliced cucumber, spinach dressed with butter, stewed apples, and excellent unleavened bread. He pressed me much to stay, but I declined. However, on going out I found a perfect collection of ancient funereal monuments. In front of the mudir’s house was the “Serai” or Government House—not old, but having been very badly built, it had fallen down before it was completed, and had been then abandoned. It was constructed in great part of ancient remains, and I counted more than fifty tombstones built into its walls. They showed me the spot where all these monuments had been discovered, in a field close to the mudir’s house. It had been the cemetery of some ancient city, but I could learn nothing as to the site of an old town in the neighbourhood. The mudir and the villagers told me that Durgèller was founded in the time of the conqueror Karaman Oglou, and derived its name from “dulgiàr,” “a carpenter” (i.e. “Carpenters’ village,” another instance of the inversion of letters in a name, so common in Karamania, the plural being “dulgiàrler”). As there is a considerable extent of rich land in the ravines round the place, as the air is remarkably pure and healthy, and the water supply good and plentiful, it is probable that the old town stood near if not upon the site of the present village; but the people could give no further information, and the name of the place was not mentioned in any of the inscriptions.

When I saw these antiquities I determined to accept the mudir’s invitation, and although our souriji had already started, a messenger was sent to recall him; besides, the rest was much needed, for all of us, both men and horses, were exhausted. Then I commenced copying the monuments and inscriptions, and worked on until sunset, when I was summoned to supper. We supped in the open air, and spent a pleasant evening, for the mudir was most courteous and hospitable, and the conversation was sensible. There were present the mudir’s son-in-law, our acquaintance the Kadi of Kizilja, the douanier of the district, and the head villager of Durgèller. The mudir had two pretty grandchildren, a little girl, and a boy with flaxen hair who came to sup with us, and behaved quite like a grown man.

No one could give me any information as to the antiquities of Durgèller, but incidentally one of the company spoke of a magnificent sarcophagus, standing in a wilderness not far from Eskil, on the shore of the great salt lake “Tatta Göl,” in Lycaonia.

The supper was most plentiful: it consisted of eiràn soup (buttermilk), kabak (vegetable marrows) stewed with meat, small pieces of meat stewed in butter, stewed apples, spinach with yaourt, eiràn, and cucumber. The mudir apologized for the fare, but it was really excellent, and I said the diet of the country suited me very well; indeed, I never was in better health, or more capable of bearing fatigue, in spite of the rough life and in general scanty diet, but in a few days more I was prostrated by fever.

Although the mudir was so kind, there was something wild and “farouche” about his servants, and indeed about all the people not immediately connected with him.

Our souriji, Ali, brought us an unfavourable account of the people of the village. He said that all without exception were a “bad lot,” they were “thieves” if they saw an opportunity, and had been not so very long ago “brigands.” He said this openly before the servants of the mudir, and no one contradicted him, or appeared at all indignant at the charge. But Ali would be a very awkward antagonist in a quarrel; and, moreover, I believe the latter charge was really true.

Some fine silken yorghans, from the mudir’s hareèm, had been sent in for us, and we were preparing to retire, when in came the head servant, who looked more like a brigand than any of them, and warned us against thieves, bidding us at the same time not to be afraid, “Some one might, perhaps, come into our room during the night, but it would only be somebody who was hungry, and would come to see if he could find a little bread, &c., &c., but we need not fear.” I replied that I had travelled for nearly three months in the country, and had felt no fear; besides, I was under the protection of the Padshàh, and, moreover, I had a revolver of five barrels, and my interpreter one of six, and we might be tempted to fire upon anyone who entered our room surreptitiously at night. We determined, therefore, to keep a good look-out. For myself personally I had no fear, but I was rather anxious about the horses. However, we carefully secured them with the leg-irons, and charged Ali, who stays with them, to keep a good watch.

After the servants had left, Ali brought a great log of wood, and set it against our door on the outside, for there is no fastening of any kind on the inside, and the door opens outwards. Our position was not altogether pleasant, we were in the country of the Isaurians! There was, of course, no glass to the windows, the shutters were open on account of the heat, and as I sat down to write up my journal, I overheard the servants talking amongst themselves of our arms. I had taken care to produce my revolver and explain its use. By-and-by one came to the window, and looking in, asked me if I did not “intend to go to sleep,” again bidding me “not to be afraid.” At this I laughed, and soon after lay down to sleep. Anyone who wished might have easily clambered through the window, but we were not disturbed by any visitor.

I believe the whole scene was got up to see if we were armed, and to try of what stuff we were made; not that our revolvers would have been of the slightest use had there been real danger, rather the contrary; and next day, on our way to Alata, I could not help thinking how very easily they might have carried off my baggage, had they _really_ formed any such plan, when our cavass had induced us to turn aside to the yaila, and send the baggage on through the forest with Ali alone. But these poor Turks are truly a sterling race, whose good qualities come out upon closer acquaintance; and as regards their honesty I can only say that throughout my journey I never missed the smallest article, although there were abundant opportunities for abstracting, had the people been so minded. But I verily believe they would not condescend to pilfer, even though they might turn brigands!

_July 4th._—A perfectly quiet night, and sound sleep. Rose at 5 A.M. quite refreshed; _café au lait_, cigarette, and to work. I made a pencil sketch of Bozalla Dagh, but I much regret that my skill is not equal to my opportunities. The “effects” in this beautiful land are truly exquisite! About three-quarters of an hour beyond Durgèller on the same side of the plain, on west by north is the village of Tchakàller. Nearly due north on the mountain side opposite Durgèller is Sarahaji, a large village, where, as I heard, are many similar antiquities. A little farther up the river, and below Sarahaji, is a small village, Omar Oglou. Yet farther, three hours up the river, is Yàghjiler. Of the upper part of the river I shall speak hereafter.

At 8.30 the mudir called me in to breakfast—again a good and abundant meal. Roast meat with burghoul stuffing, bahmeahs (_Hibiscus esculentus_), and stewed meat, kaimàk and petmez, kabak and minced meat with yaourt, eiràn and sliced cucumber, burghoul pilaff. It must not, however, be supposed that this was the usual fare of the family. All this was in our honour. The Osmanlis of Karamania, partly from habit, partly from poverty, usually live in the most frugal and sparing style.

Soon after breakfast I had finished all I cared to do; so bidding adieu to the kind old mudir, we started at 11 A.M., and riding across the beautiful white marble rocks, on which the village is built, began to mount the steep ascent at the back of Durgèller. Warned by past privations, we took a supply of excellent bread from the mudir’s house, and I saw our “souriji” wrapping up a large quantity for himself also. We had still our barley bread which we had brought from Yeni Kishla. “Waste not, want not,” is vividly impressed on the traveller in this hungry land.

The cavass whom the mudir gave us, did not please me; he had a lowering expression of countenance, and never looked me straight in the face; altogether a bad specimen after our former companions. Our route was up the steep mountain side, and then we followed the tops of the chain towards N.E. Our destination was Alata, but I was all abroad, for our direction by the compass did not at all accord with the map. At first we passed over heights of blue marble veined with white, then over whitish limestone; then for a long distance over what appeared to be limestone calcined, and lying in friable flakes, of brown, green, and yellow. At 1 P.M. we were near the yaila of Durgèller, and our cavass, who wished to go there in order to change his saddle, pressed us to go up to the yaila and take coffee, saying that Ali could go on through the wood with the baggage as the path was perfectly plain. I was very reluctant to leave the baggage, but he pressed me so much, that not wishing to show distrust, I at last consented.

From the high ground near the yaila there is a wide extended view over the Isaurian country to W. and N. and N.E., and over the district under the south side of Bozalla Dagh, a district of great elevation, and consisting of a number of broad plateaux, up to the foot of the mountain itself. Kara Dagh was hidden by Bozalla, but I could see a faint outline of the mountains beyond the plain of Karaman, and the white limestone hills which we had crossed when leaving Karaman for Mout—a noble country, but wild, savage, difficult, and impracticable. No wonder its inhabitants in the old days were brigands! Opportunity makes the thief!

Arrived at the yaila, the cavass pressed me much to enter his hut, of large loose stones, roofed with brushwood; I was obliged to do so. Then, “Would we have milk or yaourt; or should they prepare some food for us?” I declined all except a cup of coffee. The air of Durgèller had made me suspicious, and nothing would have been easier now—had any previous concert been arranged—than for some of the villagers to fall on Ali left alone, and carry off the baggage into the forest! And all my money, in good Turkish gold liras, was in it! The very thought was agonizing! I hastily swallowed my coffee, and, without waiting for cavass or Nahli, mounted my horse, and pushed on by a short cut through the oak scrub, to rejoin Ali. In half an hour I caught him up, and I need not say was heartily relieved. The forest here was of oak and pine, full of admirable places for ambuscades, and, I will confess it, I kept looking right and left, with no slight misgiving and anxiety. At about 1 P.M. we halted to allow the horses to graze, and the cavass came up to Nahli and asked for bread, “he was hungry.” Nahli took out our Yeni Kishla barley bread, and offered it, but it was contemptuously refused. “But,” said Nahli, “we never eat except when the tchelebi eats; and we often have no other bread but this kind. What is good enough for us is surely good enough for you! Last year you were starving, and eating grass!” I thought the man would have struck him. He had seen our Durgèller bread, and wished to have it. At last, with a surly and discontented air he grumblingly took the barley bread, but I did not see him eat any of it.

After passing many valleys in the forest, and many rough and rocky dells, each with its brook, full of fine specimens of porphyry, we at last came out upon a wide mountain valley—I think it was a continuation of the valley we had crossed in descending from Muharram Bel. There seems to be a long line of precipices, forming the west side of this valley, all the way from Gelibel to Alata, and we could now see how the Ermenek cavass had taken us out of our direct route, by leading us to Kizilja instead of directly to Alata or Khadem. The road from Ermenek to Alata is eight hours long. There are no villages on it, only at wide intervals a few Yourouk encampments. Had we taken this route, we should have saved time and trouble, but then I should have missed the antiquities at Nounou and Durgèller. After emerging from the valleys of Allah Dagh, the road is easy as far as the descent above Alata; then the way becomes bad, being steep and of hard calcined limestone gravel, so that it was difficult to avoid falling. We reached Alata at about 6 P.M., after five and a half hours in the saddle: we were told it requires an hour more to go from Durgèller to Alata than the reverse journey.

Alata is a large village in a deep mountain dell, with fountains, and a considerable stream, and much well-cultivated land about it. Looking down the stream from above Alata, we saw a perfect maze of volcanic hills along the river banks, their tops gilded by the setting sun. As we rode into the village, we had the usual reception from the many loungers about, to which we were now becoming accustomed in this inhospitable region—“The mukhtar was absent at the yaila—so were all the people; there was no house, no firewood—nothing!” It was not till strong language had been used, and they had been solemnly assured that they would be _paid_, that they would do the least thing for us. At last a wretched shelter was found, some eiràn and burghoul brought, and forage provided for the horses. The cavass behaved ill; he was worse than useless, and his dour, ill-omened face disgusted me.

After a long parley I saw that we could not get on without the help of the mukhtar, so I enclosed in an envelope our order from the Kaimakam of Karaman, and sent it to him up to the yaila, by a boy, begging him to come down next morning and help us, and to let us have some eggs and a little milk for our breakfast.

We got rid of the villagers at last, only the man who had waited upon us remained for coffee; the churlishness of all, excepting that man, was very plainly shown!

_July 5th._—The mukhtar did not come, so I told Nahli to direct the cavass to mount his horse and ride up to the yaila to bring him, to which the man gave a point-blank refusal. Then I took him in hand, and I found that I could manage these difficult cases better than Nahli, who used to lose his temper. I represented to him that I was “recommended everywhere to the authorities; that everywhere they had given me assistance, and he himself had been sent to help me; that I must have a guide, and without the mukhtar I could not obtain one. Would he tell me plainly if he would go or not? as then I should know what to do.” Very sullenly he consented to go.

At last the mukhtar arrived, bringing with him milk and eggs, and we breakfasted. But again our cavass began to give trouble, interfering whilst we were settling accounts, and putting obstacles in our way instead of helping us; so finally I took him by the shoulders, and pushed him out, bidding him “go back to Durgèller; he was useless, and had better return to the plough, for he had evidently mistaken his vocation when he became a Government cavass.” Extinguished by the laughter of the villagers, he took his “bucksheesh,” and went off. After an infinity of trouble and vexation a guide was found, but he only came with the greatest reluctance, at the earnest half entreaty, half command of the mukhtar, and at first Nahli and I were obliged to keep him between our horses in the narrow path, to prevent him from running away.

We started at about 9 A.M. This day’s journey was more exhausting than any I have yet made. The heat of the sun was very powerful, especially as the road lay through a succession of deep and narrow river valleys. It followed the course of the little stream that flowed down from Alata, at first towards S.W. then N.W. It crossed transversely the bases of those rounded hills of calcined limestone whose summits we had seen at sunset from above Alata. In the bends of these hills the road was tolerably good, although from the narrowness and steepness of the path, and the hard gravel of which the hill was composed, it was difficult marching for the horses. But at the extremity of each hill, where it touched upon the river, there was always a group of the hardest rocks, over and round which the track passed, and here it was steep, rough, and difficult. The road seemed interminable, without variety, and most uninteresting; no villages, and but scanty cultivation. After about three hours our guide showed us a short cut over the mountains, in front of Auschar, a large village on the west side of the stream. In front of Auschar we recrossed the river—here flowing deep and slow—by a bridge. The road then followed the east side of the river, and became more difficult as we advanced. Three-quarters of an hour from Auschar is Iljibounar, on the west side of the river. Below it, is a bridge, but we still kept on the east side. Beyond Iljibounar is a lofty mountain spur, with the village of Ardishlü on its summit. In the valley beyond, is the village of Sazak. A side ravine, down which a considerable torrent flows into the river, runs behind this village far up into the heart of the mountains, displaying the higher part of Allah Dagh, great plateaux edged with deep precipices, and covered with thick forests. From this point the road became constantly worse. The geology of this district is very remarkable. The soil is all either of marble of many varieties, or an infinite variety of volcanic substances, with a thin surface-covering of gravel; never, I should suppose, in any place could a greater variety be found!

The road was a quick succession of ascents and descents, not of any very great height, but surprisingly abrupt and steep, and rendered difficult beyond measure by the nature of the soil. The path was a mere scratch in the side of a steep slope extending far down to the river, so slight that at times we were puzzled to trace it. This is owing to the extreme hardness of the angular gravel and loose sharp-edged stones with which the whole surface is covered; we were obliged continually to dismount, and walk for considerable distances. The heat was intense, and as the day waned, the sun seemed to strike under the brim of my hat with a force I had not before experienced. The river here runs in a deep narrow bed between the steep slopes of the mountains on one side, and high rock precipices on the other, leaving a narrow margin, in which here and there at wide intervals may be seen a house or a patch of cultivated ground. The soil is not in any part of the common mountain limestone, but of the very hardest varieties, white, grey, yellowish, or even of a pinkish tint; many even of these, streaked and veined with white marble, or flint of different tints. There was a great variety of marbles, the principal being blue with veins or streaks of white; but really fine white marble constantly occurred in great beds; there were also great masses of yellow marble, and here and there of porphyry. The veins of hard volcanic substances were very numerous and of many colours; there was jasper, and trap varying from light grey to coal black, all of great hardness; and a variety of other rocks, amongst them a dark red flinty stone, with darker veins in it. I collected a few specimens as we passed, amongst them amygdaloid. I might doubtlessly have collected many more, but I was much fatigued, and therefore perhaps less observant than I should otherwise have been.

At about 5 P.M. we crossed, by a good stone bridge, to the west side of the river. It runs there in a deep channel of rock, the sides of which are worn smooth as glass by the current, so that it has all the appearance of an artificial cutting.

Our guide said this bridge was two hours from Khadem.

On the east side of the river, high up on the mountain side, is the village of Sarinj. Opposite to it, and high up on the west, is the village of Mernak, three-quarters of an hour from the bridge; our guide said we might either pass through this village, or follow a longer but easier route along the edge of the river; we chose the latter, and in half an hour were below Mernak; from this spot the road to Khadem crosses a high ridge, and then turns sharply to the left up a side valley. The river continues its course to the right, through a ravine bordered by deep precipices, and so is lost to sight.

Our souriji had remained some distance behind us, but when he came up with us, it was evident that to-day’s march had proved too much for his horse, and we were obliged to stay for the night at Mernak, and send down from the village a mule to bring up the baggage. The road to the village was long and tedious, and it was sunset before we reached the house of the mukhtar. He could only offer to share his room with us, as his own house was under repair. It did not look very inviting, but I was so thoroughly fatigued that any place would have been acceptable; his supper, however, was really uneatable, so I was forced to be satisfied with a little bread and a cup of milk. Five or six of the leading villagers, who came in later in the evening, were superior to most of their class; nearly all had been on the pilgrimage to Mecca, several had passed a year or two in Egypt, knew Cairo and Alexandria, and spoke Arabic. They were travelled and comparatively enlightened men!

_July 6th._—Passed a restless, uncomfortable night, full of strange dreams, and rose exhausted with pain in head, eyes, and back, and a heaviness in every limb. I felt that some illness was upon me, but thought it was only from exposure to the sun, and fatigue, and that a good day’s rest would remove it all. Seen by daylight the mukhtar’s room is really handsome, though not large; it is lined about half-way up the walls with wainscot, and the fireplace is surrounded by an elaborate and artistic carving in hard wood.

To our mutual regret, we were obliged here to part with our good souriji, Ali, for his horse was no longer able to carry the baggage; he started for his home, Karaman, intending to travel very leisurely; and the mukhtar having found us a baggage mule, we left for Khadem. The road to Khadem follows (as I said) a ravine to the left from the river. There were several villages in sight, but I was too ill, and too indifferent, to write their names. Although a strong breeze was blowing, the heat was very great. We reached Upper Khadem in three-quarters of an hour, and in half an hour more arrived at Khadem. As we passed the village cemetery, I confess that sinister thoughts crowded in upon my mind. “Will it be my lot to be laid here, far from home and friends, with nothing but one of these rough lichen-covered stones, to mark my resting place?”

The village of Hodjilar (the unfortunate name which had caused us so much wandering) is still higher up in the mountains than Upper Khadem.

Khadem is a straggling village, built along the sides of a low open valley; we were directed to the Serai or Government House, a large barn-like building, and on alighting at the door, were brought into a hall on the ground floor, where were some twenty soldiers, and a large quantity of stacked rifles. From this a broad staircase led up to a wide wooden gallery, having rooms opening off from it. Into one of these we were led by a soldier, and introduced to the kaimakam, who, with five or six others, was seated on a long divan, in a kind of projecting bay window. He was a young man of about twenty-five years of age, tall, good looking, of bright red and white complexion, but of a dour, proud, look. I heard afterwards that he was only the son of a peasant of Ipbrada, near Alaya, and I found him utterly ignorant (so ignorant that he once asked me if London was the capital of England), with no experience of the world; having nothing to say, and nothing to ask, he puts on this air of cold dignity and reserve, a device the Turks well know how to employ.

Next to him was seated the kadi, a man of fifty years, with a continual smile on his lips, and a steady stare. I may safely say, that he scarcely turned his eyes from me whilst I was with them. I distrust and dislike a man who is always smiling, and instinctively I felt this was not a pleasant person to deal with. My judgment was fully borne out by the account I afterwards heard of him.

Near to him sat the kaimakam’s brother-in-law. I know not why, but I instinctively disliked these men!

On my entering the room, all stared at me as if I had been some strange wild animal, but even the ordinary civility, “Bouyouroun!” “Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” was not vouchsafed, so I took a vacant place on the divan and sat down. No doubt this sudden appearance of a foreigner dropping amongst them, as from the clouds, must have seemed strange, and probably no European had ever before visited their village. Then Nahli explained who I was. The “bouyourdi” of the Wali of Adana was produced, read, passed round from hand to hand, and subjected to the most minute scrutiny, even the Wali’s seal being closely examined. I found out afterwards that they had formed the bright idea I was a Russian spy! and it must be admitted, that after the revelations of Russian intrigue in European Turkey for a long time previous to the insurrection of Bosnia and Herzegovina, such an idea was not so unreasonable as then it seemed to me to be! Then a whispered conversation took place, and at length “Khoosh geldinez,” “You are welcome,” was said. It was far from a pleasant reception, and I was quite disconcerted by their fixed and suspicious stare. Then began the usual questions. “What is this gentleman’s business? Why is he travelling?” to which I replied through the interpreter, “I am travelling for my own pleasure.” On this the kaimakam, not knowing that I understood Turkish, made the rude remark, “One does not travel for pleasure in heat like this!” To this I replied in Turkish, “Still the matter is really so, Effendim! I am travelling for my own pleasure!” Silence ensued, then again whispers. “When did the gentleman leave Stamboul?” I did not leave Stamboul at all; I came from Alexandria in Egypt, as it is written in the passport. Then the interpreter explained the causes of my detention in Adana. Again silence and whispers. I was tired of this treatment; no offer of service or help was made, they simply sat, and stared, and whispered; so I said, “Tell the kaimakam I have a favour to ask of him.” “But he has not offered to do anything for you!” “Never mind! Ask him if he will give me a room in the village, a private room to myself; I am very tired, and not well; I need quiet and repose. Also in a few days will he give me a cavass and a souriji, to resume my journey?”

This the kaimakam promised, and a soldier was called and ordered to bring us to the house of Hadji Emin Effendi, chief mufti of Khadem, a very benevolent old gentleman, who keeps, it seems, open house, and entertains all travellers who visit Khadem.

Accordingly we were taken through the cornfields to his house on the opposite side of the valley, and found him sitting in a large wooden room, fitted up with divans all round it. Some five or six friends were with him, but when the soldier gave the kaimakam’s message, all rose and left me in possession, and I at once lay down. My head, eyes, and back were in great pain, with a high pulse, great heat, and intense fatigue. I took a dose of James’ Powder, and slept. Profuse perspiration came on; at evening I took another large dose; passed a quiet night, but no sleep, only profuse perspiration. Diet rice soup, and tea.

_July 7th._—Towards midday fever diminished, still heat great and pulse high, but I lay utterly exhausted, and not venturing to administer quinine till the pulse became calmer. Diet rice soup, and tea; towards night a little sleep. There is little to write of to-day, but I noticed that Nahli’s face wore a very serious air as he sat by me on the divan. In the course of the day many visitors dropped in, but I was too ill to take much notice of them; towards evening the mufti came to see me, and brought me a few roses. He is a fine-looking elderly man, of about sixty years, with a handsome and thoroughly Oriental face, great flashing dark-brown eyes, bronzed complexion, an aquiline nose, full grey beard, and bushy black eyebrows.

He wears the old-fashioned Turkish or Arab dress, a long caftan of some dark-coloured cloth, an under coat of thick satin, with a Cashmere shawl as girdle (“kushàk”). His broad turban (“sàrik”) was of muslin, the finest and whitest possible. I noticed that he wore one handsome diamond ring, but no other jewellery. Some such men as he were the Old Testament patriarchs in appearance. At night Nahli told me that the kaimakam and one or two of his friends had come over to the evening meal, for the mufti’s table is open, it seems, to all; and during a pause in the conversation he had asked Nahli if “I was not a raki drinker, and if my illness did not proceed from that.” Nahli replied, “Effendim! I wonder you are not a better judge of character than that. Is it likely that a gentleman who bears a firman from the Sadr-el-Azem, and has been recommended by the English Embassy at Stamboul, should be a low raki drinker?” The subject dropped.

_July 8th._—Better, heat less, pulse calmer. Nahli brought me word that the mufti had found me a doctor if I chose to see him—a retired army doctor, Ali Effendi. I reflected that he must have treated hundreds of fever cases, and would well know how to manage my case, so I replied that I should be very glad to see him. He was a quiet and gentlemanly man, of about fifty, settled at Khadem, in the Government service. He felt my pulse, said the fever was diminished, but was still there, and there might be a relapse at any hour, but he must “cut” it by giving quinine. Accordingly he sent for a few grains of wheat, and with them weighed me out a dozen grains of my own sulphate of quinine to take in three doses at intervals of an hour.

_July 9th._—Fever almost gone. The pure bracing air, and the quiet airy room in which I lodged, had much to do with this rapid recovery. It is a room of wood, about 20 feet square, lofty, and being intended only for summer use, is well ventilated by open interstices under the eaves. Wide cotton divans run along three sides of it. The floor is of clay, covered with matting, and a Turkey carpet, not, unfortunately, without inhabitants, owing to the slovenliness in which even the richest Osmanlis here habitually live. At this season the climate is exquisite, but I am told considerably hotter this year than usual. Regularly every day at about 11 A.M., a strong breeze rises, and blows downwards from the high mountains on the N.W. There is no rain or thunderstorm at this season, and the nights are calm and balmy.

Fever is almost unknown on this side of the valley, but, strange to say, of frequent occurrence on the other side. Several cases occurred during my stay, for which application was made to me for quinine, and I gave what I could spare.

I will now try to describe the house of Hadji Emin. This is his midsummer residence; he has besides, three others, in which he resides alternately, according to the season. This involves no great trouble; so simple is the Oriental way of life, that a couple of hours suffices to remove from one residence to another. The position of the house is on an oblong level space, in a nook of the mountain, which forms one side of the Khadem valley; terraces of garden ground descend from it, planted with fruit-trees, amongst them cherries, equal to the finest Italian cherries. Unfortunately before I was well enough to avail myself of them they were nearly gone. I only came in for the gleaning, but even that was good. One morning I was awakened by a great noise under my window, my host was sending off two or three horses, laden with cherries as presents to his friends and the “great people” at Koniah.

The principal reason for the choice of this particular spot on which to build the house, was, that a copious spring bursts out of the rock here; another source—the village fountain—with much better water, was not many yards distant. The house consisted of one long series of low, wooden rooms, with the kitchen at the end. The women’s quarters (i.e. the lady travellers, not the mufti’s “hareèm”) was on one of the lower terraces; a suite of rooms of masonry, and they were occupied by a lady who was attended by two or three well-dressed negresses.

A grass-plat, overshadowed by a large old willow tree, was under my windows, with a deep tank into which the waters of the source flowed. The mufti’s favourite seat was on a wooden divan under the shade of the willow; here he received his friends, and the company took their meals seated on the turf; my portion being sent on a separate tray into my room. I was told that sometimes the house is quite full of travellers and guests, and they have as many as 100 cotton “yorghans” (quilted coverings) kept in readiness. Fortunately for me, very few guests were then staying in the house. It seems that the old gentleman is very rich, and delights in spending his income in this way; it was the custom of his ancestors before him, and he keeps it up. He has very extensive estates, and, according to the rule of cultivating the ground in Karamania, he shares with his villagers the net produce. He told me that his average annual income was 12,000 kilehs of grain, besides fruit, cattle, sheep, &c., of which he had very many, now pasturing higher up in the mountains. Now, in Karamania, this implies very great wealth. He is of course subjected to much extortion from the provincial authorities beyond the regular taxation; but his position, and his very goodness and liberality and harmlessness, will doubtless keep him from any very great trouble. He told me how Essaad Pasha,[24] when Wali of Koniah, had persecuted him. The Wali paid him a visit to Khadem, and was so pleased with the fine air of the place that he remained about a fortnight. During all this time the mufti had entertained him, and provided his suite with all they needed, incurring of course considerable expense, for which he declined all payment. It happened just about the same time that some Turk of rank in the province was endeavouring to marry the mufti’s daughter, but he did not like the man’s character, and therefore rejected his suit. This man persuaded Essaad Pasha to revenge the refusal by causing official inquiries to be made as to the poor mufti’s title to his estates; the title was irrefragable, most of the lands had been in the possession of the mufti’s family for nearly 700 years. “But it cost me a very heavy sum of money,” said the mufti, when telling us the story. This was a bad requital for the old man’s hospitality; but I can well believe that the story was quite true, such acts of injustice are of daily occurrence in the provinces, committed by a bureaucracy that is ruining the empire.

The mufti is descended from a noble family in one of the tribes of Hedjazi Arabs; one of his ancestors did a great service of some nature to the Prophet Muhammad, and the Prophet, pleased with him, gave him the title of his “khadem” (i.e. his “servant”). The man took the name as his family name, and it has been retained in the family ever since. I asked how they came to settle in Karamania; he said that a short time after the conquest of Karamania by the Seljouks one of his ancestors was obliged to fly from Medina, his native place, in consequence of some civil broil or feud, and came as a soldier of fortune to Karamania. He settled in that very district, which was then quite a solitude, gave his name to the mountain, and the village he founded here, and the family had remained there ever since as country gentlemen, and handed down the office of mufti from father to son continually.

In common with all his neighbours, the mufti had lost a great number of cattle, sheep, &c., in 1873-4; he mentioned a kind of goat, the “betik,” of which he had possessed a large quantity; all except about eighty had perished, in spite of every care that could be bestowed upon them. The hair of the betik is of far finer quality than that of the “teftik” (Angora goat).

He had visited Constantinople, and a few years ago had made the pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina. Naturally he had much veneration for the two holy cities, and had been greatly interested by what he witnessed in them, but he did not admire the Arab, and still less the Meccan character.

Both his father and his uncle before him had died when on the pilgrimage, and when in his turn he wished to go, his sons very much opposed it, and tried to dissuade him, fearing for his safety at such an advanced age. “But you see I have come back safely, as I told them I should,” and he said he hoped to pay yet another visit to the Hedjaz. One day he told me he would give me some of the true Meccan coffee, and ordered his younger son to take a key which he gave him, open a certain chest, and bring out some of the berries. No doubt the coffee in its natural state would have been excellent, but the Meccans perfume it with some species of strongly smelling drug, and persuade pilgrims that this is the natural scent and flavour of the coffee. Of course we drank the coffee without question, but it was very distasteful.

He seemed much pleased when I could go outside and sit with him in the garden and eat cherries, and he took care to bring to our room the last pickings of the early crop, telling us at the same time that these were the last.

Many a long conversation we had about politics, the different nations of Europe, and the progress of Russia towards India. Like many others, he seemed to be rather unpleasantly surprised when I told him that Her Majesty had very many more Muslim subjects than the Padshàh. But he was by no means an unenlightened man, and far more liberal in his ideas than most of the Osmanlis I met. He generally came twice a day, and would usually bring some little present for me, a few flowers, a bunch of aromatic herbs, a little fruit, saying, “Order what you choose, tell the servants what you wish.” Certainly when he was present, or gave the order, the servants were attentive, but it was otherwise when he was not likely to hear of their inattention, and I am sure that they plundered him shamefully. He was far too easy; any strolling traveller, or villager, could enter his house unchallenged, and not unfrequently sit down to eat with him; for it is etiquette not to eat alone; a man who did not invite some at least of the company present, to share his meal, would be looked upon as wanting in good manners and hospitality. His elder son, Ahmed Effendi, who had a fine estate at Saroglan, and usually lived there with his family, was much more exclusive in his manners, and rightly so.

The younger son, Ibrahim Effendi, a handsome young man of about eighteen or nineteen years, was a constant visitor, and it was very pleasing to observe with what extreme deference and respect both treated the father. The Osmanlis would, I think, compare very favourably with many more advanced nations in filial reverence and affection.

One day, as I was convalescent, the kaimakam arrived with his suite, the kadi, his brother-in-law, and several others. In common politeness I was obliged to go out and see them; but the conversation was simply a long cross-examination of Nahli, varied by sundry skilfully-put side questions to myself about St. Petersburg, Odessa, &c., to which I replied so calmly, that I think at last they saw how groundless were their suspicions of me. Then the kadi asked Nahli, if he “drank raki”; now no one liked his three or four little glasses of raki better, and I could not help an inward laugh at the sanctimonious air with which he turned up his eyes and hands, “Staffar Allah,[25] _I_ drink raki, _heetch! heetch!!_ (never! never!!).” Then the kadi turned to me. “But _you_, Tchelebi, _you_, I suppose drink raki?” “Well,” I replied, “I would wish to know what you mean by ‘drinking’ raki. If you mean ‘drinking to excess,’ that I never do; if you mean a glass now and then, why I do drink it, and Cognac too, and French wine very often. We hold it no sin to use these things; Allah gave them to man for that end—only not to be abused.” It seems that they were pleased with my answer.