November 3rd. 1837 - I was detained for some hours by the non-arrival of the officer who was to serve as my guide, and my patience being at length exhausted, I set out without him. I crossed the Arpachai, and threw my well-fingered Russian passport into the stream. It was a pleasure to me to set foot once more on Turkish soil, for I was heartily tired of the vexatious forms to which the traveller is exposed in Russia. My servants, too, were in high spirits at the prospect of returning to their pipes and pillaus; and the horses, after their long rest, were fresh and playful.

We followed the right bank of the Arpachai for some miles, and then struck across a wide, uncultivated plain towards an Armenian village, lying at the foot of a low range of hummocks. I heard a noise behind me, and, looking round, saw a horseman coming towards me at the top of his horse’s speed. It was my guide, an Armenian officer in the service of Russia. He was formerly one of the most influential inhabitants of Kars; but, when the Russian army evacuated that pashalik, he saw himself obliged to accompany its march. He now holds the humble rank of lieutenant in the Russian army. He still retained the Oriental dress, and was a strikingly picturesque figure: his countenance was quick and expressive; and his gay scarlet jacket, covered with embroidery, became his light and well-made figure. Over his shoulder was thrown a furred pelisse, also richly braided; and his loose Eastern trouser was met at the knee by a pair of crimson riding-boots of Russia leather. His little Koordish horse, as black as jet, was covered with rich trappings, and his bridle studded with small plates of silver. Checking his horse so suddenly as to throw him on his haunches, he drew a long breath, and looking down at the heaving flank of his little favourite, who stood bathed in sweat, he reproached me for having started without him, and given him such a chase. Deliberately filling his long chibouque, he seated himself by the road-side, ordered one of my grooms to walk his horse gently up and down, and despatched another to the village before us to order breakfast. I was by no means inclined to quarrel with this arrangement; and, when my friend had shaken the ashes out of his pipe, we mounted and rode gently on.

My guide was evidently well known in this country, for the head man of the village came out to meet him, and held his stirrup while he dismounted. He then ushered us into a dark room, at one end of which was an immense fire; and, drawing off our boots, he seated us in the post of honour. A tray was then brought in, on which were spread long cakes of bread; and a couple of fowls, which a ragged urchin was turning before the fire on a ramrod, were soon placed before us, to which we did ample justice without the aid of knife and fork. (The only fuel used throughout the greater part of Armenia consists of cakes of cow-dung, spread in the sun to dry. They are somewhat difficult to ignite, but when once they burn well they throw out a great heat).

We sent forward a horseman to the village of "Haji Velli" from which we were now only two hours distant, in order to apprize the Beg of our intended visit, and the sun had just sunk below the horizon when we ourselves arrived. A servant of the Beg's met us at the outskirts of the village; amid, with many assurances of the pleasure with which his master would see us under his roof, he guided us among the subterranean houses of the villagers to one which reared its head a little higher above ground, but whose rough exterior did not give promise of the comfortable room where we found the Beg awaiting our arrival.

Madag Beg himself was absent, but a younger brother did the honours of the house. A low divan, raised about a foot from the floor, extended the whole length of the room on both sides, from the door to the fire-place, and the ingle-nooks were furnished with soft piles of cushions. The room was dimly lighted by two small papered windows, but the blazing hearth threw out a light more cheerful than the cold rays of a winter sun. Every one congregated round my guide to listen to his account of the late doings in Georgia, especially of the reception which the Emperor had given to their Lord the Seraskier Pasha; while I, too happy to be left alone, ensconced myself in the opposite corner, and whiled away the hours till supper-time in bringing up my journal, which my late rapid movements had thrown into arrears.

It was very late when the servants appeared with preparations for the evening meal. My host, my guide, and I, seated ourselves round the tray, and the old major-domo presented us water to wash our hands. The supper consisted of a succession of somewhat savoury and very palatable dishes, in which sweets and acids were strangely mingled, and ended with a princely pillau, the pride of Eastern cookery. The word "Bismillah" (in the name of God) gave us the signal to fall to. Thin wheaten cakes served us in lieu of plates, and fingers performed the office of knives and forks. Once or twice my host tore off some dainty morsel and handed it to me; but, though one could well dispense with such marks of civility, they are intended as a compliment, and should be taken as such. Water was again handed round, and our host, with the pious ejaculation of God-be-praised, ("Alhamdolillah"), rose from his seat, and we followed his example. Coffee and pipes were then produced, and one by one the Beg's guests returned to their homes.

A most luxurious bed was brought for me; and the Beg, after having ordered a trusty follower to accompany me on the morrow to the ruins of Anni, left me to my repose. When I awoke the snow was falling thick and fast, and a deep coat already covered the whole country round. My host pressed me to remain; but, if every day of snow is to confine me to the house, my journey through Armenia will indeed be slow. I therefore mounted, and pursued my way under the guidance of an old grey-bearded Turk. The hospitality of a Turkish magnate is a heavy tax upon the traveller, for every attendant expects a present from him when he quits the threshold, and it is almost impossible to satisfy them in many houses, indeed, what they can levy from strangers is the only emolument the servants receive. During a residence of nearly three years in the East I cannot remember receiving one single instance of genuine hospitality. Such may yet, perhaps, be found in the tents of the wandering tribes, but it has disappeared from towns and cities.

Fortune favoured me, for before I reached the little village of "Tayen Alikh" the weather partially cleared, although the day still remained dull and cloudy. Leaving my baggage and my best horses at the house prepared for my accommodation, I proceeded at once to Anni, attended by my guide and a single servant. The country over which we passed was beyond description dreary: the mountains, which would have relieved the monotony of the plain, were veiled in mist, and not a tree or shrub was to be seen. We passed one wretched village, surrounded by a few acres of tillage, but not a living soul was visible. An hour farther, and a sudden bend of the road brought us within sight of the ancient capital of Armenia, which, at that distance, does not seem deserted. The massive towers and churches appear in perfect preservation; and the long line of wall which crowns the rocky heights masks the ruin which prevails within. The site of Anni has been most judiciously selected with a view to strength. The southern face is protected by a deep and precipitous ravine, at the bottom of which flows the rapid stream of the "Arpa Chai", here no longer fordable. Two other faces terminate in rocky and abrupt declivities; and the third, which alone is open to attack, is defended by a wall of massive masonry flanked by numerous towers.

We entered by the principal gate, which stands in the centre of this face. Over the gateway are some curiously sculptured figures. The walls and towers are built of irregular masses of stone cemented with mortar, but they are faced with well-hewn blocks of sandstone. The sacred symbol of Christianity is introduced in various places. Huge blocks of blood-red stone, let into the masonry of the tower, form gigantic crosses, which have defied the hand of the destroying Moslem.

The only buildings which are now standing are the Christian churches, a Turkish mosque, several baths, and a palace, said to have been the residence of the last Armenian monarchs. All these display much splendour and architectural beauty, and the fretwork of some of the arches is very rich; but it is evident that the public buildings alone were on this massive scale, and that the private dwellings were always very humble. The hollows in the ground, and the mounds of loose stones scattered over the whole area of the city, would lead me to suppose that they were much of the same style as those now in use. Thoughout the whole of Armenia and Georgia I have remarked, that, while the villages are scarcely raised above the level of the ground, the churches are massive structures visible from a great distance. There are a vast number of inscriptions at Anni, some in Turkish, but the greater part in Armenian. The churches are precisely of the same architecture with those of Etchmiadzin, and some of them are still in perfect preservation. In one, the walls are covered with rude paintings, in some of which I recognised subjects from the Scriptures; but the miracles of St. Gregory, and other saints of the Armenian calendar, occupied the large share. The Oriental Christians appear always to have had a fancy for building their churches in the most inaccessible situations; and of this there is a curious instance at Anni. On a narrow ledge of rock, washed on three sides by the Arpachai, stands a little chapel, accessible only by a steep and dangerous footpath. Tradition says that it was erected by the daughter of some old Armenian king, famous for her piety and beauty, who used to spend time greater portion of her days in this isolated spot.

As I rode among the mounds of stones, several covies of the rock partridge rose from beneath my horse’s feet, so seldom are they disturbed in the once crowded streets of the capital of Armenia. One solitary Koordish shepherd, with his white felt cloak, was standing beneath the shelter of a ruined porch, while his small flock of mountain goats were perched upon the crumbling arches of an adjoining bath. Shepherd and flock were both in keeping with the desolation of the surrounding scene, and would have furnished a subject worthy of Salvator’s pencil. In one of the old roofless churches, a scanty fire, still smouldering among the blackened ruins of the fallen altar, marked his cheerless bivouac. My guide dismounting allowed his horse to stray within the gateway of the sacred pile, and, sheltered from the raw and piercing blast by the massive buttress of the vaulted aisle, vainly attempted to fan the dying embers to a flame.

The narrow valley or ravine which separates the city from the adjacent country appears to have been hollowed by the action of water. Its perpendicular banks of limestone are curiously excavated into small apartments, rising in tiers above each other. Some of these are vaulted, and apparently accessible only by the means of ladders. Opinions are divided as to the use and origin of these cells, which some suppose to have been the dwellings of the living, others the receptacles of the dead. Whatever they may have been in former times, they are now the frequent haunt of lawless Koords, whose presence renders a visit to the ruins not unattended with danger.

The city of Anni was built in the early part of the sixth century, and continued for several hundred years to be the capital of Armenia. It fell several times into time hands of those fierce conquerors who during the middle ages overran the East, and experienced the most cruel treatment from them. The old historians inform us that, when Anni was captured by Alp Arslan, the slaughter was so great, that the streets were choked with bodies, and the river crimsoned with the blood of the slain. The feelings excited by the sight of this deserted city are very melancholy. The forsaken churches remind you that a powerful Christian nation here sank beneath the repeated attacks of the most barbarous tribes of Asia, the bitterest foes of civilization and Christianity. The very preservation of the buildings heightens the impression of loneness, and you involuntarily look around for signs of life. Amid the utter ruin of more remote antiquity, very different feelings are excited. The shapeless mounds of Babylon are like the skeleton; but the deserted yet still standing city resembles the corpse whose breath has fled, but which still retains the semblance of life.