It was the 29th of November, just after half-past nine in the morning, when our party of four Europeans and four Turkish soldiers defiled into the plain from the hill of Mush. The iron-grey colt was being led by one of our new companions, the more docile that he anticipated release. Were we prisoners and these our jailers? I asked the question of the principal man, who was a sergeant with the name of Mevlud Chaoush. A black shawl, reaching to the shoulders, was wound about his head as a protection from the weather. His irregular and forbidding features never broke into a smile, nor did his lips move except to utter a command. We passed several deserted burying fields, with fallen headstones, and forded the Garni Chai, a mere torrent in a wide bed. More than half-an-hour had passed before we doubled the western promontory, and struck our true course across the plain.

We skirted or could see several hamlets—dots in the expanse, which had the appearance, usual in this country, of a sea. No hedges or artificial boundaries parcel the ground; no leafy trees blend in the distance to a soft, grey mass. The harvest had been gathered, and you could scarcely tell the difference between the cultivated and the unreclaimed soil. Marshes, instead of a network of irrigation channels, received the waters babbling down from the southern range. After several halts, rendered necessary by the freaks and misfortunes of the baggage horse, we reached at half-past twelve the considerable Armenian village of Sheikh Alan, near the ford of the Murad. About a mile beyond the village we approached the margin of the noble river which we had followed from Karakilisa to Tutakh.

It appeared to be flowing in two channels through a bed having a width of 200 yards or more. After fording the first of these branches, which was about 30 yards across, we made our way over a beach to the second branch. It was some 100 yards in breadth, the water reaching to the horses’ knees. When we had gained the opposite bank, which was firm and well-defined, we prepared to say good-bye to the Murad. What was our surprise to meet a third and magnificent river, sweeping towards us in an independent bed! It was buffeting its high left bank, at the extremity of a beautiful curve, and the flood was much too deep to venture in. So we followed the current until the bluff sent it swirling to the opposite margin, diffused over a wider space. Even at this point the passage was not without risk; but an experienced villager piloted us safely to the further side. From bank to bank was a distance of about 80 yards, and the wavelets wetted our horses’ flanks. The confluence of the Kara Su, the stream which collects the drainage of the plain of Mush, is situated some little distance above the ford.2

Following with the eye the course of the river, we searched in vain for a gap in the mountains among which it disappeared. These describe a bold half-circle at the western extremity of the plain, not many miles from where we stood. The heights on the north join hands with the heights upon the south, and appear to prevent all issue from the plain. From the ford we proceeded in a north-westerly direction to the village of Ziaret. It is an Armenian settlement with 150 tenements, and possesses a church but no school. The kiaya,3 or head of the village, was quite a civilised individual; and such was his politeness that he sent his own son with me, to wait on me during my sojourn at Surb Karapet. He informed me—the usual story—that there had been a teacher in the village, but that last year he had left (euphemism), and his place had not since been filled.

After a stay in this settlement of an hour and three-quarters, we continued our journey at a quarter before four. Our course was about the same, and we reached the foot of the northern barrier at half-past four o’clock. Although the level of the ground had risen, the ascent to the monastery occupied over an hour. It is situated among the uppermost recesses of the wall of mountain, at an elevation of about 6400 feet, or of 2200 feet above the trough of the plain.4 We wound our way up a cleft in the face of the rock, through a bush of low oak. The temperature fell, and we became enveloped in banks of cloud. A drizzling rain turned to snow before we reached the cloister, and next morning the adjacent slopes were cloaked in white. The monks informed us that it was the first fall of snow which they had experienced during the course of this brilliant autumn.

A walled enclosure, like that of a fortress, a massive door on grating hinges—such is your first impression of this lonely fane (Fig. 155). My illustration shows the long line of monastic buildings on the south; the gateway is on the west. You enter a spacious court, and face a handsome belfry and porch, the faÇade inlaid with slabs of white marble with bas-reliefs (Fig. 156). We were conducted to a long chamber, with walls of prodigious thickness, recalling our Norman refectories. It was nearly six o’clock; the monks received us without surprise, and had probably been forewarned by the Mutesarrif. When I asked for a separate room, it was pleaded that none was vacant; and the preparations of Mevlud to sleep by our side in the long chamber convinced me that resistance would as yet be vain. With the best humour we joined in a meal of extreme frugality, which was spread upon trays and partaken of by all the monks. Of these there were six in residence and six absent, one being confined in a Turkish prison. Four deacons were also of the company; but conversation was difficult in the presence of the silent Mevlud. Our hosts were superior people, judged by the standards in this country; and after supper, over the glow of a number of braziers, we were drawn together by common sympathies. In particular I was attracted to a well-read monk of quiet demeanour, whose personality and name I hesitate to disclose.

The morning broke serene and clear; a brilliant sun embraced the landscape which from the terrace outside the walls, where is situated a little cemetery, was outspread at our feet (Fig. 157). The eye sank to the floor of the plain or was lifted to the summits of the mountains, which were seen in all the variety of their many forms and myriad facets above beds of vapour, clinging captive to the middle slopes. This sea of clouds concealed the river where it issues from the expanse to be buried in the amphitheatre of heights. But my companion, the mild-tempered monk, told me they could sometimes hear from this terrace the hissing of the waters as they enter the passage. They call the place Gurgur, a name imitative of the sound which, when the air is heavy with cloud towards the end of winter, is loud and long-maintained. Then they say that spring is near at hand. He added that the ruins of an Armenian fortress may still be seen within the gorge. Its ancient name was Haykaberd.

I must regret the loss of a great portion of my notes, made during the course of this day. The monastery is one of the oldest in Armenia, and was certainly founded by the Illuminator himself. He came hither after his famous conversion of King Tiridates, when many of the princes of the land had espoused his religion and his sacred cause. But that cause and religion had become divested of their peaceful character; and it was rather with torch and sword than with the lamp of the teacher and the staff of the missionary that the Christian saint appeared on the threshold of this beauteous plain. He had been apprised of the existence of two heathen temples, standing on the spot where now the cloister stands. They were an object of especial reverence by a colony of Hindu refugees, long since established under the sceptre of the Armenian kings. They worshipped two idols, which were made of brass, with colossal proportions, and were known in the country under the names of Demeter and Kisane. These interesting figures, with the ancient cult which they represented, were doomed to destruction at the hands of the Christians. The attendant priests raised the alarm among their lay brethren, and St. Gregory and his friends were obliged to reckon with a hostile force. But the Hindu warriors with their Armenian allies were defeated in two battles, and their sanctuaries were razed to the ground. A Christian church was erected upon the site which they had occupied; and the body of St. John the Baptist, translated from CÆsarea, took the place of Demeter and Kisane. These events are related by the Syrian Zenobius, an eye-witness and a lieutenant of the Saint. I had perused his narrative overnight in the pages of Ritter, and I was anxious to know whether it were known to my companion. I found him conversant with every particular of the story, and he expressed his conviction that these heathens were Hindus. He was equally certain that the gypsies, who may still be met with in the country, were descendants of this colony. He told me that their language was known as Sanskrit among the Armenians.5 He led me within the enclosure, and showed me a little chapel situated upon the west of the church. In that chapel he assured me that St. Gregory had said his first mass, and it stood on the site of the temple of Kisane. That of Demeter had been, he said, the larger of the two shrines.6

What portion, if any, of the present edifice is the work of that remote age, I am unable to pronounce. My impression is that earthquakes are held to have destroyed the original structure. The two chapels on the east, with their polygonal towers and conical roofs, are probably the earliest in date of the existing buildings. I reproduce them on a larger scale, my picture having been taken from the gallery of the monastic buildings on the south (Fig. 158). The body of the church immediately adjoins them; it is spacious, but not remarkable for architectural beauty or richness of ornament. It is in the character of a large conventicle, and the roof is flat. Slabs, inlaid in the floor, cover the graves of princes and warriors, of whom we read in the pages of Armenian historians. The bloody wars against the Sasanians are recalled by the tombs of Mushegh, of Vahan the Wolf and of Sembat. The grave of Vahan is denoted by a slab of black stone, before the entrance to the more southerly of the two chapels. That of Sembat is said to be situated near the threshold of the companion sanctuary, which is dedicated to St. Stephen. Near the wall on the south repose the remains of Vahan Kamsarakan.7 Slabs are wanting in the case of the two graves last mentioned. Inscriptions are found, I believe, on some. The porch and belfry on the west are of no great antiquity, as the reader can see for himself.

What with the Kurds and the suspicions of the Turkish Government this once flourishing monastery has been stripped of much of its glamour; indeed the monks are little better than prisoners of State. The new buildings on the west, erected by Bishop Mampre, have never yet been used. They were destined to receive the printing press, and the relics of the library. But the printing press—the wings of knowledge, said my companion—was placed under the ban of Government as early as in 1874. The library was pillaged by Kurds during the first half of the present century, and its contents burnt or littered about the courts. Nor is it possible for the community to pursue their studies, since any book which deals with the history of their nation is confiscated by the authorities. I think I have already mentioned that the same officials seize and burn our Milton and our Shakespeare. And yet the ambassadors of Europe dally on the Bosphorus, powerless to redress these wrongs and avenge these insults. It is because in Russia they practise similar iniquities, and because Europe stoops to sit at Russia’s feet. Upon such matters we conversed when the air was a little clearer, after a fierce encounter between Mevlud and myself. That sinister personage had presumed to accompany me to my host’s room; but I peremptorily ordered him out. I told him that if he ventured to invade the privacy of a priest’s apartment I would undertake to have both the Mutesarrif and himself dismissed.

We left the cloister—which is generally known under the name of Changalli, from its bells, heard in the plains from afar8—on the morning of the first day of December, a little before noon. Snow lay thickly upon the ground; but the thermometer at eleven o’clock stood at four degrees (Fahrenheit) above freezing point. The atmosphere was free of vapour, and a kind sun shone. We made our way to the heights behind the monastery, and kept zigzagging up and along them for over two hours. When the process had been completed after a tedious ride to the pass, during which the horses would often flounder in the snow, we had not ascended to a difference of level of more than 1500 feet, nor had we progressed more than 3½ miles. The better course, I feel sure, would have been to proceed in an easterly direction along the level terrace or open valley in which the cloister stands, leaving the neighbouring hamlet of Pazu just on our right hand. We could then have climbed the parapet which shelters these lofty uplands; or we might have scaled it in the immediate vicinity of Changalli. The black chaoush and his three myrmidons were indifferent guides.9

Because the pass is no pass in the ordinary sense; it is merely the edge of a tableland. Mile after mile towards the north stretched the undulating snow-field, swept by the winds, pierced by spinous blades of grass. We stood at an elevation of nearly 8000 feet. Below us, infinitely deep, lay the magnificent plain of Mush, bounded on the further side by the barrier of the Kurdish mountains, crossing the landscape from the invisible waters of Lake Van. In one continuous wall they swept across the horizon, serrated, sharply chiselled above the deep valleys opening transverse to the line of the wall. Taurus they call the range, adopting a nomenclature which the West must have borrowed from the East. Taurus was very high where the Murad dives into the mountains; nor did the peaks appear less lofty on its right bank. We saw them circling towards the river from behind the plateau upon which we stood; but I was unable to trace the origin of this northern chain. It formed a marked exception to the outlines north of Taurus, which were vaulted or horizontal. Nimrud was seen to join the two contrasting landscapes, placed across the head of the plain. The neighbouring KerkÜr looked more rounded than when we had first observed it, while, north of the Nimrud caldron, the swelling contours of the Sipan fabric were doubly soft in a robe of recent snow.

This was our last complete prospect over that great depression which is known as the plain of Mush.10 We proceeded at half-past two, and rode at a trot over the plateau, first on a northerly and then on a north-easterly course. The rock appeared to be of an eruptive volcanic description. By half-past four we arrived upon the opposite margin, where the ground abruptly sank to a wide trough of broken country, with a small plain, level as water, at its western end. We ascertained that this fresh depression had an elevation of about 5000 feet, or a difference in height of 3000 feet from the pass at which we measured that of the plateau. On the further side rose a cliff of such gigantic proportions that, when we reached the middle slopes of the descent into the hollow, it reminded me of the landscape in the narrows of the Araxes, with those cliffs raised to double their size. From a distance we had wondered at the strange appearance of this flat-edged mass, which seemed to embrace us in a wide segment with precipitous sides. A nearer view disclosed the direction it was pursuing, and enabled us to trace, although in a most imperfect manner, its connection with the orography of the eastern districts. That direction was approximately latitudinal, but inclined a little towards the south. The further east the mass proceeded, the more it lost its cliff-like character, the nearer it approached to the characteristics of a mountain range. In this form it was protracted to dimly visible limits, joining the distant outlines of Sipan.

I had read many accounts of the famous BingÖl Dagh, the parent mountain of the Araxes and of the principal tributaries of the Euphrates, and, in some sense, the roof of Western Asia. None had prepared me for the vision before our eyes. The actual walls of the crater were not, I imagine, visible; but those cliffs had no doubt been covered by deep beds of lava which had added to their height. The greatest eminence on the extinct volcano is that of Demir-Kala, which must be situated not far from the edge of the cliff. It has an elevation of 10,770 feet.11 But the mountain proper is but a wart on the face of the lofty tableland from which it rises, and which it has contributed to shape. I tried to examine the relation of this tableland to the plateau which we had crossed, but was prevented by the lie of the land upon the west.

While descending into the plain, we passed through a Kurdish village of some size, called Randuli. We now opened out the whole extent of the even surface—a floor at the foot of towering cliffs. The plain may have a length, from west to east, of about three miles and a breadth of two miles or less. Water serpents through it in all directions, to collect in a little river which our people knew under the name of Dodan Chai, but which is apparently more generally known as the BingÖl Su.12 Four villages of some importance are situated in the plain—Baskan, Gundemir, Diyadin and Dodan. The last-mentioned is placed at its eastern extremity and close to the river which bears its name. All four are inhabited by Armenians. Having gained the level, we forded the stream above the village, and at six o’clock rode through Dodan. Night was falling; we followed a track which had been made by the bullock-carts, at some little distance from the left bank of the river. We were skirting on an easterly course the base of the northern heights, along the trough of irregular surface which we had overlooked. The soil was deep and black, covered in places by a crop of stones. It seemed as if the valley were choked by the shapes of hills. We were over two hours in reaching Gumgum.

The village or little town—for it is the capital of a caza, the caza of Varto, belonging to the sanjak of Mush—is situated in the long valley of which I have been speaking, between the BingÖl and the block of mountain on the north of Mush. A small river flows below it at some little distance, which joins the BingÖl Su some two or three miles south of the town. The united waters issue into the Murad or Eastern Euphrates about eight miles south-east of Gumgum. The direct road to Mush is taken along the Murad, which, after the confluence, finds a passage through the hills. It reaches the plain at the village of Sikava.

We were received by the Kaimakam, who lodged us in his room of audience, a chamber of which the stone walls were daubed with whitewash, while the massive logs of the ceiling were left bare. A single window, with panes of greased paper, diffused a dim light by day. A little lamp revealed the burly figure of our host, seated on the divan. Beside him, but in shadow, we might just discern a face and features which were recognised as familiar to us. We identified this pleasant countenance and chiselled lineaments with those of the silent chess-player at Mush. It was in fact the Hakim Effendi, learned in the law; though for what purpose he had travelled to these unruly wilds we were unable to ascertain. He had brought his law books with him in a khurjin, or little saddle-bag, which was placed by his side on the couch. So he travels from place to place, the name and shadow of a dispensation which he has not the power to enforce. Even under the eyes of the Kaimakam cases of theft, and even of robbery, are of daily occurrence and go for the most part unredressed. Entering the stable allotted to our horses, I was met by an Armenian woman, a poor old hag with bare feet and in rags. She moaned and wrung her hands, explaining, in answer to my enquiry, that her cows had been displaced to make room for us. She would never see them again—and, in fact, next morning I was grieved to learn that two had been stolen.

The town occupies a fairly high site in the valley, having an elevation of about 4800 feet. A few houses, in the more proper sense of the word, serve to magnify the appearance of the place. But the tenements are for the most part the usual ant-hill burrows; and I do not think that in all there can be more than eighty dwellings, of which ten may be inhabited by Armenians. The Kurds have a large preponderance in the caza; they are, for the most part, of the Jibranli tribe. This tribe furnishes three regiments of Hamidiyeh cavalry, recruited in Varto. The tribesmen spend the summer on the pastures of the BingÖl Dagh, and the winter in villages of their own in the plains. They travel as far as Diarbekr, and even Aleppo, taking their vast flocks to those markets. Or they sell the sheep to middlemen who travel from all parts of Turkey, and establish their headquarters in Khinis.

During the night it froze hard; but on the following morning the air was warmed by a brilliant sun, shining in a clear sky. The thermometer stood at 37° before we again set out. Leaving at a little after eleven, we proceeded on an easterly course, towards the heights which rise behind Gumgum. I was unable to ascertain the exact connection of these hills with the block of the BingÖl; but, whereas we could still perceive that distant outline in the west, it was lost to view as it came towards us, stretching east. The northern barrier was now composed by the hill range already mentioned, which, at this point, appeared to be inclined towards south-east. After crossing a considerable stream, flowing down to the trough of the valley, we commenced at twelve o’clock the ascent of these hills.

Looking backward, one was impressed by the uneven character of the ground from which we rose. The valley is choked with hills, especially on the south-east, and it may have a width of about eight miles. The soil is covered with tufted grass, which must afford fine pasture in spring and early summer. The southern border consists of the mass of mountain which we had crossed from Changalli; but it had sensibly declined and was still declining in height. Beyond its sheet of snow the peaks of Taurus commenced to be visible; and when we reached the pass, before one o’clock, we could see the broad ribbon of the Murad lying in the plain of Mush. The river had passed the gap in the barrier on the north of that plain, which, it was evident, becomes much lower at the point where the passage is effected, the outlines sinking towards either bank.

We were standing in snow, at an elevation of 6600 feet. On our left front rose the cliffs of the BingÖl plateau, that mighty presence which for awhile had been concealed. They were still stretching from west to east, but were seen to turn towards north-east, in the direction of where we knew Khinis to lie. The eye pursued their long perspective into the distance, where, at a point about north-north-east, they broke away into a range of mountains, the range which bounds the plain of Khinis on the north. I was still unable to define the relation of the heights upon which we were placed to the mass from which they appeared to come; but they must contribute to compose the long line of heights which we had seen extending from the BingÖl towards Sipan.

How great a part has been performed by the action of water in shaping the relief of this land may be realised by the frequent occurrence of perfectly flat depressions between the masses of higher ground. Thousands of feet below those levels lie these sheltered spaces, rendered fertile by winding streams. Such was the nature of the little plain to which we descended, appearing land-locked on every side. It is known as the Bashkent ova, or plain of Bashkent, from a Kurdish hamlet through which we presently passed.13 It is situated at the comparatively lofty level of about 6000 feet. On the east it is enclosed by that irregular lump of mountain which we had first seen on the furthest horizon from before Tutakh. Khamur it is called. The ridge was some miles distant; but its outworks, a succession of sand-like convexities, rose from the margin of the plain. The western limit were the cliffs of BingÖl, frowning above the ova, and sending out a spur towards the Khamur on its northern verge. Towards that spur we made our way across the plain, on a north-easterly course. The flat surface has a length of about 3½ miles, and is covered with marshes or rank weeds. Besides Bashkent we could only see a single other hamlet, said to be inhabited by Kizilbash Kurds. We reached the summit of the rounded and opposite heights at half-past two o’clock. They may be described as flanking outworks of the BingÖl plateau, and they have an elevation of about 6550 feet. A little later, while still following along the side of these slopes, we came to a halt and partook of a scanty meal.

At a quarter-past three we were again in the saddle. Our course remained easterly, at about the same level; and at half-past three we were on the top of one of those bulging spurs which project from the side of the cliffs. The horizontal edge of the lofty tableland was now just above us; and, inasmuch as we were now able to pursue a north-north-easterly direction, it is evident that the mass must recede towards the north. Indeed it is probable that it describes a curve, concave to the plain of Khinis; we seemed to get behind the cliffs. On our right hand we were followed by the deformed shape of Khamur, now many miles away. The horizon was fretted by the long outline of the Akh Dagh—a fine, bold range with connections circling towards Khamur.

In a short time this mountain landscape was seen in fuller significance; a vast expanse of level depression was opened out. The black chaoush and his three myrmidons had taken their departure at Gumgum; and I was able to unpack the camera. I directed the lens to north-east, towards the plain and the distant Akh Dagh (Fig. 159); and next to south-east, upon the Khamur.14 We reached the level at about five o’clock, after crossing a spur of the plateau, strewn with volcanic stones. Khinis was seen, a speck in the lap of the plain, towards which we rode at a rapid trot. At a quarter to six we arrived upon the deeply-eroded banks of the river of Khinis, which we forded and entered the town.

By directions of the Kaimakam we were lodged in his own office; he made his appearance early on the following day. A burly old man, with a head of great size and a massive forehead, with huge dimensions below the waist. This habit of body, which seemed to aggravate an advanced asthmatic affection, was due to continued sitting rather than to intemperance of diet. Our conversation was soon directed to the condition of the country—a subject upon which he held strong views. The people of his caza were, he said, almost without exception, liars, rogues and thieves. The Government did what it could; but the officials were not competent, being ignorant men like his humble self. Schools? There was supposed to be a Rushdiyeh in Khinis, but it was a Rushdiyeh only in name. As for the Kurds, they were the plague of his existence; you reaped them where you had not sown. Five houses here, there fifty people—impossible to count or to bring to count. If you wished to get anything out of them, you must borrow a stick from a bear-tamer and beat them about the head.

He proceeded to inform me that the town was the principal centre of the trade in sheep, fattened upon the pastures of the BingÖl Dagh. Merchants come from the great cities, notably from Damascus, and make their arrangements in Erzerum. They bring their own shepherds, whom they send to Khinis when their agents there have concluded the purchase and received the flocks. It is at about the present season—that of early winter—that the trade is at its height. The sheep are driven across the mountains to Diarbekr, whence they are despatched through the plains to the Syrian centre. My host added that it was no very easy matter to get them safely through the snow to the head of the Mesopotamian plains. To me it seems a most remarkable feat.

I asked the Kaimakam whether he could tell me the number of the inhabitants; and, forthwith, he most kindly consulted his registers. According to his figures there are 387 houses in Khinis, besides numerous shops. Of the dwellings 250 are inhabited by Mohammedans and 137 by Armenians. The former are censused at 1350 and the latter at 586. But there is a large discrepancy between males and females in the case of both denominations in favour of the males. He was of opinion that the figures for the Armenians were too low; they evade the census in order to avoid the military tax. Small and large, he put the total of villages in his caza at 287. It forms part of the vilayet of Erzerum, and its borders march with those of the caza of Erzerum.15

He knew of no Yezidis within the limits of his district; but gypsies wander through it in summer. Of Kizilbash Kurds he believed there to be about fifteen villages. The principal tribes in the neighbourhood are the Haideranli and Zirkanli, besides about eight villages of Jibranli Kurds. Four battalions of Hamidiyeh are said to be enrolled in the caza.

I am sensible of the defective standpoint of my photograph of Khinis, taken, to avoid suspicions, before entering the town.16 But it clearly shows the mingling rivers, with their cavernous beds, sunk into the volcanic soil. It shows the castle—of which the ruins display a face of hewn stone upon a structure of agglomerate rubble—and, in the background, behind the picturesque disorder of the clambering township, the distant terrace of the BingÖl plateau. At eleven o’clock on the 3rd of December we were winding our way in the shadowed gorges, about to issue upon the plain on the north.

The day was fine, with a warm sun and a blue sky; the air was fresh and strong. Before us, and on every side, stretched the undulating surface, of rich and friable brown loam. It is subjected to primitive methods of cultivation; but at this season it was difficult to trace the hand of man. We saw no villages; what there are must be hidden in laps of the ground; and Nature, a kind and bountiful Nature, is allowed to revolve her seasons almost in vain. Bright streams come bubbling down from the distant framework of mountains, and wind on a south-easterly course to the far Murad. We passed no less than three of these tributaries to the river of Khinis. The first was flowing between high banks of volcanic rock, and sheltered a beautiful church in the old Armenian style, called Kilisa Deresi, or the church in the valley. Around this monument were grouped the tall headstones of a disused cemetery, some engraved with the elaborate crosses which were so dear to the ancestors of the unhappy people, now the bondsmen of parasite Kurds. Even as we stood in admiration of this charming building, an active Kurd in a showy dress stepped into the path. He vaulted upon the back of a graceful chestnut Arab, which was being led to and fro. We saw him cantering off to the neighbouring Armenian village, and we wondered upon what errand he was bent. At a quarter-past one we commenced to ascend to a passage of the hills which confine the plain upon the north.

In the space of half-an-hour we had reached an elevation of over 6000 feet. We stopped for some little time to fully realise the scene which we were now about to leave behind. The terraces of the BingÖl plateau had been following our steps at some distance on our left hand. We had come in a northerly direction from Khinis; and the heights we were preparing to cross were an immediate spur from that table surface, linking it to the long range on the north of the plain. Both that spur, or connecting ridge, and the range which it joined, tended to incline south-west from a latitudinal course. The plateau itself was now close up; indeed it rose immediately above us, on the west of our winding track. It is therefore plain that it must have pursued a north-north-easterly direction, since it had formed a distant background to the town. I turned the camera upon the flanking ridge (Fig. 160), and then mounted to an adjacent eminence, almost on a level with the surface of the plateau. My illustration shows a formation characteristic of the edge of the terraces, great blocks of stone welded together as if by a human hand. The surface is flat and is covered with rough grass, of which the higher stalks pierced the covering of recent snow.

So little interest is taken by the people in their surroundings that even the Kaimakam was unable to tell me the name of this adjacent range, which forms a lofty barrier to the plain. He was of opinion that it was called the Akh Dagh (white mountain) or Tekman Dagh; to some it was known as the Kozli Dagh. I prefer to retain the name which I heard the most often, that of Akh Dagh. East of these linking hills it assumes lofty proportions; but it appears to die away in the remote south-east.

In the south, far away, rose the mass of Khamur, with hill ranges circling round the plain. Above those humble outlines was revealed the whole fabric of Sipan, some seventy miles distant from where we stood. Such is the extension of these vast depressions; you cannot define their limit; they render easy the traffic of peace or the passage of war. And we may reconstruct in fancy the remote period, when many of these bold landmarks were wreathed in smoke and reflected fires, and thundered with the energy of the Globe.

Proceeding at two o’clock, we reached the pass in twenty minutes; it is just under 7000 feet. We were now in the basin of the Upper Araxes, approaching the districts on the north. The passage into a new sphere could scarcely have been accentuated with more emphasis than on this day. We dived into a dense fog; the cold was intense; and, whereas not a single flake had hitherto lain on the track, it was now all strewn with snow. Nor was the change of a merely local application; it was the commencement of a new order of things.

We rode on a northerly course through beds of vapour over lofty uplands at an elevation of more than 6000 feet. The track had been worn by traffic, tracing upon the snow-fields winding furrows of rich brown soil. A Kurdish village was passed, where our zaptiehs changed with others; and, a little later, we overlooked a considerable depression of the surface—the wide valley of a river it appeared to be. It was clothed with snow and wreathed with mist. We descended into this valley, said to belong to the district of Tekman, and crossed the river, called the BingÖl or Pasin Su. It was flowing due north, and had a breadth of about 15 yards. On the opposite margin of the depression is placed the Kurdish village of Kulli, where we arrived at a quarter-past four. It is situated at a level of about 6000 feet; and, whereas at Khinis (5540 feet) we had enjoyed a temperature of 32° at 10 P.M., the thermometer now registered at 7 P.M. no less than 7° of frost (Fahrenheit).

The settlement consists of about fifty tenements, of which six or seven belong to the Zirkanli tribe and the remainder to sedentary Kurds.17 These latter are liable to service in the regular army. A single house is conspicuous among the huts of mud and stone; it is used as a receptacle for travellers. We found it in the occupation of a detachment of Turkish soldiers, on their way from Melazkert to Erzinjan. Horses and men alike were quartered in the building; but, after some parley, room was found for us. We joined in the circle of officers collected round the open fireplace, in which cakes of tezek glowed. Among other things I learnt that four regiments of Hamidiyeh are enrolled in the caza of Melazkert. They are furnished by the Hasananli tribe.

Next morning before eight we continued our journey, the temperature registering 14° of frost. Mist still hung over the valley; but we soon were raised above it, again ascending to the table surface which borders the depression on either side. Full sunlight streamed upon the undulating snow-field, and was reflected in tiny rays from a thousand little crystals, placed, like diamonds, on the heads of encrusted flowers. It was, indeed, over the face of an immense block of elevated country that our course was directed for some little time. Here and there, especially in the north, it appeared to be broken by chains of mountain; but the closer you approached such an apparent barrier, the more it assumed the familiar features—the flat edges, and the fanciful castles with their Cyclopean walls. At half-past nine we obtained a view of the BingÖl Dagh itself, in the furthest horizon of the south (Fig. 161). We stood at a level of 7130 feet.

At ten o’clock we turned off eastwards to the bed of mist suspended above the river, which lies in a deep trough. Following for awhile along the sides of the lofty cliffs which confine it, we admired the play of the vapours, wreathing like jets of steam. From the edge of the cliffs on either bank, the table surface of the higher levels was seen to stretch east and west, and back to the peaks of the Akh Dagh—a sheet of snow, only broken by the gorge. The BingÖl Su was pursuing a north-north-easterly direction, which became more northerly as we progressed. The fog lifted and disappeared; we descended into the bottom of the gulf, which opened on either side the further we rode. At a quarter to twelve we arrived in the Kurdish hamlet of Mejitli, where we decided to make our mid-day halt. We had come a distance of about 13 miles from Kulli. The river, which had a breadth of about 20 or 30 yards, was flowing some 50 feet below the village, with a rapid current, flashing over the rocks. The site of the village is a little plain on the left bank of the stream having an elevation of about 5800 feet.

It has already been said that the valley of the BingÖl Su, or Upper Araxes, offers an easy approach to the districts on the north. The river pierces a wintry region of the table surface, and traffic is carried along its bed. But some 2½ miles below the village of Mejitli it enters a deep and impassable gorge. You mount to the summit of the lofty precipices which overtower its serpentine course. Again in the saddle at half-past one, we reached this commanding eminence at a quarter-past two. Nor did we descend afresh into the trough of the stream, which proceeded to thread a chaos of mountains in the east.

The view from any point was one of savage beauty (Fig. 162). By slow degrees the flat surface of the elevated plateau was becoming riven and broken up. You could still discern the level snow-fields, burying the stream in the south, and coming towards you on either bank. But the cloak of winter had not yet hidden the yellow grass on the adjacent slopes; while in the east the scene was changing to a wild landscape of hill and mountain, upon which the snow had not yet effected a hold. A few miles further these features increased in definition. The layers of lava gave place to hard limestones, forming peaks which had weathered a soft white. Masses of rock, of a hue which was green as the rust of copper, or red like that of iron, were exposed on the sides of the hills. From a foreground of tufted herbage, sown with yellow immortelles, we looked across this troubled region in which the river wound its way—a ribbon of changing colours, skirting the foot of sweeping hillsides or confined in narrow clefts of stupendous depth. In the far east we caught a glimpse of the snowy dome of the Kuseh Dagh, which overlooks the plain of Alashkert.

At four o’clock the track diverged, and led us over the undulating plateau which still continued, but with less regularity, in the west. A short turn towards north-west brought us almost to the threshold of the broad depression of Pasin. The ground fell away by a succession of convexities to a level surface, deeply seated at our feet (Fig. 163). But far in the north, on its opposite margin, again appeared the cliffs of a plateau, exalted thousands of feet above the plain. It represents the extreme extension of the tablelands of Armenia, to be succeeded by the peripheral ranges in the north. It was carried west and east, across the horizon. In this neighbourhood it is known as Kargabazar.

We descended into one of the long valleys by which the heights we were leaving meet the plain. If Erzerum be the next objective, you cross to its western side and proceed by way of Ertev. Our own point was Hasan Kala, a more northerly course, leading through the village of Ketivan. That considerable Mohammedan settlement is situated at the end of the valley, whence you issue upon the spacious expanse. We rode at a rapid trot from this southern verge of the plain to the opposite margin, upon which is placed the castle and town. It formed a welcome landmark, which we reached in just an hour, arriving beneath the dusk at half-past six.

The town, which has a population of several thousands, clusters at the foot of a long ridge of volcanic rock which projects from the towering background of mountain into the floor of the plain. The southerly extremity of that precipitous ridge is crowned by lines of battlements, a work ascribed to the Genoese.18 But the present masters of the country have neglected the fortifications, and have fallen back upon Erzerum. Pasin lies at the mercy of their good neighbours, the Russians, who already hold its doors. After fording the river of Upper Pasin, the Kala Su, as it is called—a sluggish stream, flowing in a divided channel—we passed through a feudal gateway within a wall which was in ruins, and groped our way through irregular lanes heaped with filth. Quarters were at last discovered in a new and well-kept coffee-house—a room of some size, with a wooden stage or daÏs erected around the bare walls. Upon this stage, behind the half-screen of an open balustrade, a number of loungers in various dress, some wearing the turban, others the fez, others again the Persian lambskin cap,19 were gathered in groups, sipping coffee from delicious little cups, and drawing the fragrant fumes of the Persian tobacco from hubble-bubble or kaleon. In a further corner, away from the light, one could not mistake some tall, lean figures, and features of big birds of prey; we were indeed in the presence of some officers of Hamidiyeh, conspicuous by the brass ensigns on their lambskin caps. They were spreading their coverlets for the night, or were turned towards the wall, bowing the head and then the body in prayer.

We slept in an inner room of this clean little tavern, and resumed our journey at eleven o’clock on the following day. The streets were alive with people, a motley band of human beings—for Hasan Kala, with its warm baths and numerous khans and shops, lies on the main road to Tabriz. It is lifted a little above the face of the plain and has an elevation of about 5600 feet. You look back upon its crumbling walls with a certain sympathy for its fallen greatness, and wonder whether it will again rise, like Kars, from its fallen station under a further advance of the Russian Empire towards the Mediterranean. Behind this deserted fortress—which, nevertheless, I was forbidden to photograph—we admired the huge bulwark of the mountain barrier, mocking the works of man. There was the same flat edge, which had so often excited our wonder, to those formidable cliffs. East and west, in a long and horizontal outline, they were drawn beyond the range of sight. The corresponding features on the south of the plain were less emphasised, the long valleys softening the abruptness of the higher ground.

Pasin—the reader may remember—is one of the principal links of the chain of depressions which connect the extremities of western Asia, and facilitate intercourse between east and west. From the narrows of Khorasan to the fantastic parapet of the Deveh Boyun, it has a length of no less than forty-four miles. Our way to Erzerum led us along this spacious avenue, and, after crossing the humble barrier which I have just mentioned, debouched upon the city on the opposite side. We were able to ride at leisure, along a course direct as an arrow, free to observe the stream of traffic on the highway.

An element of special interest were a number of bullock-carts, laden pell-mell with heaps of Hamidiyeh uniforms, destined for the rank and file. They slowly made their way towards Hasan Kala, groaning and creaking as they went. Long strings of Bactrian camels—huge, large-humped, shaggy animals—defiled with a lulling symmetry of movement and measured, noiseless tread. By their side walked the drivers, Tartars with skins of parchment, their features scarcely visible beneath their sheepskin caps. Of wayfarers there were many, and of the most divergent types. Some were mounted on little hacks, here and there a whole family—turbaned Mussulmans, astride of their overhanging mattresses, to which were attached a jangling cluster of cooking pots. A led horse would be encumbered by a still more formless bundle, which, as you approached, displayed a pair of human feet. Brawny Armenian peasants, a scattering of thick-set Lazes, a Kurdish horseman or two swelled the throng.

There are several large villages in the plain of Pasin; but to what race or mixture of races do the Mohammedan inhabitants belong? I was impressed by the difference in the physiognomy of these people, which was quite unlike the type prevailing among settled Kurds. The question of the racial composition of the non-Kurdish element, inhabiting the districts on the north, remains a subject for further research. The Armenians are in a decided minority in Pasin.20

A broad chaussÉe with flanking ditches is carried along the plain, almost in a straight line. But many of the culverts have fallen in, forcing vehicles off the road into the soft soil on either side. Still our horses liked the change, wearied by their long journey and much clambering over rocks. The ground was free of snow, even on this fifth day of December, and the air was comparatively mild.21 The further we proceeded, the more the expanse narrowed and the perspective of the two long barriers closed. From afar we fixed our eyes on what appeared to be an artificial earthwork, thrown across the narrow head of the plain. At half-past one we were at the foot of this apparent fortification, with broken ground on either hand. The muzzles of cannon were turned towards us from the flat top of the colossal mound, and from two hills which rose on the south of the road. Indeed we seemed to face a completely impregnable position, impossible to circumvent. And from a distance one would think that the meeting walls of mountain were joined together by a transverse dam.

Approaching closer, the road is seen to find a passage between the hills on the south and the adjacent flat-topped mass. The width of this passage may be about half-a-mile. Once within the answering horns you cross a spacious amphitheatre, in which the secret of the formation is revealed. The two hills belong to the southern wall of mountain, but so also does the mound. And a line of heights circle inwards from behind the two hills, to protract the circle outwards to the horn of the mound. Hills and mound are left behind before those heights are breasted; or, to continue the figure, you scale the tiers of the amphitheatre at the point most remote from the narrow opening on its eastern side.

Such is the position which, due not to man, but to a freak of Nature, arrests the flow of traffic or the tide of battle. The linking heights—the opposite curve of the circle—are widely known through the literature of travel and of Asiatic warfare as the Deveh Boyun, or the camel’s neck. The humps and head are represented, the first by the two hills, and the second by the mound. The pass, to which the road climbs, is situated on the neck of the camel; but a second ridge must be surmounted, which is a little higher, and has an elevation of about 6850 feet.

From the Deveh Boyun to Erzerum must be a distance of several miles, since, although we rode at a rapid trot, we did not reach the city in less than fifty minutes. Two facts, which were unexpected, became clear as we proceeded. In the first place, the position is by no means so strong as it might appear, even to a near view, from the eastern side. There is at least one, and there are probably more than one passage between the mound and the northern wall of the plain. This circumstance, and the peculiar character of the ground on the west of the barrier, which is broken up into precipitous heights, are in favour of the attack, in so far as they necessitate the employment of a considerable defensive force. The second surprise was perhaps more personal; I had formed the conception of a transverse parapet leading immediately into the plain of Erzerum. But the parapet is succeeded by the broken ground of which I have spoken, and of which the heights are crowned with batteries. The road is taken along the face and among the recesses of the southern barrier; and you are already above the picturesque site of the famous fortress before you overlook the full expanse of the level land. We arrived within the enclosure of the circumvallation at a few minutes before three.22