Chapter XV: Mountains of Isauria. Ruins of Isaura

_July 10th._—There are extremely few birds to be seen here, owing to the severity of the last two winters. In general, however, they are said to be very abundant. One bird amused me much by his tameness and his curious note; about half his body was deep black, the other half bright white. One of them was always flitting about the house; his note was a repetition of

[Music]

accompanied by abrupt jerks of his tail.

I was very desirous of continuing my journey immediately. I had strength enough to mount on horseback, for several reasons combined to make me wish to leave Khadem, but all I was as yet able to do, was to take a stroll in the garden or outside the gate at evening as far as the village fountain, for my legs trembled under me.

Independently of this, the season is now so far advanced that all hope of visiting Lycia must be abandoned. It would require another six weeks at least, and I cannot spare the time; but I hope to visit Isaura, which is about eight hours from Khadem, and afterwards I shall take the shortest route to the coast, _viâ_ Karaman and the Dumbelek Pass, to Mersina. No one is able to give me any trustworthy information as to the country beyond Isaura, even towards Bey Shehir and Kereli, on the way to Smyrna. And as for the less-frequented country on the S.W. of Isaura, over the mountains of Oroanda and Gieuk Dagh or the valleys of the Melas and Eurymedon, it is either a wilderness (and in Kiepert’s map it is a complete blank), or at all events no one here knows anything more about it except that it is all “steep up-and-down” country (“enish yokoush”), and “full of brigands.” If I had time I would traverse it, but it is too late now. As events turned out, it was most unfortunate that I decided upon returning _viâ_ Mersina, for about the middle of June, cholera appeared in Syria, and all vessels from the Syrian coast had to undergo quarantine. Had I been aware of this, I should have pushed on from Isaura overland, but though our kind host used to bring in the Koniah newspaper, and read us the news, no mention was made in it of the outbreak of cholera in Syria. Moreover, besides my own wish to leave, Nahli had a grievance. It happened that during the first two or three days of our stay, the mufti’s guests were polite and civilized people, but latterly, the majority of the guests had been clownish villagers, or people who had not eaten a decent meal for months, to judge by their greedy voracity and gluttonous manners. Often I was quite surprised at seeing him return from the morning or evening meal, in fifteen or even twelve minutes; and he used to complain that he could get nothing! that he had to come away absolutely hungry! The clownish fellows would thrust the entire hand into the dish, with voracious rapidity, and in a trice the food would be gone! Often, too, six or eight guests would sit down to a dinner scarcely enough for four![26] The Oriental custom of eating, unpleasant enough at best, was thus rendered tenfold worse; and Nahli was now as eager for departure as I was myself.

I wrote down from Nahli’s dictation the list of dishes on two occasions, at the beginning of our stay.

(1) Soup of eiràn (buttermilk) and burghoul (pilled wheat); kibabs of roast meat; kouftis (a kind of minced meat) and leeks; flour and butter with pekmez; dolmas (chopped meat with rice and vegetables, rolled in young vine leaves) and yaourt; meat with spinach and yaourt; burghoul pilaff.

(2) Eiràn soup; bits of roast meat and gravy; stewed meat and haricots verts; kaimàk and honey; spinach cooked with butter, eaten with yaourt; dolmas and yaourt; peas with yaourt; burghoul pilaff.

_July 11th._—Accordingly I sent Nahli to sound the old gentleman as to my departure, proposing to leave next day. Certainly, I was still weak, and not fit to bear the fatigues of the journey as yet; but the position was becoming unpleasant. The good old man utterly refused to hear of it. “He is not fit to go, and what will be said of me if I allow him to go in this heat? No! no! Tell him to come out and eat some cherries with me; Inshallah, in a few days he will be strong, then he can go.” So there was nothing for it but to stay.

_July 14th._—I left the house of this kind and hospitable gentleman. Fortunate, indeed, it was for me, that my illness had come on in so healthy a spot, and where I could obtain such shelter; and I warmly expressed to my host the gratitude I felt for his kindness. Indeed, I was bound so to feel. Had the sickness occurred in one of those inhospitable villages, I know not what the result might have been. The mufti, with his son Ibrahim Effendi, came to the gate to bid me adieu; gave me his blessing in a very paternal way, to which I replied by warmly thanking him for his kindness, and praying that Allah would give him and his family every blessing. Then we shook hands, an unusual thing with Orientals; he wished me a safe return to my family, and so we parted. Nahli had gone to the serai the day before, to give his fee to my doctor, to excuse me to the kaimakam, and to ask him for a zaptieh. He at first replied in an off-hand way, that he “had none to give. Why did I not take the man he sent five or six days before?” Nahli replied that I was “too ill to leave then, that one cannot avoid what is sent by Allah!” Then, after a pause, “Well, Effendim, am I to take back that answer?” Hereupon the kadi interposed, “No! no! we must find him a zaptieh.” And they sent an excellent fellow, “Hassan.” He had no horse, but I never saw a finer marcher. Courteous, cheerful, and obliging he was withal, and yet with a certain dignity and independence. Such men are plentiful enough in the Turkish country population, but they have little chance of advancement in any branch of the public service. It requires very different qualities from theirs to rise in the Turkish governmental service! But men of this stamp are the very bone and sinew of the country. Let us hope that under the new organization, they will have better prospects.

We began to mount the hill to the north of the village. At the highest point I asked our zaptieh to explain the course of the river, along which we had come from Alata. He said it was the same river that flowed past Yerkooblü, that after it had traversed the rock ravine opposite Mernak in a N.E. direction, it turned abruptly towards the east, and after passing through a deep gorge, near a village called Kallinal, it flowed along the north face of a range of mountains lying nearly east and west, to which he gave the name Alma Dagh, then at the east extremity of this range it again turned abruptly, and after passing through yet another deep depression, it flowed in a southward and eastward direction towards Yerkooblü. From the spot on which we stood, we could trace its course for a long distance through the usual perpendicular rock precipices. The mountain round us was very bare, and the forest did not commence till a long distance from Khadem. All seems wild and solitary, with small patches of cultivated ground in the hollows, and poor crops. The heat of a few days back had been succeeded by fine, cool weather, and contrary to my expectations, I felt no weakness at all on horseback, although my legs still trembled when I walked. We passed the yaila of Khadem and the little village of Hodjilar, and in two hours and a half from Khadem, arrived at the site of the ancient ruined town of which the mufti had spoken, and which he called Tomashatlu, situated on a hill overgrown with wood. Our host, however, had not told us that he and some other of the Khadem people had formed a sort of joint-stock company for making excavations there, and had spent a considerable sum of money with no result, except the discovery of about a basketful of half-destroyed copper coins. He had been smart enough to arrange with the diggers to give them very small pay indeed, on the understanding that they should have a share of the expected “find!” It is truly laughable; and I remember we talked several times of ancient buried treasure, which he admitted only existed in people’s imagination.

While the horses grazed, we explored the ruins. There were many sarcophagi, but none with any legible inscription; the lids of some were carved into the figure of a lion, or panther, as at Balabolu. The town, which was a very small place, is nothing but a great heap of stones. A small theatre, or odeum, still remains, damaged, it is true, by the mufti’s unfortunate excavations. So small is it, that the scena does not measure more than nine paces in breadth! It had only seven rows of seats, and was all of the plainest and simplest construction. It is of horse-shoe form, the extremities of the cavea curved a little inwards. Most of the seats are still _in situ_, but part of them had been removed by the score or so of diggers, who had worked eighteen to twenty days, and found only a few old coppers!

At midday, we resumed our journey over a bad and rocky road, and down an extremely long descent, through pine woods. From the bottom of this, a slight climb brought us to the village of Bolat. Here we halted under some fine old mulberry trees, and I made a sketch of the mosque. On one of the great pine trunks which served to support the roof, was suspended a pair of very large ibex horns, intended to keep off the “evil eye,” a common superstition in the Levant.

We left Bolat at about 3 P.M., and a long descent brought us through the cemetery to a small river. The hills about are of porphyry, then of shale and calcined limestone. At last we saw before us the heights on which are the ruins of Isaura, still very far off, but, owing to the clear atmosphere, appearing close. Between it and us ran a long line of red rock precipices. At their foot flowed a considerable river from west to east. Our zaptieh said that it joined the river of Yerkooblü. Even at this late period of the summer it has still a considerable body of water. We crossed near a mill, from which a long and steep ascent ran up to a notch in the perpendicular rock wall, and gave access to the plateau above. It reminded me of the ascent to the corner of Adrass Dagh, on the road to Ermenek. The vine seems to be much cultivated here; sometimes the whole side of a mountain would be planted, wherever it was possible, with vineyards.

I could not help admiring the walking powers of our good cavass, Hassan. All day long he had kept up with the horses easily, whatever might be the ground; truly he was tough! Arrived on the plateau above, we passed through groves of stunted junipers to the village of Yelboughi. Here again we halted to rest. We could distinguish on the mountain top some of the old fortifications, but the distance was still great. After long riding, we were told by an old man we met, that we could not reach Aijilar (Kiepert’s “Hadschilar”) that night, but must rest at the village of Ashikler (“Lovers’ Village”), which was under the mountain, and very near the site of Isaura.

I was not much fatigued, for the air was remarkably pure and bracing, but was not sorry to hear that we were near our journey’s end. The ascent to the village was dreadful. How the animals managed to get over it, I cannot tell! It was a track, even that sometimes lost, through great angular rocks, all at a steep inclination; but our indefatigable cavass strode on ahead, and pointed out the way. That man would make an admirable sub-officer in any army.

We reached the village at 7.30 P.M., after having been eight hours in the saddle. Not bad for one who had only just recovered from an attack of fever. The mukhtar gave us a really kind reception. He prepared a supper of eiràn and burghoul soup, excellent yaourt, and a sweet dish—of honey. Hassan admitted that he _was_ fatigued, and “Bezìm dàghlĕrĭmĭz fèna” (our mountains are bad), in which I fully agreed with him. There was some little difficulty in obtaining food for the horses, but all ended well. The people tell me great things of the old city.

_July 15th._—Rose refreshed, after a sound sleep. Hassan had been watching me, and when he saw me awake, he stood up with a smile, and said, “You see, I am mounted on my horse, ready to start.” It was a heavenly morning; the air pure and bracing, the day bright, but cool, sunny, and yet cloudy, with a gentle breeze. The village of Ashikler is built much more solidly than any I have yet seen in this country, being of large blocks of stone, set in stiff clay, and compacted with great trunks of juniper. The roofs are of great thickness and solidity, and this is necessary, as the snow lies here four or five feet deep for several months in the year; and the wind in this elevated region is often of extreme violence. The walls are about four feet in thickness. In front of every house is a court, or enclosure, surrounded by high walls of loose blocks. This is the fold, for in winter the sheep and cattle must be brought home, to be secured from the cold and the many wild beasts that abound.

Our lodging, an open portico, looked southwards, and from it there was a grand view of the mountains of Isauria, through which I had been so long toiling. The head of the village, a fine-looking old man, pointed out to me the position of Khadem, Alata, and Yerkooblü. Full in front, and extending a little to the left, was the long ridge of Alma Dagh. The river of Alata runs all along its northern face, then, after running along the front of Alma Dagh, it passes through a deep ravine at the east end of the mountain, and flows on to Yerkooblü. Beyond, and at either side of Alma Dagh, was a perfect maze of high mountains. A little to the right, as we stood (i.e. S. by W. from us), was Ak Dagh, the mountain above Khadem; to S.E. by S. was Alata Dagh. We were far above most of the country for scores of miles around.

At about 8 A.M. we started for the ruins, attended by our host, his two sons, and sundry others of the villagers. A little distance beyond our lodging, was the village fountain, in which a number of antique tombstones had been inserted, but all the inscriptions were obliterated.

About a quarter of an hour from the village is the ruin of a tomb, or small temple, built upon a rocky platform. The whole upper part of the edifice has disappeared, but the lower part, built of massy hewn stones, eight to ten feet long, still remains, together with the huge foundation stones on which its columns once rested. A few fragments of the columns are lying about. The villagers pull down the stones for the sake of the iron bolts and the lead which they find in them; for iron is dear, costing 8 piastres per oke. The road to the ruins skirts the base of the heights, and commands an extensive view of a country quite new to me, in the direction of Koniah.

We reached the foot of the height on which the ruins are, at 9 A.M. The circuit of the old city, with its walls, comprehends the top of two detached hills lying N.N.W. to S.S.E., and which are the highest ground in the whole district; at almost every point, except on S. and S.W., deep precipices defend the approaches to these hill tops. A line of wall with many towers runs along the S. and S.W., and completes the defences of the place. Most of the buildings of the city are on a lower neck of ground between the two hills. In the valley at the foot of the height, and on the rocky hills around, are an immense number of rock tombs and sarcophagi; there was a small edifice built over a fountain of delicious water, very cold and clear. The spring issued in abundant volume through a square channel of cut stone, and flowed into a small square basin, beyond which was a heap of large hewn blocks. A little way above, upon the hill side, are the ruins of two other edifices, built of massy hewn blocks without cement, which had perhaps been temple tombs. The one nearest the path was an oblong, 23 feet 7 inches by 11 feet 9 inches, built of huge oblong blocks of fine limestone. On either side of the interior are two niches for statues; and there seem to have been niches for statues also in the wall above. A few of the ornamental blocks remain. They are either of white marble, or of spotted marble (black and white); nearly the sole ornaments carved on them are flowers in lozenge compartments. I noticed also the capital of one Corinthian pilaster. At 3 feet 9 inches from the pavement is a projecting shelf, 7 inches in breadth, all round the interior. The Corinthian pilasters seem to have been in the wall (above this), two on either side, and between them windows, and niches for statues. Portions of the frieze remain, but of very inferior design, and workmanship; one piece represents a hunter killing a stag, by pulling back the head, and cutting the throat; but the drawing of the figures is rude. The other edifice, similarly built on very massy foundations, is now a mere heap of ruin. On either side of the path which leads up the steep hill-side to the great gateway of the city, are many sarcophagi, but all completely defaced.

The entrance to the city on this, the south side, consists of a double gateway in a passage between walls of very massive construction. The entrance is flanked on either side by an heptagonal tower, but the whole external portion of these towers has fallen, and lies in vast heaps of ruin far down the hill side. This is the case with almost every tower in the whole circuit of the walls, and is no doubt the result of earthquakes.

I never saw finer or more regular masonry. The stones, which are either cubes or oblongs, and are set in layers alternately large and small, are regularly wrought all over, and fitted together without mortar, with extreme accuracy. The larger oblong stones measured in length 6 feet 7 inches, in breadth 3 feet, in depth (which filled up the whole thickness of the wall) 4 feet 9 inches. The material is either the hardest grey limestone, or a stone which is a mixture of limestone and white marble (the stone interpenetrated, and injected with marble), or of porphyry veined with white. The width of the outer gateway is 12 feet 9 inches, height of archway 18 feet, but probably the sill lies deeper, as it is all blocked by huge stones. On the left side of the passage leading to the gateway, shields are sculptured in relief, some quite plain, others with a boss and spear. The passage, after passing under the outer gateway, turns at right angles between walls of the same fine construction, and goes through another gateway, which is now fallen, and in utter ruin.

The line of wall runs eastwards and westwards from the great gateway, along the edge of the heights. On the east side of the great gateway there is but one tower (one of the flanking towers); from it the wall runs up the hill side, but the precipices with which the crown of the hill on that side is bordered soon render a wall unnecessary.

On the west side of the gateway, at a distance of about 150 yards, is a square tower in ruins, then a little further, one like those at the gateway, heptagonal, but built on a semicircular foundation of masonry, next a third tower. Then a deep ravine, across which the wall ran; the ravine sinks steeply down, widening as it descends, and in a little plain at the bottom of it, far below, is the hamlet of Yazdama. On the opposite side of this ravine are three more heptagonal towers, loopholed on the four outer sides, standing at a distance of from 100 to 150 yards apart, and about 100 yards beyond are the ruins of a small round tower. Then there is another ravine, wider, and shallower, but still bordered by steep precipitous sides. In the plain below it is the village of Oloubounar.

The wall ran across this ravine to a point of rock in it, on which are the ruins of a tower. In the deepest part beyond this, and in the line of wall, is a second gateway—the arch of which still remains—defended by two towers—one on either side, and of the same plan as those at the great gateway, but smaller. On a large stone in the ruins, a helmet and a pair of greaves are carved in high relief, on another stone a coat of mail (or a leathern surcoat?), also what appeared like a dish, with a wreath of vine, and clusters of grapes. The wall runs up the other side of this ravine, which is extremely steep, broken, and rocky, to a large tower in better preservation than any other. These towers must have had several stories, and in this, the holes for the beams of each story yet remain. All are of equally fine construction; the entrance to them was by a door 10 feet 6 inches high, 5 feet 9 inches broad, and the walls are 4 feet 9 inches in thickness.

Beyond this tower the slope of the height is very abrupt, so that a wall is hardly needed, but about 200 yards above it is a small round tower. In front of this the precipice descends steeply, forming one side of a very deep ravine, which divided the height on which I stood from another eminence. I did not observe any remains of wall across this ravine, but near the bottom of the opposite height was a tower, and ruins of wall up the slope of the hill transversely to another tower. I did not visit this side, as I was greatly fatigued, and our guide said that these formed the extreme limit of the fortifications. The whole circuit of the heights from S.E. and round by north to west is bordered by deep precipices, accessible at two points only; the remainder of the circuit, from S.E. and round by south to west is defended by fortifications, which are themselves very difficult of access, and are faced by lesser rocky heights or steep slopes. Here, as in all the Isaurian district, the shape of the mountains is very peculiar. Beginning from Gelibel, the same rugged, broken, abrupt formation everywhere prevails, at Tchukoor, Durgèller, Alata, Khadem, and indeed throughout the country.

The precipices on the northern side are only accessible (as I have said) at two spots, one a narrow ravine to the north of the great gateway, and which leads to the village of Aijilar. This was defended by a tower, with walls extending on either hand to the precipitous hill-side, all across the ravine. I did not, however, observe any gateway in it. The other spot is on the N.W. portion of the heights, this also is defended by a wall and towers.

_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._

London: Edward Stanford, 55, Charing Cross.]

The wall which connected all these towers is either ruined, or perhaps much of it was never completed, but all the buildings are of the same severe and solid architecture. I have seen no such ancient masonry, out of Egypt; many of the stones are 8 feet by 3 feet, and fitted together with the utmost exactness.

So much for the fortifications of Isaura. As I have said, most of the buildings in the city itself are upon the depressed space or neck, between the two heights. On the opposite side of the city from the great gateway is an arch of triumph, consisting of a single archway, of simple and severe, but very solid, architecture of the Ionic order. In front of it lay a huge heap of fragments, and great blocks of stone; on one of them, which had formed part of the lintel of the gateway, was carved the following inscription. I searched for the remainder of it, but the stone had been broken, and the other fragments could not be found.

ΑΙΑΝΟΥΥΙΩΘΕΟΥΝΕΡΟΥΑΥΙΩΝΩΙ
]

Hamilton and Texier (the only travellers who appear to have visited Isaura before myself) give this inscription in full:—

ΑΥΤΟΚΡΑΤΟΡΙΚΑΙΣΑΡΙΘΕΩΙΑΔΡΙΑΝΩΙϹΕΒΑϹΤΩΙ
ΘΕΟΥΤΡΑΙΑΝΟΥΥΙΩΙΘΕΟΥΝΕΡΟΥΑΥΙΩΝΩΙ
ΙϹΑΥΡΕΩΝΗΒΟΥΛΗΚΑΙΟΔΗΜΟϹ
]

“To the Autocrat Cæsar, the Divine Adrian Augustus, son of the Divine Trajan, grandson of the Divine Nerva, the Council and People of the Isaurians.”

Texier gives the measurement of this triumphal arch. Height a little more than 7 metres, breadth about 5 metres, thickness about 3½ metres. He says it is built of red and yellow marble, but it is of the same stone as the wall and towers.

It has been diminished by the erection within it of a square doorway, formed of three great oblong blocks.

Amongst the débris I noticed a large Ionic capital of debased style, with a head in high relief between the volutes, and some fragments of twenty-sided marble pillars, not monoliths, but in several pieces. There was, however, extremely little marble in the city. A street bordered with limestone columns, and with many pedestals of plain construction, extended between the arch and the great gateway. The street was curved, and at about half-way along it, was a wide, open, level space. It was evident that a pavement still existed below the surface. This was no doubt the site of the Agora, and the columns belonged to a covered porticus at its side. Around the Agora were most of the public buildings. Another street extended in a straight line from the arch towards the west. It is only half as long as the curved street, and seems to end at the ruin of some large building, of which the substructure and a few feet of wall still remain.

The ruins of private houses lie thickly strewn on both sides of these streets, and up the slope of the eastern height; near the top of the height are very extensive quarries, but by far the largest part of the space enclosed by the fortifications must always have been void, for the _enceinte_ is extremely spacious. The void space was full of rock tombs, sarcophagi, and many quarries. I noticed one sarcophagus covered with triangular bands in relief, at the end of each band was a lion’s head.

Behind the Arch of Triumph are the foundations, and some feet of the walls, of several large public buildings. That nearest the arch must have been a magnificent room. Heaps of hewn stones and sculptured fragments cumber the whole interior, but I saw no bas-reliefs or carved figures. There were several inscriptions, only one of which I could decipher, the limestone having crumbled away. I observed no spring or cistern, but at the base of the wall, immediately behind the archway, our guide pointed out a spot where a fountain had once gushed out, of which he had himself drunk. Unfortunately, the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages had done much mischief at Isaura by pulling down the stones in order to extract the iron bolts and lead with which they had been secured. Much of their mischievous labour had been expended on the masonry of the fine wall behind the Arch of Triumph, and probably the spring had been choked by the falling stones. There must, however, be many cisterns, and probably other springs, amidst the ruins.

On the western of the two heights inclosed by the fortifications, rise four projecting masses of rock to the height of about fifty feet above the general level of the ground. These rocks are ascended by steps cut in the stone. On the second of these eminences (from west to east), at the highest point, are the ruins of a great octagonal tower, of which nothing remains beyond the foundations, and a few feet of wall. There had been large windows in each side; the pilasters of porphyry which had formed the sides of the windows, and the stone arches, lay amidst the ruin. Near the tower I found a number of cubes, of glass (some gilt), porcelain, and red jasper. From their small size, the mosaic of which they had once formed part must have been finely made; but I saw no pavement, or church, to which they might have belonged. Nowhere, indeed, in any part of the city did I see any Christian emblem whatever. All that I saw was either old Greek or Roman under the earlier emperors. The city “Isauropolis,” however, had Christian bishops, so that there must have been Christian remains, although I did not observe any. Great quantities of fragments of pottery are scattered about, mostly of red and black colour, and some extremely fine and thin, but none that I saw bore any design, except sometimes black lines. The very little sculpture I found was of bad quality, and, moreover, defaced. Although I carefully searched, I could find no theatre; the old city had been apparently built only with a view to war, and not to peace.

The tower on the rocky eminence was the great look-out or watch-tower. The whole site of the city was admirably adapted for a community of robbers and brigands such as the Isaurians always were, itself strongly fortified both by art and nature, in the heart of a most difficult and impracticable country, inhabited by a population fierce, warlike, and predatory. The view from the watch-tower extended over a vast extent of country, and with a telescope it was possible to see what was going on over an immense space. I do not know that I ever beheld such a prospect.

The view from Kremna in Pisidia is very grand, but this is far wider and grander. The only points of the compass on which the view is at all obstructed are the south and south by east, towards Khadem and Alata. On the N.E. Karajah Dagh could be faintly distinguished, Kara Dagh and Bozalla Dagh plainly. All the plain of Karaman could be seen, only on the extreme due north the very distant view was obstructed by nearer mountains, although even they were a long way off. The whole lake of Seidi Shehir and the country round it was clearly visible. The view towards W. and S.W. is over a vast number of ranges of inferior height till the horizon is closed by the long line of Yout Dagh and Geueu Dagh.

There were many fragments of inscription, but all illegible excepting one, of which I with difficulty deciphered a part; but no doubt some of the letters are incorrectly rendered, for in this, as in all, the limestone has crumbled away. It is interesting, as giving the name of the city. I might perhaps have deciphered more of it, but the old simpleton, our host of Ashikler, his two sons, and several other villagers crowded round, impeding and annoying me extremely. These foolish people had formed the idea that I was about to discover a buried treasure, and they neglected their business and sacrificed their time in order to come with us. They did not leave me all day long; one at least was always at my elbow, and I was obliged to order them away to be alone even for a minute. I could not help laughing heartily at their discomfited looks when we started. We had chaffed them all day long about “hidden treasure” (defn), but they would not be convinced, and I am sure still stick to their belief. As we mounted our horses, Hassan and our souriji ironically condoled with them because they “had not brought bags large enough to carry away the treasure.” We had a hearty laugh, but I must admit they took their chaffing with great good humour, and returned to their village sadder, but I fear not wiser, men.

ΙϹΑΥΡΕΩΝΗΒΟΥΛΗΚΑΙ
ΟΔΗΜΟϹΟΠϹΕΥΝΠΟ
ΛΕΙΤΕΧΟΜΕΝΟΙ ΡΩ
ΜΝΟΙΤΑΡΧΥΝΔΡΕΑ
ΝΔΗΜΗΤΡΙΟΥΑΡΧ
ΤΡΕΑΕΤΩΝϹΕΒΑϹ
ΤΩΝΕΚΠΡΟΤΟΝΩΝ
ϹΟΧΤΙΜΩΝΑΚΑΙΦΙΑϹ
ΕΝΤΕΑΡΧΑΙϹ
ΚΑΙΕΠΙΜ
ΠΡΕ
]

There was still much to see in the old city, but sunset was fast approaching, and I was very wearied. I dared not bestow another day on the exploration of this most interesting place, for I had calculated the time exactly, leaving, as I thought, only enough for making the journey to Mersina, so as to reach it the day before the arrival of the Russian steamer. This would only allow time enough for packing, and for disposal of my horses, and I could not linger anywhere on the road. Could I have foreseen the delay that took place at Mersina, I might have remained some days longer here.

The air of this elevated region was most exhilarating—the best, I think, that I ever breathed—the sun warm and bright, but not too hot. Nay, while I sat in the shade I found the air even cold. This is, however, the very finest season, and I cannot imagine how the people who lived here in the olden time, could have endured the inclement winter weather at this great altitude.

I had still about half an hour to spare, and I sat down on the side of the height which looked towards the lake of Seidi Shehir, and tried to draw the outline of some of the many mountain ranges in view. While there, nearly all the villagers who had formed our tail throughout the day, gathered round me, and, said one of them, “Excuse me, effendi” (“Àfou idèrsen effendim”); “how much do you receive per month for going about in this way?”—i.e. for my trouble in exploring, with a view, I presume, of discovering hidden treasure. When I replied that I did not travel for money, but for my own pleasure and instruction, he was silent; and when soon afterwards our Ashikler host came up, he said to him, “It is not as we supposed.”

I did not succeed in finishing even the outline of the grand landscape before me. It was evening, and the mountains were already in shadow, which deepened more and more every minute. But so grand and multitudinous were the ranges, rising one above the other, that to do them justice would have required the pencil of a Turner or a Claude.

The mountains beyond the lake are very high, but there is now little or no snow on them. They looked desolate enough, but we were told that there were villages upon them. They rose steep and gloomy from the edge of the lake, and are out-topped by higher ranges beyond. N.W. by W. lie the mountains of “Arwan” (Oroanda), as our guide called them. Beyond them is a huge snow mountain, which the villagers called Anamas Dagh, not far from the town of Bey Shehir. N.W. by N. are the mountains near Kereli. Very far off towards the west is the top of a great mountain faintly visible (perhaps Boz Borun, in Pisidia). It must be of great height to be seen at such a distance. The only village in sight was Ali Tchartchi Keui, on the shore of the lake nearest to us.

We descended by the ravine on the north, which lies in the depression between the two heights, and above which most of the buildings of the city stood. It is too steep to ride down, but the village of Aijilar is only about three-quarters of an hour distant. Four fine ranges of mountain were visible as we descended; Bozalla and Kara Dagh, near; Karajah Dagh, faintly visible and thin as vapour; and, barely to be distinguished, the double cone of Hassan Dagh, about 140 miles off to the N.E.

The villagers of Aijilar received us very hospitably. In the first place we had an excellent zaptieh, who took great care for our requirements, and next, our souriji was a “green-turbaned” man, and therefore a real or pretended descendant of the Prophet; then he was a “moollah” to boot, and, besides, a very good fellow. The villagers were in the mosque at the “asr” (evening prayer) when we arrived. On coming out they gave us the porch of the mosque to lodge in. It was the best, the cleanest, the most comfortable lodging I had occupied for many a day. In front was an abundant spring of excellent water; the air of the place was cold and pure; the cleanliness of the villagers (i.e. the _comparative_ cleanliness) great, and it was evident that much care had been taken to keep the neighbourhood of the mosque neat. They told me the origin of the name of their village. In the days of one of the Karaman sultans a child was born to the chief of the village having feet like bears’ feet, and in consequence of this the name “Aijilar,” “the bears’ village” (from “Ayou” or “Ayi,” “a bear”), was adopted. I had many questions to ask, but although desirous of obtaining information from them, I was too fatigued; so dismissing these kind-hearted, simple-minded people, I slept soundly “under the shadow of the church.”

_July 16th._—Left Aijilar at 9 A.M. Day cool and cloudy; now and then light showers. Road easy, but uninteresting, over rocky hills covered with juniper and scrub oak, and with very little cultivation. The hills cut off the view, except of Bozalla Dagh, which rose before us bare and rugged, and of a light cream colour. There was, however, a good view of the heights of Isaura. We passed on our left the village of Khunnet, in a line with Ashikler, and entered a tract of finely cultivated land. At 11.30 we passed on our right Kuzeuran; at 12.15, Geunik; at 12.45 we reached Saroglan, and were most hospitably received by Ahmed Effendi, son of the good old Mufti of Khadem, who usually lives here with his family on his “tchiftlik.” He pressed us to remain the night, but we explained that I had only time to reach Mersina so as to meet the steamer. He gave us breakfast, to which only he, I, and Nahli sat down, although there were many others in the room. It consisted of new bread, thin and well buttered, with slices of cream cheese as sandwiches, a dish of kaimàk and honey, burghoul and yaourt. On bidding him adieu, he said: “Perhaps we shall never meet again, but do not forget us! think sometimes of us!” And often since I HAVE thought of that hospitable family, to whose kindness, it may be, I owe my life.

I am quite unable to make out the topography of this district of Isauria. In front of Saroglan, looking towards the S.E., there is on the right a red conical mountain, which I had not observed before, called Armoodlu Dagh, in the direction of Khadem. Farther off, behind Khadem, is Tchili Dagh. The long line of Evschenler Dagh is full in front of Saroglan. Behind this runs the Alata river, and farther to the S.E. is Durgèller.

The road from Alata to Saroglan is (so they told me) fourteen hours’ ride—a bad and rocky road. From Khadem to Saroglan, seven to eight hours, also difficult and rocky, with many steep ascents and descents. Indeed, all the roads in Isauria are bad.

We left Saroglan at 2.45. The road was very easy. It traversed a district of hills extending right and left as far as the eye could reach, covered only with scrub oak; a rocky, sterile district, without inhabitant, all the way to the corner of the great plain. Constant showers of rain fell. At the entrance into the plain, in a ravine on the right, was the village of Armoodlu; in the plain, on the left, Kara Zengir; the latter looked very bare, there did not seem to be a tree or bush in or near it, and the same barren prospect extended all along the plain.

At 6.30 we came to Elmasun, very tired; there was the usual inhospitable reception; at first no one would show us any room at all, then those they showed were so dark and dirty that I resolved rather to sleep under the tree at the village fountain. But before deciding I rode round the village to reconnoitre, and espied the porch of a house, which looked the best and most inviting shelter attainable—for even some Greek Christians near the fountain, to whom Nahli applied for help, disdained to assist us, and would scarcely trouble themselves even to return an answer to his inquiries. Thus reduced to our own resources, I ordered the souriji to deposit the baggage in this porch. Presently up came an old lady, a neighbour, and began to reproach us for so doing—“it was the house of a widow,” &c., &c. But when we pleaded necessity, and the inhospitality of the people, and were not to be dislodged, she yielded, and was really kind and attentive. Soon after, up came the mistress of the house, and after considerable grumbling, finding that we were not to be dislodged, she agreed to let us the porch for the night, money down. By and by two of the villagers came. One of them said he was the mukhtar, and wished to see our passport; but as he could not read, we told him to bring some one who could, and we would show him the order of the kaimakam at Karaman to see that our wants were supplied. Upon which they went off, and we saw no more of them. No doubt the contingency of being obliged to furnish what we needed, and that (as they would expect) without payment, was disagreeable; yet our first care on arriving at a village always was to reassure the people on this all-important point.

We engaged a boy to watch over the horses, and tried to sleep; but sleep in the hot, enervating air of the plain is not refreshing. The only hospitable person in the village was the old woman, who brought us what we needed.

_July 17th._—Left Elmasun at 6 A.M., and yet the mistress of our lodging importuned us for an additional rent, because we were so late in starting! I was thoroughly tired even before we set out, and dreaded the hot and exhausting ride over the plain. But it was better than I expected. There was a fine breeze from the west, and by halting now and then and turning to face the breeze, we were refreshed; shelter from the sun there was none. About half an hour from Elmasun is Kol, a village on the right, with a fine and cold spring near the road. After passing this, I felt so tired that I fell fast asleep upon my horse, unable to keep my eyes open. The plain here is slightly undulating; at intervals are patches of cultivation, with fine crops of wheat and barley, now ripe, in the favourable spots; but the greater part of it is uncultivated, and so lonely that for three hours together I saw scarcely a living creature beyond a few butterflies, and here and there some wild bees in banks of dark earth, full of their nests, and to be carefully avoided! Every now and then, the whizzing noise of grasshoppers was almost deafening. Besides these, there were neither animals nor men, save where at long intervals one or two reapers were at work, or a woman or girl threshing out the grain with the sledge drawn by oxen, and then winnowing it in the usual clumsy way. The grain is laid up in heaps awaiting the inspection of the ushirji. There was still a much greater amount of verdure than I should have expected from the great heat and scorching sun, and here and there masses of brilliant flowers, which give the most beautiful tints to the distant parts of the plain.

At 9 A.M. we passed Bussola, a village deserted except at sowing and reaping time, on account (we were told) of its unhealthiness. It is on the site of an ancient town, and great heaps of stone, bits of wrought marble, sarcophagi, and many cisterns surround it. A large ruined church with pointed arches stood in the middle of the village. As the place lay at some distance from the road, we did not visit it in consequence of the intense heat. In three hours and three-quarters we came to Kassaba, a village in a hollow of the plain, with fine springs, and surrounded by magnificent crops of grain, on which the villagers were busily employed.

Conspicuous a long way off is the minaret of the mosque, but it presents nothing remarkable. The place itself is an oblong enclosed by a wall with towers at intervals, all now dismantled. Both the wall and village are built of thin slabs of limestone set in clay. It was probably a flourishing place before the sad times of 1873-4, but now it is half deserted, and whole streets of the houses are fast falling to ruin.

We rested under the scanty shade of a willow tree, near one of the village fountains, in the neighbourhood of a ruined mosque and cemetery. While there, and whilst everything around was bathed in the burning sunlight, and hardly a sound broke the deathlike stillness of the place, the dead body of a little child was brought to be buried, wrapped, as is the custom, in a Cashmere shawl. An old, long-bearded Osmanli, probably the moollah of the mosque, came with the friends of the child, and recited the formula for the burial, which is in Arabic. His pronunciation sounded very strange. In place of “Allah hu akbar!” he said “Allah heu èk-bìr!” repeating it in a loud voice, and afterwards in a tone hardly audible. In a few minutes the shallow grave was filled in, and all relapsed to its former breathless silence and solitude! No one seemed to take any notice of our presence, although we were quite close, and the friends of the dead stood placidly by, and, outwardly at least, displayed no emotion.

To a European the calmness and composure with which Orientals usually bend to the stroke of death, either their own or of their relatives, is surprising—sometimes it is even shocking! And yet it is not from apathy, for between members of the same family, love is seldom or never deficient, and between mother and son is in general remarkably strong. But when death comes, all other feelings merge in resignation to the will of Allah; and the devout Muslim would look on excessive grief as something not only uncalled for, but absolutely impious.

I remember a remarkable case in point. One of my friends was travelling from Aleppo to Alexandretta. At nightfall he had reached a village called Tokat Termanin. The weather was cold and inclement, and no shelter could be had except a stable; for the roof of the khan had fallen in, owing to the excessive rain. In despair, my friend went out into the village, in the hope of finding a lodging. The first person he met in the street was a respectable-looking Muslim, to whom he told his necessity, and was at once invited to the man’s house. It was comfortable—for the East—and his host busied himself to provide what the stranger needed; nothing, indeed, could exceed his hospitality. But every now and then he would ejaculate, “El hamd lìllàh Mohàmmed achoòi màt” (“Praise be to God, my brother Mohammed is dead!”). My friend, who understood Arabic, was much surprised, but hesitated to ask his host what was the meaning of these words. In the morning, however, he found out that the brother of his host had died the preceding night, and that the man was returning from his brother’s house when he met him. Yet this family misfortune did not prevent him from exercising the duty of hospitality; and the man’s words were merely an indication of his resignation to the will of God in taking away his brother. To my mind there is something really very affecting in such a feeling. In truth, the Muslim Oriental, as a rule, accepts with great—nay, immense—magnanimity, dispensations under which the European too often sinks. Who is there that has lived in the Muslim East, and mixed familiarly with the people, but can recall instances in which the most sudden and disastrous reverse of fortune has been borne with a noble calmness which we Europeans may admire, but cannot imitate? A Muslim suicide is almost a prodigy.

Left Kassaba at 2.20; at 3.45 reached Ilisera—a miserable village, but surrounded by good land, and with splendid crops, on which the people were hard at work. After passing this place, I again slept upon my horse for half an hour, so exhausted was I by the overpowering heat. At 4.20 we reached an eminence in the plain, and saw in front of us Karaman, with its long line of dark green trees and gardens. The rays of the setting sun struck upon our back almost more fiercely than at midday, and it was nearly two hours more before we reached the khan—utterly beaten, and glad to return even to such rudiments of civilization as Karaman afforded, after the barbarism and inhospitality of the villages. We had been about eight hours in the saddle since leaving Elmasun, exposed all the time without shelter to the powerful sun. It is this which wearies, not the mere ride; for in the bracing air of the mountains one may ride all day without feeling half as much fatigue as is caused by a march of three or four hours in the lowlands or the plain.

We passed no stream of any importance between Elmasun and Karaman, although several are laid down in the map as flowing from the mountain district of Bozalla into the plain, but perhaps at this advanced season they had dried up; and at about an hour’s distance from Karaman is a finely-built bridge of two pointed Saracenic arches, over a torrent bed, now dry. The stones—beautifully cut cubes and oblongs—are of various formations of trachyte—one especially fine, of deep black, with granules of bright white in it. Near the bridge is about a couple of miles of carriage-road—an abortive attempt at establishing communication between Koniah and Karaman, which no doubt cost the province a heavy sum. The cultivation of the land round Karaman, and the state of the crops, would do credit to the best English farmer. Especially fine are the gardens of the town itself, full of heavy crops of grain, maize, &c. There are many fields of poppies, now in the head, and the people are busily engaged in scraping off the opium as it exudes from the poppy heads. These gardens are full also of magnificent trees, and are all surrounded by walls of unbaked brick. I should suppose that Karaman had been a very populous place three or four centuries back, as it contains a great number of cemeteries. This is in general all that remains of a decayed Turkish town; the houses speedily fall into utter ruin—only the tombstones remain to tell future generations that men once dwelt there. Our old acquaintances soon assembled at the khan to bid us welcome, and our first care was to find our former souriji Ali; but he had gone to some distant village in order to work at the harvest, and could not be found. It was pleasant to know that he was well satisfied with us, and gave us a favourable character as being “good people,” in whose service he had gained “plenty of money.” It does not require much to satisfy these simple-minded folks.