Chapter VIII

HIGHLANDS OF CILICIA. THE CILICIAN GATES. PASS OF BOZANTI.

_June 1st._—Still no seal to my bouyourdi. Are we to lose yet another day in this dreadful city? Nahli had to run about nearly all the morning in the overpowering heat, for we could obtain nothing; the Governor’s secretary had not given in our bouyourdi to be sealed, and no souriji appeared.

I was obliged to go again to Ali Bey, and after much trouble and vexation everything was at last arranged. The bouyourdi was not only a passport for the vilayet of Adana, but it contained also a recommendation of me to the officials of any other vilayet through which I might pass, and it was well I waited for it, as I am certain that I could not have gone on without it. In this part of Asia Minor it would be very difficult, indeed almost impossible, to travel without official assistance.

The heat of the plain is now so intense that no one who can avoid it travels by day, even the camel trains only work at night. It was therefore arranged that we should start in the evening; we should thus reach by sunrise a little village, Kazouk Bash, near the edge of the mountains, where we could rest till the afternoon, and so enter the mountains at the close of the day. Accordingly, at 7 P.M., Nahli and I started. Crowds of people were coming into town from the country, in order to attend market next day. By the side of the road a sick man was lying. Two friends were bringing him into Adana. He was suffering from sunstroke, and appeared very ill, though able now and then to walk on a little with the help of his friends. The night soon closed in—a still, dark, starry night, without a breath of wind. Fireflies sparkled in all directions; not a sound broke the deep silence, except that now and then a troop of jackals would open out their long, wailing cry, sometimes close at hand; then another troop in the distance would take up the weird chorus. Everywhere the smell of the marshes—that damp, deadly, indescribable odour—was clearly perceptible. We passed several companies of labourers lying down on the roadside to sleep, without any covering. No wonder so many die, poor fellows! The intense sun by day is succeeded by the chill night with its deadly dews, and they have no proper protection against either.

I had taken a zaptieh (mounted policeman) to act as guard (!) and guide, and wherever it was possible on the journey I always engaged one. Some of them give great assistance; but of course, in case of a serious attack, they would be of but little use. Our present zaptieh was quite a young fellow, and though both he and the souriji knew the country well, they managed to lose the way, and after long wandering about, floundering through mud and water, and into and out of fields, we came back again to the Tarsus road, almost at the spot where we had left it! At last the zaptieh impressed into the service a man we found on the road, and for fear he should escape made him mount behind himself on the horse. He put us in the right direction, and I dismissed him well pleased with a little bucksheesh.

We turned off the road again northwards, at a village called Zeyteen. The people of the village were sick of marsh fever, and we could actually “hear” the shivering and groans of the poor patients, many of whom were lying at their doors.

The darkness had now begun to pass away a little; but at least an hour before the first peep of dawn the larks and other birds were astir, and even beginning to warble. At 2.30 A.M. we halted in a corn-field, and our horses were turned in to graze, which they did with a will. If only the proprietor had seen them! But all my people assured me that the cultivators are very indulgent, provided their kindness is not abused. The men all lay down to sleep, but I did not care to do so, for both air and ground were very damp.

We reached our destination at 3.15 A.M., just before sunrise, and a few minutes after our arrival the moon rose in a bright silver crescent. It was a beautiful sight to see the thin line of silver rise above the horizon, till the resplendent colours of dawn effaced it.

The village was a miserable collection of mud-built houses. We chose a kind of open portico to rest in, but the flies and fleas prevented me from sleeping. There was an open-air sleeping place on a large scale (like the cribs at Adana) not far from the house, but some women and children were occupying it. These sleeping stages, raised a few feet above the ground, are a slight defence against malaria. The sun became very hot towards 8 A.M., so we removed to the shade of a large fig tree, but even there the flies and fleas prevented sleep.

_June 2nd._—Left Kazouk Bash at 1 P.M. The ascent to higher ground commences here, and as we mounted upwards from the plain the heat began at once to diminish. Our route lay amid low, rounded hills, parched and dry. Tarsus was in sight at a distance of about two hours, and the whole breadth of the plain, green, brown, and yellow with its magnificent crops, lay outspread before us. At frequent intervals we passed extensive cemeteries, which I have observed in every well-frequented mountain pass in Asia Minor. This pass is very much used, as being the chief passage to and from the interior. Immensely long strings of camels or donkeys passed to and fro; those coming down from the interior are mostly unladen, those going up carry loads of grain for the famine-stricken districts round Nigdeh and Kaisariyeh. There are many encampments of Turkmans throughout this district. Their tents, unlike the Yourouks, are of lattice work covered with thick felt cloths, and afford protection against the severest weather. They spend the winter on the plains, and gradually, as summer advances, make their way up into the mountains. Large flocks of their sheep and goats were pasturing along the hill-sides; each flock followed its shepherd wherever he led the way, and the melodious notes of the shepherd’s pipe fell pleasantly upon the ear.

After passing through a region of chalky hills we came to the village of Melemendji, a settlement belonging to a rich Armenian of Adana. Near it, in a valley to the right, is a church much visited by Armenian pilgrims. At 3.30 we reached a very pretty little spot, Yaramiz Chèshmé, where a fountain pours forth a slender, trickling stream, and forms, in consequence, one of the chief halting places on the passage through the mountains. Several tents were pitched here, belonging to a wealthy Muslim of Adana, and President of the Tribunal of Commerce there, named Abd-el-Kader, a native of Bagdad. He and his family were on their way to their summer quarters in the mountain above Kulek Boghaz. I had met him in the room of the Prefect of Police a few days before, and when he heard at what place I intended remaining that night he kindly sent me a large leg of mutton as a present, for he said I should “find nothing but stones there.” Unfortunately the meat was very tough, but the zaptiehs nevertheless fully appreciated it. I have heard since that he met with great trouble in 1876, having been accused, with a dozen or more of the chief Muslims of Adana, by the Wali, of conspiring to get up a massacre of the Christians. Abd-el-Kader was imprisoned, but managed to send a letter to the principal Europeans in Mersina, in which he implored their help. “You know,” he wrote in it, “that I am and have been always friendlily disposed to you and other Christians.” They sent up a memorial in his favour to the Governor, who reluctantly released his prey, not however, in all probability, till he had wrung money from the prisoner. There may have been some suspicious circumstances which led to this arrest, for most of these men were pounced upon by the Wali in secret conclave, and at night. Soon afterwards several of the richest Armenians in Adana were arrested on a charge of conspiracy against the Government; but this time the object of the arrest was evidently to extort money, and the Mersina Europeans sent a respectful but very firm memorial to the Governor, in which they said that, unless such proceedings were abandoned, they should feel it their duty to send a formal complaint against him to Constantinople, which no doubt, under present circumstances, would lead to his recall, whereupon the unlucky prisoners were released only half shorn. It is very creditable that a little body of Europeans should show so good a spirit as this.

Left Yaramiz Chèshmé at about 5 P.M., road still very good, through bare rounded hills and along a valley full of splendid fields of standing corn; large gangs of men were at work reaping, generally under the eye of the proprietor. In this district women do not labour in the fields as in Anatolia. The place at which we should halt for the night was in sight (Geuzlük Khan), but it was much farther off than it seemed. About half an hour out of our road was one of the old border fortresses, “Dorak”; we could not visit it, and, indeed, the whole of this district is full of similar forts. After riding along the course of a stream bordered by thickets of oleander in full blossom, we began the ascent of the Great Pass; by this time night had come on, it was too dark to see either the country round or the road, the latter was here very bad, being formed of great blocks of marble or dolomite, smooth and slippery as ice; but in some parts of the roadway the great blocks, not having been set in cement, had been washed up by the torrents. We had to trust entirely to our animals, and my good little horse carried me safely through it all. The khan is a complete ruin and roofless, so we lodged at the zaptieh station close by, and, as Abd-el-Kader had told me, the place supplied nothing but water, firewood, and a share of a long wooden bench to sleep on. It was really laughable to receive the reply “Yōk! Yōk!” (No! No!) to every inquiry, and the zaptiehs themselves at last burst out laughing as they gave it. The night was windy and bracing, very different from the dull, enervating, sultry nights of the plain, but not unpleasantly cold. The pass is here a deep ravine, cleft in the limestone mountain, and all travellers must pass this spot, so that the zaptiehs know everything that goes on in the passage of the mountains. The ride from Kazouk Bash had occupied us nearly seven and a half hours, but we had come very leisurely.

_June 3rd._—Rose extremely tired, after only about three hours’ sleep; the loud talking of the people, and the burning rays of the morning sun, beating upon me as I lay upon my bench, soon roused me up. None but those who have travelled in these regions during summer can know the power of the sun’s rays soon after he rises above the horizon; it is during these early hours of the morning that a sunstroke is most to be dreaded; when the sun is in the zenith the danger is much less. Breakfasted under a fine mulberry tree; some boys climbed it to shake down some fruit for me, but I found it of very poor quality. Left Geuzlük Khan at 8.30 A.M. The road, though now and then rough, is on the whole very good. As I have before said, it passes up a valley, itself a huge cleft in the limestone mountain, hedged in by deep rock precipices, and all its slopes finely wooded. Although the heat of the sun is intense, the air is light and bracing, and I could feel that I was breathing mountain air. At 10 A.M. we reached the water-parting, and from it I had the first clear view of the central chain of Bulghar Dagh, its higher summits covered with an unbroken sheet of snow, resplendent in the clear sunshine with a dazzling whiteness, such as I have never before beheld; huge ribs of rocky heights, themselves great mountains, run out at right angles with the central chain. At 10.30 A.M. we reached two fine springs, “Tchatal Cheshmasi;” a great crowd of camels were drinking at the first, and in the café close by sat Abd-el-Kader, waiting for his family; we had passed two “taktrovans” (horse litters) containing the ladies and children. His young son rode ahead, and kept up an occasional fire with his pistol to let the father know they were coming. As the heat had been great, and no water was to be had on the road from Geuzlük Khan, the pure, cold water of these springs was very grateful. All the mountains round are finely wooded. At 11.30 we reached Sarichek Khan, situated at the bottom of a deep valley; here also was a noble fountain of ice-cold water. We halted at a little roadside café kept by a Greek, and were fortunate enough to obtain a luncheon of fried eggs; I noticed that his price for bread is only a trifle higher than the price at Adana, but we had not yet entered the famine district. A little rill of water ran through the garden, and we sat by it and smoked nargilehs, whose bottles rested in the running stream. The cafeji seemed to be doing a good business, and we noticed a number of scattered tobacco plants in his compound, grown for home consumption, and which no doubt he hoped would escape the notice of the Tobacco Regie officials. After lunch I enjoyed a sound sleep on a bench by the side of the rill, the first “sound” sleep for three days. The zaptieh who had been our escort from Kazouk Bash began to tell us of his life; it seemed hard enough. The cavasses receive from the Government only 160 piastres per month (equal to about 24_s._) and food for a horse, but they must provide their own horse; most of those we met complained much, and this man said that he would quit his present service if he could find any other way of making a livelihood. Several of the men took a great fancy to my horse, and one offered to give me his own horse and T. 4_l._ besides to exchange; but I suspect the poor fellow had never possessed as much as T. 4_l._, at a time, in his life.

From Sarichek Khan begins the ravine of the Pylæ Ciliciæ (Kulek Boghaz); the road, which is well kept, follows the course of a small river; up the ravine on both sides are lofty walls of rock, their sides and tops thickly covered with fine forest trees; here and there they receded, and left a little plain at the bottom; in many places they came close up to the stream, leaving only room for a narrow path; at intervals were sheer precipices, sometimes quite overhanging, some 800 to 1000 feet high; everywhere the scenery is very grand. At about 3.20 we came to a large khan on the right-hand side of the stream, and my interpreter entered it to inquire if they knew anything of an European who was living, as we heard, in that neighbourhood; the people said he was a “chichekji,” a “florist” (i.e. botanist), and the khanji pointed to a little village high up on the mountain side, which he called Tchukour Bagh, and said “the man lived there, and we should find him at home; it would take us about half an hour to reach the village.” As we ascended the side of the mountain I could not help observing the number and beauty of the flowers, but the season is already so far advanced that many varieties are no longer in bloom. The village consists of thirty to forty huts, embosomed in groves of fruit trees, and the village fountain is surrounded by a number of huge walnut trees; some of the women who had come for water directed us to the house of the European, a Mr. Haberhauer, an entomologist employed by the Imperial Museum of Vienna. He lived in the very house occupied about twenty years ago by the Austrian botanist Kotchy, and the man who had been servant to Kotchy was also his servant. He had just returned from an excursion, and was occupied in arranging the insects he had found. He received me very cordially, offered “schnapps,” coffee, and tobacco, and we sat down for a long conversation; he had been a great traveller, having explored Persia, Russia, the Caucasus, part of Siberia, and a large part of Asiatic Turkey; he could not speak French, but spoke and wrote Russian, and speaks fluently Turkish and Persian. He had a beautiful collection of beetles and butterflies, all from this district, and intended to stay about two months longer. He apologized for the roughness of his room, “But what could a man do in such a position? Such a life was only endurable when occupied, as he was, _all_ day. Life was hard in Turkey, but it was much worse in Persia; here, at least, one might always reckon on finding water, but in Persia, even that was often not to be had. In a few weeks, however, the Adaniots would come up to their country houses, and then supplies could be obtained at Kulek Bazaar.” Then, speaking in Turkish, “At present the only thing the village afforded was ‘water,’ good and plentiful it is true, but to inquiries for anything else the invariable reply was ‘Yōk! Yōk! Yōk!’ (No! No!),” at which the villagers present laughed. After a long and interesting conversation I rose to go, and he came out to show me the view. It was indeed magnificent. We were at least 5000 feet above the sea, and could see all down the rock ravine to Sarichek; far beyond it spread the great Cilician plain, of a dull, greenish grey, and still farther, the sea, a dull, bluish grey expanse; all round us were the rock precipices of the pass, reaching their greatest height in Hadjin Dagh, just above the Boghaz itself. The village is very pretty, every house has a garden with fruit trees and walnuts, but the cultivated ground is scanty and unproductive, and the villagers, though they look healthy enough, are wretchedly poor, and can only afford to eat rye bread.

Mr. Haberhauer complained that he could find nothing, not even the commonest necessaries of life, in the village; even for his bread he was obliged to send down to the khan. He spoke of the indifferent, procrastinating, careless spirit of the people; of the bad government; predicted the overthrow of the empire by the Russians; mentioned their great preparations on every frontier of the land which he had visited; asked if I did not think they had designs on India, a question, by the way, put to me many times during my journey. Ali Bey of Adana asked it, and all the better-informed officials seemed to think an attack on India very probable. It is curious how Herr Haberhauer’s opinions have been confirmed by the course of events in 1876. The revolt in Herzegovina had not yet commenced.

After bidding our friend adieu, we ascended to the top of the ridge above Tchukour. On our right, upon a towering peak which overhangs the narrowest part of the pass, is an old Genoese fortress; from this, on the side opposite to us, one immense, unbroken precipice descends sheer down to the narrow cleft of the Pylæ Ciliciæ. At the top of the ridge, above Tchukour Bagh, and at the foot of the peak on the side towards us, are a number of pretty little country houses, built within the last few years by residents of Tarsus and Adana, who escape every summer to this pure and healthy air from the heat and malaria of the plain. Just over the brow of the ridge is another small village, Kulek Bazaar. From this point, the whole of the central chain, with its great projecting offshoots, is visible; and on the left (the west), far as the eye could reach, stretches a long extent of mountain pastures, green and fresh, the domain of the wandering Turkmans. From the top of the ridge a steep descent leads through magnificent pine woods to the khan and the zaptieh station, which are only about ten minutes distant from the Pylæ themselves. The khan was so filthy that we claimed the hospitality of the zaptiehs. The chief cavass, a young and smart officer, received me most courteously, and advised me to sleep on the roof of the house, as the interior swarmed with fleas. Wood and water were brought; Nahli made a pilaff; but they had no lanthorn, so we were obliged to eat it by firelight. The night was clear but cold (this pass being more than 3800 feet above the sea), the smoke from the fragrant cedar was pungent, and the fleas tormenting, so that I did not enjoy much sleep. Before lying down I had a long conversation with the chief cavass, and some of the others who were off guard. They mentioned that the people of the district still spoke highly of Ibrahim Pasha’s rule, though they did not like the Arab soldiery. There is a great deal of discontent with the present government (I have since heard that the despatch of the redif (militia) to the war has greatly increased it), and the people perhaps attribute to the Egyptian rule more virtues than it deserved. The head cavass said, that excepting a pass over Dumbelek Dagh (far to the west of this, and only practicable about five months in the year), absolutely the only way of passing from the interior to the coast is by the Kulek Boghaz, and the side passage over the ridge above Tchukour, by which we had come. Ibrahim Pasha’s engineers had quite destroyed all the other routes, so that even for foot passengers they were well-nigh impassable, and for animals utterly impracticable. This had been done for a distance of many days’ journey to the east and west of Kulek Boghaz; even the foot-paths and mule-paths over the higher ridges had been carefully obstructed by blowing up portions of the cliff at the most difficult points. A guard of zaptiehs held the Boghaz itself, and there was another guard at the descent from Tchukour Bagh, so that no one could pass without their knowledge, and this contributed very much to the safety of the route. He said that a great many of Ibrahim Pasha’s cannon were still lying in the forts above the pass, though the most serviceable had been removed at the time of the Crimean war; those that remained were of all descriptions. In the middle of our conversation a cavass came up, said a few words to him in a low tone, and he hastily mounted his horse and rode off. I suppose some suspicious passengers had been arrested, and that his presence was needed.

_June 4th._—Rose at daybreak. After breakfast I mounted the hillside above the police station, and made a sketch of the pass. Afterwards we rode back through it; the rocky sides of the ravine, which had extended all along the route from Sarichek Khan, here almost touch. The Pylæ itself is formed by two immense rock precipices, 700 to 800 feet in height, which here, for the distance of about 120 yards, approach so closely that certainly not more than three carriages could be driven abreast between them. But this is only the bottom of the pass. On either side the mountains rise far above. By the eye, I judged the passage to be in places about 25 feet wide, in others, 30 to 45 feet, nowhere more, and the passage through is not straight but winding. The vast rock, on which is the old Genoese fort, towers high above all, and the side towards the pass presents an almost precipitous scarp of 1500 to 1800 feet—like a wall. A little river ripples along through this deep cleft, over a bed of rounded pebbles of dolomite, and black marble veined with white. Huge blocks and masses of rock obstruct the road on the south of the Pylæ; on the north of it the valley opens wider out, but the same rock walls, only far higher than in the ravine above Sarichek, still border it on the east side. In a place so interesting, and so full of historical associations, one naturally expects to find inscriptions. But nothing remains, excepting, at the south entrance of the Pylæ, on the west side, a tablet, and a pillar by the side of it, roughly hewn in the rock. Both had once been covered with inscriptions, now utterly obliterated. (I thought this pillar might perhaps have been the milestone on which was once carved the distance of this spot from the great milestone in the Capitol at Rome?) On an isolated rock, which lies in the middle of the passage at the northern entrance of the pass, and a little beyond its narrowest part, is a similar tablet. The inscription upon this also is almost entirely obliterated. I could, however, decipher two or three letters, enough to show that the inscription had been in Latin; it was impossible to make out more. Doubtless Assyrian and Egyptian hosts must have passed through this defile, but no record of them remains; and if ever any memorial of such an event existed, it has perished in the lapse of time.

(Sunset)

_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]

Left the police station at 9.30 A.M. The road leads up the course of the torrent, which passes through the Boghaz, and the valley opens out. About half an hour from the pass are the forts and entrenchments of Ibrahim Pasha. The valley is here about two miles wide; on either side of it are mountain plateaux, quite inaccessible except from Kulek Boghaz, and the works of the Egyptian army extend all across it; so strong are they, that it would be almost impossible for an army from the north to force the passage if properly held. At present they are falling into decay, but the strong masonry batteries and entrenchments are still in good condition. The ground rises on either side from the middle of the valley up to the mountain precipices in successive plateaux, and the line of works is terminated on either end by a strong fortress with high round towers. Being on higher ground than the other works, these forts could command with their guns the whole front of the line, and an army advancing from the north would have been exposed to a direct and cross fire from more than 120 pieces of cannon and mortars, with which the works were originally armed. Many of the cannon are still lying in their places, and our guide pointed to a high peak above the fort at the west end of the works, and said that Ibrahim had even mounted a cannon there after immense difficulty, and that the piece was still there. Even to an unmilitary eye the immense strength of this position is evident. No serious attempt was ever made upon it by the Sultan’s army, and it secured to the Egyptians the unmolested possession of Cilicia. The engineer who planned these formidable works was a Polish colonel named Schultze (Youssouf Aga), the same engineer who fortified S. Jean d’Acre for Mehemet Ali. The road passes through the centre of the works, and the ruins of Ibrahim Pasha’s house, and long lines of ruined buildings, magazines, &c., are still to be seen.

The great feature in the landscape here, is the tremendous front of Hadjin Dagh, on the east side of the valley. For many miles an unbroken, rocky wall, of the most brilliant red or grey, borders the valley, with precipices varying from 800 to 2000 feet in height. The plateau above is crowned with magnificent pines, cedars, and cypresses. The Lebanon cedar grows in some places in great groves, and on the highest declivities are deep green (almost black) forests of “ketràn” (pitch pine). In only one or two other spots did I see, during my entire journey, forests that could be compared with the noble woods round Kulek Boghaz. In front of us the view towards the N.E. was closed by a snow mountain, which our guide called Bulderoòhh, but which is part of the great range of Allah Dagh. Everywhere the landscape is of a grandeur and beauty that cannot be surpassed.

A short distance beyond the Egyptian entrenchments is the water-parting. From it the road descends into the valley of a little river called the “Haiwaabeh”; deep, sloping banks of red and grey earth border the stream, and in these the trees grow to an enormous size. At 11.15 A.M. we came to a mill, and two bridges over the river. Opposite to this, and high up on the mountain side, under the precipices of Hadjin, is the yaila of our acquaintance Abd-el-Kader. It must be a delightful place at this season! We could still hear the echoes of the boy’s pistol shots as the cavalcade made its way through beautiful groves of forest trees (as I could see by the glass), high up the mountain side, to their pleasant summer home.

The number of baggage animals, mostly camels and donkeys, that were going through the pass was very great; we must have passed in two days several thousands of them. At about 12.30 P.M. we came to an extensive cemetery, and rested under one of the cypress trees in it, and I began to draw another fine mountain in front, of a strange shape, but an approaching thunderstorm forced us to resume our journey. It appeared to be the crater of an enormous extinct volcano. The precipices on its inner edge are of vast depth, not less, I should imagine, than 2500 to 3000 feet, sinking abruptly down from the topmost ridge. Our guide called it Bel Amalik Dagh.

A little beyond the cemetery the road turns sharply to the left, and at about 1 P.M. we came to Bozanti Khan, just in time to escape one of the violent thunderstorms so common in the mountains at this season. The khan supplied nothing but bad water and a few live coals for our narghileh, but after awhile the servant of the khan procured for us a little bread, and some “petmez” (grape treacle), nasty and dear, for which he charged 7 piastres, and for the three little loaves of bread another 7 piastres, altogether about 2_s._ 6_d._ The bread is half of barley flour, but not unpalatable; it costs more than twice as much as at Adana, but we are now on the edge of the famine district. The people of the khan are Armenians, certainly not the least smart in a sharp, smart generation; they supplied us with very little and charged exorbitantly for it. Not content with the bucksheesh which custom obliged us to give in addition to their high charge, the servant continued to pester me for more, till I was obliged to speak very sharply to him, on which he slunk off; and the khanji came to try if he could pump some information about me from my interpreter. But the extravagant replies he received made me roar with laughter, till the man, seeing he was only being made game of, followed his servant.

A little beyond Bozanti Khan the road reaches the Ak Sou, one of the head waters of the Sarus, and follows up the course of the river, which runs through a broad, open valley bordered by extensive oak groves, not yet in leaf. A quarter of an hour beyond the khan are the ruins of a bridge and some heaps of débris, marking the site of Podandus. And here one comes suddenly upon a bit of macadamized road, the work, we were told, of a former Wali of Adana, Taki ed-Deen Pasha, but it only extends for a short distance, and is practically useless; an excellent illustration of the aimless, purposeless way in which public works are often carried on in Turkey.

At about an hour’s distance from Bozanti Khan begins another pass, which almost equals the Pylæ Ciliciæ in grandeur and difficulty. It commences at Ak Keupri, a good bridge of one large pointed arch over the Ak Sou, which is the division between the vilayets of Adana and Koniah. At this place the sides of the mountain on the west comes sheer down from a very great height to the river, like so many walls, and the road is only a narrow causeway at their foot. Just in front of the bridge a great source issues from the mountain side and bursts out into the river in a considerable volume. Its waters, perfectly clear but _dark_ in colour, contrast strongly with the turbid Ak Sou. Just beyond the bridge, on the left side of the stream, another very much larger source issues with tremendous force from beneath the mighty rock wall of the mountain, which rises sheer above it 800 to 900 feet, straight as a plumb line, and perhaps some thousands more above that in a very steep, though not perpendicular, ascent. This source bursts forth with a mighty jet and loud roar, casting its foaming waters high up into the air. The waters of this source also are clear but dark, and it is long before they blend thoroughly with the white river water. The Turks, who are very choice as to the water they drink, call all such springs “Kara Sou” (black water), and declare that they cause fever and many other kinds of disease. Beyond the bridge is a spot much resembling the Kulek Boghaz, but neither so long nor on so large a scale. The valley is sometimes a few hundred yards wide, at others only just wide enough for the river to pass between the mountain sides. The whole pass is full of the grandest mountain scenery; high precipices and peaks, on which human foot has never trodden, and never probably will tread, rise far above the valley, and are covered with forests of pitch pine, which appear from below of the blackest hue, while lower down the mountain sides are covered with dark pines, and with cypresses of a yet darker green. Here and there are a few oak forests; all the lower slopes and accessible spots have been bared of wood, cut in the usual wasteful way; the great timber rafts I had seen at Adana are brought down from this district, but much wood is left to decay on the spot. The pine-wood timber is most solid, and of excellent quality.

At several places galleries had been quarried in the rock—apparently ancient work—as the river did not admit a passage. In general the road was very good, but occasionally there were difficult and even dangerous places, where the roadway is merely the native rock. By dint of traffic these places had become slippery as ice, and it was truly a nervous business to ride over them, especially where they were on an incline. The horses were obliged to slip from one hole to another, just large enough for the leg to enter, the stone ringing like metal under their hoofs. Happily the animals are very sure-footed and cautious, for a fall would be fatal. There were many such spots, but on the whole the road was very good. The geological formation is most varied, sandstone of various colours, red conglomerate, cream-grey limestone, and a great variety of trachyte occur. There are only two or three houses in the whole pass, and very few Turkman encampments, but a great number of passengers with laden animals were carrying corn to the famine-stricken districts of the interior; the animals bound towards the coast were mostly unladen. At about 4 P.M. we crossed the Ak Sou by a wooden bridge called “Tahta Keupri,” its supports are fixed on stone piers in the bed of the river, and consist of rows of beams rising one above the other, and each row projecting a little beyond the row below it; close by it are the ruins of four piers, part of an ancient bridge. Some distance beyond the bridge, in a ravine on the right, about ten minutes from the road, is a hot mineral spring; a bath of Roman construction stands over it, with vaulted roofs of masonry. This is somewhat ruined, and the cut stones with which it was once cased have nearly all disappeared; but it is still serviceable and much employed by the people of the country, families even from Adana resorting to it. The water of the spring is at about 105° Fahrenheit. It enters at a corner of the chief room, a large, vaulted hall, with a soft and gentle current, and flows into an oblong basin about 40 feet by 25, and about 6 feet deep. There seems to be no deposit from the water, and it had no bad taste or smell, it resembled the springs of Aix-la-Chapelle. The rocks here are thrown up in vertical layers, and present a variety of deep and rich colours. About half an hour from the bath is Tchifteh Khan, at which we were to halt for the night; we reached it after having been about seven hours in the saddle. It is situated at the junction of a stream which flows along the north front of Bulghar Dagh and falls into the Ak Sou. The highest peaks of the main chain that we had seen from Kulek Boghaz, streaked with snow, and having wide snow-fields in their ravines and on the flatter portions, here sink down, steep as a wall, some 4000 to 5000 feet into the valley of this little river. There must be a vast quantity of snow on this north side throughout the year. All the base of the mountain is thickly wooded, and great projecting ridges of rock, like huge and long walls, run up from the hills at Tchifteh Khan to the base of the precipices. Tchifteh Khan is a miserable and most unhealthy place. As usual, the khanji could supply nothing. There was plenty of milk and yaourt according to his account, but when we asked for it we found that we should be obliged to send to villages several miles distant. A man who travels in this country without supplies, and trusting to such chance resources as he can find, runs great risk of fasting very often. Our room was utterly comfortless, but, thanks to the liberal use of flea powder, I enjoyed a refreshing sleep, which I much needed.