counted several hundred within a stone’s throw.  The position of these curious remains in a lonely valley, shut in on all sides by dark, pine-covered mountains—–­two of which are crowned with a natural acropolis of rock, resembling a fortress—­increases the interest with which they inspire the beholder.  The valley on the western side, with its bed of ripe wheat in the bottom, its tall walls, towers, and pinnacles of rock, and its distant vista of mountain and forest, is the most picturesque in Phrygia.

The Turcoman reapers, who came up to see us and talk with us, said that there were the remains of walls on the summit of the principal acropolis opposite us, and that, further up the valley, there was a chamber with two columns in front.  Mr. Harrison and I saddled and rode off, passing along a wall of fantastic rock-turrets, at the base of which was a natural column, about ten feet high, and five in diameter, almost perfectly round, and upholding an immense rock, shaped like a cocked hat.  In crossing the meadow we saw a Turk sitting in the sun beside a spring, and busily engaged in knitting a stocking.  After a ride of two miles we found the chamber, hewn like the facade of a temple in an isolated rock, overlooking two valleys of wild meadow-land.  The pediment and cornice were simple and beautiful, but the columns had been broken away.  The chambers were perfectly plain, but the panel-work on the ceiling of the portico was entire.

After passing three hours in examining these tombs, we took the track which our guide pointed out as the road to Kiutahya.  We rode two hours through the forest, and came out upon a wooded height, overlooking a grand, open valley, rich in grain-fields and pasture land.  While I was contemplating this lovely view, the road turned a corner of the ridge, and lo! before me there appeared (as I thought), above the tops of the pines, high up on the mountain side, a line of enormous tents.  Those snow-white cones, uprearing their sharp spires, and spreading out their broad bases—­what could they be but an encampment of monster tents?  Yet no; they were pinnacles of white rock—­perfect cones, from thirty to one hundred feet in height, twelve in all, and ranged side by side along the edge of the cliff, with the precision of a military camp.  They were snow-white, perfectly smooth and full, and their bases touched.  What made the spectacle more singular, there was no other appearance of the same rock on the mountain.  All around them was the dark-green of the pines, out of which they rose like drifted horns of unbroken snow.  I named this singular phenomenon—­which seems to have escaped the notice of travellers—­The Titan’s Camp.

In another hour we reached a fountain near the village of Kuembeh, and pitched our tents for the night.  The village, which is half a mile in length, is built upon a singular crag, which shoots up abruptly from the centre of the valley, rising at one extremity to a height of more than a hundred feet.  It was entirely deserted, the inhabitants having all gone off to the mountains with their herds.  The solitary muezzin, who cried the mughreb at the close of the fast, and lighted the lamps on his minaret, went through with his work in most unclerical haste, now that there was no one to notice him.  We sent Achmet, the katurgee, to the mountain camp of the villagers, to procure a supply of fowls and barley.