the highest part of the hill stands the fortress, or stronghold, a place which must have been almost impregnable before the invention of cannon.  The structure probably dates from the ninth or tenth century, but is built on the foundations of more ancient edifices.  The old Greek city of Cotyaeum (whence Kiutahya) probably stood upon this hill.  Within the citadel is an upper town, containing about a hundred houses, the residence, apparently of poor families.

From the circuit of the walls, on every side, there are grand views over the plain, the city, and the gorges of the mountains behind.  The valley of the Pursek, freshened by the last night’s shower, spread out a sheet of vivid green, to the pine-covered mountains which bounded it on all sides.  Around the city it was adorned with groves and gardens, and, in the direction of Brousa, white roads went winding away to other gardens and villages in the distance.  The mountains of Phrygia, through which we had passed, were the loftiest in the circle that inclosed the valley.  The city at our feet presented a thick array of red-tiled roofs, out of which rose here and there the taper shaft of a minaret, or the dome of a mosque or bath.  From the southern side of the citadel, we looked down into the gorge which supplies Kiutahya with water—­a wild, desert landscape of white crags and shattered peaks of gray rock, hanging over a narrow winding bed of the greenest foliage.

Instead of taking the direct road to Brousa, we decided to make a detour of two days, in order to visit the ruins of the old Greek city of OEzani, which are thirty-six miles south of Kiutahya.  Leaving at noon, we ascended the gorge behind the city, by delightfully embowered paths, at first under the eaves of superb walnut-trees, and then through wild thickets of willow, hazel, privet, and other shrubs, tangled together with the odorous white honeysuckle.  Near the city, the mountain-sides were bare white masses of gypsum and other rock, in many places with the purest chrome-yellow hue; but as we advanced they were clothed to the summit with copsewood.  The streams that foamed down these perennial heights were led into buried channels, to come to light again in sparkling fountains, pouring into ever-full stone basins.  The day was cool and cloudy, and the heavy shadows which hung on the great sides of the mountain gateway, heightened, by contrast, the glory of the sunlit plain seen through them.

After passing the summit ridge, probably 5,000 feet above the sea, we came upon a wooded, hilly region, stretching away in long misty lines to Murad Dagh, whose head was spotted with snow.  There were patches of wheat and rye in the hollows, and the bells of distant herds tinkled occasionally among the trees.  There was no village on the road, and we were on the way to one which we saw in the distance, when we came upon a meadow of good grass, with a small stream running through it.  Here we encamped, sending Achmet,