The Lands of the Saracen
by
Bayard Taylor
Part 4 out of 6
Chapter XVII.
Adana and Tarsus.
The Black Gate--The Plain of Cilicia--A Koord Village--Missis--Cilician
Scenery--Arrival at Adana--Three days in Quarantine--We receive
Pratique--A Landscape--The Plain of Tarsus--The River Cydnus--A Vision
of Cleopatra--Tarsus and its Environs--The _Duniktash_--The Moon of
Ramazan.
"Paul said, I am a man which am a Jew of Tarsus, a city in Cilicia, a
citizen of no mean city."--Acts, xxi. 89.
Khan on Mt. Taurus, _Saturday, June_ 19, 1852.
We left our camp at Chaya at dawn, with an escort of three soldiers, which
we borrowed from the guard stationed at that place. The path led along the
shore, through clumps of myrtle beaten inland by the wind, and rounded as
smoothly as if they had been clipped by a gardener's shears. As we
approached the head of the gulf, the peaked summits of Giaour Dagh, 10,000
feet in height, appeared in the north-east. The streams we forded swarmed
with immense trout. A brown hedgehog ran across our road, but when I
touched him with the end of my pipe, rolled himself into an impervious
ball of prickles. Soon after turning the head of the gulf, the road
swerved off to the west, and entered a narrow pass, between hills covered
with thick copse-wood. Here we came upon an ancient gateway of black lava
stone, which bears marks of great antiquity It is now called _Kara Kapu,_
the "Black Gate," and some suppose it to have been one of the ancient
gates of Cilicia.
Beyond this, our road led over high, grassy hills, without a sign of human
habitation, to the ruined khan of Koord Koolak, We dismounted and unloaded
our baggage in the spacious stone archway, and drove our beasts into the
dark, vaulted halls behind. The building was originally intended for a
magazine of supplies, and from the ruined mosque near it, I suspect it was
formerly one of the caravan stations for the pilgrims from Constantinople
to Mecca. The weather was intensely hot and sultry, and our animals were
almost crazy from the attacks of a large yellow gad-fly. After the noonday
heat was over we descended to the first Cilician plain, which is bounded
on the west by the range of Durdun Dagh. As we had now passed the most
dangerous part of the road, we dismissed the three soldiers and took but a
single man with us. The entire plain is covered with wild fennel, six to
eight feet in height, and literally blazing with its bloomy yellow tops.
Riding through it, I could barely look over them, and far and wide, on all
sides, spread a golden sea, out of which the long violet hills rose with
the liveliest effect. Brown, shining serpents, from four to six feet in
length, frequently slid across our path. The plain, which must be sixty
miles in circumference, is wholly uncultivated, though no land could
possibly be richer.
Out of the region of fennel we passed into one of red and white clover,
timothy grass and wild oats. The thistles were so large as to resemble
young palm-trees, and the salsify of our gardens grew rank and wild. At
length we dipped into the evening shadow of Durdun Dagh, and reached the
village of Koord Keui, on his lower slope. As there was no place for our
tent on the rank grass of the plain or the steep side of the hill, we took
forcible possession of the winnowing-floor, a flat terrace built up under
two sycamores, and still covered with the chaff of the last threshing. The
Koords took the whole thing as a matter of course, and even brought us a
felt carpet to rest upon. They came and seated themselves around us,
chatting sociably, while we lay in the tent-door, smoking the pipe of
refreshment. The view over the wide golden plain, and the hills beyond, to
the distant, snow-tipped peaks of Akma Dagh, was superb, as the shadow of
the mountain behind us slowly lengthened over it, blotting out the mellow
lights of sunset. There were many fragments of pillars and capitals of
white marble built up in the houses, showing that they occupied the site
of some ancient village or temple.
The next morning, we crossed Durdun Dagh, and entered the great plain of
Cilicia. The range, after we had passed it, presented a grand, bold,
broken outline, blue in the morning vapor, and wreathed with shifting
belts of cloud. A stately castle, called the Palace of Serpents, on the
summit of an isolated peak to the north, stood out clear and high, in the
midst of a circle of fog, like a phantom picture of the air. The River
Jyhoon, the ancient Pyramus, which rises on the borders of Armenia, sweeps
the western base of the mountains. It is a larger stream than the Orontes,
with a deep, rapid current, flowing at the bottom of a bed lower than the
level of the plain. In three hours, we reached Missis, the ancient
Mopsuestia, on the right bank of the river. There are extensive ruins on
the left bank, which were probably those of the former city. The soil for
some distance around is scattered with broken pillars, capitals, and hewn
stones. The ancient bridge still crosses the river, but the central arch
having been broken away, is replaced with a wooden platform. The modern
town is a forlorn place, and all the glorious plain around it is
uncultivated. The view over this plain was magnificent: unbounded towards
the sea, but on the north girdled by the sublime range of Taurus, whose
great snow-fields gleamed in the sun. In the afternoon, we reached the old
bridge over the Jyhoon, at Adana. The eastern bank is occupied with the
graves of the former inhabitants, and there are at least fifteen acres of
tombstones, as thickly planted as the graves can be dug. The fields of
wheat and barley along the river are very rich, and at present the natives
are busily occupied in drawing the sheaves on large sleds to the open
threshing-floors.
The city is built over a low eminence, and its four tall minarets, with a
number of palm-trees rising from the mass of brown brick walls, reminded
me of Egypt. At the end of the bridge, we were met by one of the
Quarantine officers, who preceded us, taking care that we touched nobody
in the streets, to the Quarantine building. This land quarantine, between
Syria and Asia Minor, when the former country is free from any epidemic,
seems a most absurd thing. We were detained at Adana three days and a
half, to be purified, before proceeding further. Lately, the whole town
was placed in quarantine for five days, because a Turkish Bey, who lives
near Baias, entered the gates without being noticed, and was found in the
bazaars. The Quarantine building was once a palace of the Pashas of Adana,
but is now in a half-ruined condition. The rooms are large and airy, and
there is a spacious open divan which affords ample shade and a cool
breeze throughout the whole day. Fortunately for us, there were only three
persons in Quarantine, who occupied a room distant from ours. The
Inspector was a very obliging person, and procured us a table and two
chairs. The only table to be had in the whole place--a town of 15,000
inhabitants--belonged to an Italian merchant, who kindly gave it for our
use. We employed a messenger to purchase provisions in the bazaars; and
our days passed quietly in writing, smoking, and gazing indolently from
our windows upon the flowery plains beyond the town. Our nights, however,
were tormented by small white gnats, which stung us unmercifully. The
physician of Quarantine, Dr. Spagnolo, is a Venetian refugee, and formerly
editor of _La Lega Italiana_, a paper published in Venice during the
revolution. He informed us that, except the Princess Belgioioso, who
passed through Adana on her way to Jerusalem, we were the only travellers
he had seen for eleven months.
After three days and four nights of grateful, because involuntary,
indolence, Dr. Spagnolo gave us _pratique_, and we lost no time in getting
under weigh again. We were the only occupants of Quarantine; and as we
moved out of the portal of the old serai, at sunrise, no one was guarding
it. The Inspector and Mustapha, the messenger, took their back-sheeshes
with silent gratitude. The plain on the west side of the town is well
cultivated; and as we rode along towards Tarsus, I was charmed with the
rich pastoral air of the scenery. It was like one of the midland
landscapes of England, bathed in Southern sunshine. The beautiful level,
stretching away to the mountains, stood golden with the fields of wheat
which the reapers were cutting. It was no longer bare, but dotted with
orange groves, clumps of holly, and a number of magnificent
terebinth-trees, whose dark, rounded masses of foliage remind one of the
Northern oak. Cattle were grazing in the stubble, and horses, almost
buried under loads of fresh grass, met us as they passed to the city. The
sheaves were drawn to the threshing-floor on sleds, and we could see the
husbandmen in the distance treading out and winnowing the grain. Over
these bright, busy scenes, rose the lesser heights of the Taurus, and
beyond them, mingled in white clouds, the snows of the crowning range.
The road to Tarsus, which is eight hours distant, lies over an unbroken
plain. Towards the sea, there are two tumuli, resembling those on the
plains east of Antioch. Stone wells, with troughs for watering horses,
occur at intervals of three or four miles; but there is little cultivation
after leaving the vicinity of Adana. The sun poured down an intense summer
heat, and hundreds of large gad-flies, swarming around us, drove the
horses wild with their stings. Towards noon, we stopped at a little
village for breakfast. We took possession of a shop, which the
good-natured merchant offered us, and were about to spread our provisions
upon the counter, when the gnats and mosquitoes fairly drove us away. We
at once went forward in search of a better place, which gave occasion to
our chief mukkairee, Hadji Youssuf, for a violent remonstrance. The terms
of the agreement at Aleppo gave the entire control of the journey into our
own hands, and the Hadji now sought to violate it. He protested against
our travelling more than six hours a day, and conducted himself so
insolently, that we threatened to take him before the Pasha of Tarsus.
This silenced him for the time; but we hate him so cordially since then,
that I foresee we shall have more trouble. In the afternoon, a gust,
sweeping along the sides of Taurus, cooled the air and afforded us a
little relief.
By three o'clock we reached the River Cydnus, which is bare of trees on
its eastern side, but flows between banks covered with grass and shrubs.
It is still spanned by the ancient bridge, and the mules now step in the
hollow ruts worn long ago by Roman and Byzantine chariot wheels. The
stream is not more than thirty yards broad, but has a very full and rapid
current of a bluish-white color, from the snows which feed it. I rode down
to the brink and drank a cup of the water. It was exceedingly cold, and I
do not wonder that a bath in it should have killed the Emperor Barbarossa.
From the top of the bridge, there is a lovely view, down the stream, where
it washes a fringe of willows and heavy fruit-trees on its western bank,
and then winds away through the grassy plain, to the sea. For once, my
fancy ran parallel with the inspiration of the scene. I could think of
nothing but the galley of Cleopatra slowly stemming the current of the
stream, its silken sails filled with the sea-breeze, its gilded oars
keeping time to the flutes, whose voluptuous melodies floated far out over
the vernal meadows. Tarsus was probably almost hidden then, as now, by its
gardens, except just where it touched the river; and the dazzling vision
of the Egyptian Queen, as she came up conquering and to conquer, must have
been all the more bewildering, from the lovely bowers through which she
sailed.
From the bridge an ancient road still leads to the old Byzantine gate of
Tarsus. Part of the town is encompassed by a wall, built by the Caliph
Haroun Al-Raschid, and there is a ruined fortress, which is attributed to
Sultan Bajazet Small streams, brought from the Cydnus, traverse the
environs, and, with such a fertile soil, the luxuriance of the gardens in
which the city lies buried is almost incredible. In our rambles in search
of a place to pitch the tent, we entered a superb orange-orchard, the
foliage of which made a perpetual twilight. Many of the trunks were two
feet in diameter. The houses are mostly of one story, and the materials
are almost wholly borrowed from the ancient city. Pillars, capitals,
fragments of cornices and entablatures abound. I noticed here, as in
Adana, a high wooden frame on the top of every house, raised a few steps
above the roof, and covered with light muslin, like a portable
bathing-house. Here the people put up their beds in the evening, sleep,
and come down to the roofs in the morning--an excellent plan for getting
better air in these malarious plains and escaping from fleas and
mosquitoes. In our search for the Armenian Church, which is said to have
been founded by St. Paul ("Saul of Tarsus"), we came upon a mosque, which
had been originally a Christian Church, of Greek times.
From the top of a mound, whereupon stand the remains of an ancient
circular edifice, we obtained a fine view of the city and plain of Tarsus.
A few houses or clusters of houses stood here and there like reefs amid
the billowy green, and the minarets--one of them with a nest of young
storks on its very summit--rose like the masts of sunken ships. Some palms
lifted their tufted heads from the gardens, beyond which the great plain
extended from the mountains to the sea. The tumulus near Mersyn, the port
of Tarsus, was plainly visible. Two hours from Mersyn are the ruins of
Pompeiopolis, the name given by Pompey to the town of Soli, after his
conquest of the Cilician pirates. From Soli, on account of the bad Greek
spoken by its inhabitants, came the term "solecism." The ruins of
Pompeiopolis consist of a theatre, temples, and a number of houses, still
in good preservation. The whole coast, as far as Aleya, three hundred
miles west of this, is said to abound with ruined cities, and I regret
exceedingly that time will not permit me to explore it.
While searching for the antiquities about Tarsus, I accosted a man in a
Frank dress, who proved to be the Neapolitan Consul. He told us that the
most remarkable relic was the _Duniktash_ (the Round Stone), and procured
us a guide. It lies in a garden near the city, and is certainly one of the
most remarkable monuments in the East. It consists of a square inclosure
of solid masonry, 350 feet long by 150 feet wide, the walls of which are
eighteen feet in thickness and twenty feet high. It appears to have been
originally a solid mass, without entrance, but a passage has been broken
in one place, and in another there is a split or fissure, evidently
produced by an earthquake. The material is rough stone, brick and mortar.
Inside of the inclosure are two detached square masses of masonry, of
equal height, and probably eighty feet on a side, without opening of any
kind. One of them has been pierced at the bottom, a steep passage leading
to a pit or well, but the sides of the passage thus broken indicate that
the whole structure is one solid mass. It is generally supposed that they
were intended as tombs: but of whom? There is no sign by which they may be
recognized, and, what is more singular, no tradition concerning them.
The day we reached Tarsus was the first of the Turkish fast-month of
Ramazan, the inhabitants having seen the new moon the night before. At
Adana, where they did not keep such a close look-out, the fast had not
commenced. During its continuance, which is from twenty-eight to
twenty-nine days, no Mussulman dares eat, drink, or smoke, from an hour
before sunrise till half an hour after sunset. The Mohammedan months are
lunar, and each month makes the whole round of the seasons, once in
thirty-three years. When, therefore, the Ramazan comes in midsummer, as at
present, the fulfilment of this fast is a great trial, even to the
strongest and most devout. Eighteen hours without meat or drink, and what
is still worse to a genuine Turk, without a pipe, is a rigid test of
faith. The rich do the best they can to avoid it, by feasting all night
and sleeping all day, but the poor, who must perform their daily
avocations, as usual, suffer exceedingly. In walking through Tarsus I saw
many wretched faces in the bazaars, and the guide who accompanied us had a
painfully famished air. Fortunately the Koran expressly permits invalids,
children, and travellers to disregard the fast, so that although we eat
and drink when we like, we are none the less looked upon as good
Mussulmans. About dark a gun is fired and a rocket sent up from the
mosque, announcing the termination of the day's fast. The meals are
already prepared, the pipes filled, the coffee smokes in the _finjans_,
and the echoes have not died away nor the last sparks of the rocket become
extinct, before half the inhabitants are satisfying their hunger, thirst
and smoke-lust.
We left Tarsus this morning, and are now encamped among the pines of Mount
Taurus. The last flush of sunset is fading from his eternal snows, and I
drop my pen to enjoy the silence of twilight in this mountain solitude.
Chapter XVIII.
The Pass of Mount Taurus.
We enter the Taurus--Turcomans--Forest Scenery--the Palace of Pan--Khan
Mezarluk--Morning among the Mountains--The Gorge of the Cydnus--The Crag
of the Fortress--The Cilician Gate--Deserted Forts--A Sublime
Landscape--The Gorge of the Sihoon--The Second Gate--Camp in the
Defile--Sunrise--Journey up the Sihoon--A Change of Scenery--A Pastoral
Valley--Kolue Kushla--A Deserted Khan--A Guest in Ramazan--Flowers--The
Plain of Karamania--Barren Hills--The Town of Eregli--The Hadji again.
"Lo! where the pass expands
Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks,
And seems, with its accumulated crags,
To overhang the world." Shelley.
Eregli, _in Karamania, June_ 22, 1852.
Striking our tent in the gardens of Tarsus, we again crossed the Cydnus,
and took a northern course across the plain. The long line of Taurus rose
before us, seemingly divided into four successive ranges, the highest of
which was folded in clouds; only the long streaks of snow, filling the
ravines, being visible. The outlines of these ranges were very fine, the
waving line of the summits cut here and there by precipitous gorges--the
gateways of rivers that came down to the plain. In about two hours, we
entered the lower hills. They are barren and stony, with a white, chalky
soil; but the valleys were filled with myrtle, oleander, and lauristinus
in bloom, and lavender grew in great profusion on the hill-sides. The
flowers of the oleander gave out a delicate, almond-like fragrance, and
grew in such dense clusters as frequently to hide the foliage. I amused
myself with finding a derivation of the name of this beautiful plant,
which may answer until somebody discovers a better one. Hero, when the
corpse of her lover was cast ashore by the waves, buried him under an
oleander bush, where she was accustomed to sit daily, and lament over his
untimely fate. Now, a foreign horticulturist, happening to pass by when
the shrub was in blossom, was much struck with its beauty, and asked Hero
what it was called. But she, absorbed in grief, and thinking only of her
lover, clasped her hands, and sighed out: "O Leander! O Leander!" which
the horticulturist immediately entered in his note-book as the name of the
shrub; and by that name it is known, to the present time.
For two or three hours, the scenery was rather tame, the higher summits
being obscured with a thunder-cloud. Towards noon, however, we passed the
first chain, and saw, across a strip of rolling land intervening, the
grand ramparts of the second, looming dark and large under the clouds. A
circular watch-tower of white stone, standing on the summit of a
promontory at the mouth of a gorge on our right, flashed out boldly
against the storm. We stopped under an oak-tree to take breakfast; but
there was no water; and two Turks, who were resting while their horses
grazed in the meadow, told us we should find a good spring half a mile
further. We ascended a long slope, covered with wheat-fields, where
numbers of Turcoman reapers were busy at work, passed their black tents,
surrounded with droves of sheep and goats, and reached a rude stone
fountain of good water, where two companies of these people had stopped
to rest, on their way to the mountains. It was the time of noon prayer,
and they went through their devotions with great solemnity. We nestled
deep in a bed of myrtles, while we breakfasted; for the sky was clouded,
and the wind blew cool and fresh from the region of rain above us. Some of
the Turcomans asked us for bread, and were very grateful when we gave it
to them.
In the afternoon, we came into a higher and wilder region, where the road
led through thickets of wild olive, holly, oak, and lauristinus, with
occasional groves of pine. What a joy I felt in hearing, once more, the
grand song of my favorite tree! Our way was a woodland road; a storm had
passed over the region in the morning; the earth was still fresh and
moist, and there was an aromatic smell of leaves in the air. We turned
westward into the entrance of a deep valley, over which hung a
perpendicular cliff of gray and red rock, fashioned by nature so as to
resemble a vast fortress, with windows, portals and projecting bastions.
Francois displayed his knowledge of mythology, by declaring it to be the
Palace of Pan. While we were carrying out the idea, by making chambers for
the Fauns and Nymphs in the basement story of the precipice, the path
wound around the shoulder of the mountain, and the glen spread away before
us, branching up into loftier ranges, disclosing through its gateway of
cliffs, rising out of the steeps of pine forest, a sublime vista of blue
mountain peaks, climbing to the topmost snows. It was a magnificent Alpine
landscape, more glowing and rich than Switzerland, yet equalling it in all
the loftier characteristics of mountain scenery. Another and greater
precipice towered over us on the right, and the black eagles which had
made their eyries in its niched and caverned vaults, were wheeling around
its crest. A branch of the Cydnus foamed along the bottom of the gorge,
and soma Turcoman boys were tending their herds on its banks.
Further up the glen, we found a fountain of delicious water, beside the
deserted Khan of Mezarluk, and there encamped for the night. Our tent was
pitched on the mountain side, near a fountain of the coolest, clearest and
sweetest water I have seen in all the East. There was perfect silence
among the mountains, and the place was as lonely as it was sublime. The
night was cool and fresh; but I could not sleep until towards morning.
When I opened my belated eyes, the tall peaks on the opposite side of the
glen were girdled below their waists with the flood of a sparkling
sunrise. The sky was pure as crystal, except a soft white fleece that
veiled the snowy pinnacles of Taurus, folding and unfolding, rising and
sinking, as if to make their beauty still more attractive by the partial
concealment. The morning air was almost cold, but so pure and bracing--so
aromatic with the healthy breath of the pines--that I took it down in the
fullest possible draughts.
We rode up the glen, following the course of the Cydnus, through scenery
of the wildest and most romantic character. The bases of the mountains
were completely enveloped in forests of pine, but their summits rose in
precipitous crags, many hundreds of feet in height, hanging above our very
heads. Even after the sun was five hours high, their shadows fell upon us
from the opposite side of the glen. Mixed with the pine were occasional
oaks, an undergrowth of hawthorn in bloom, and shrubs covered with yellow
and white flowers. Over these the wild grape threw its rich festoons,
filling the air with exquisite fragrance.
Out of this glen, we passed into another, still narrower and wilder. The
road was the old Roman way, and in tolerable condition, though it had
evidently not been mended for many centuries. In half an hour, the pass
opened, disclosing an enormous peak in front of us, crowned with the ruins
of an ancient fortress of considerable extent. The position was almost
impregnable, the mountain dropping on one side into a precipice five
hundred feet in perpendicular height. Under the cliffs of the loftiest
ridge, there was a terrace planted with walnut-trees: a charming little
hamlet in the wilderness. Wild sycamore-trees, with white trunks and
bright green foliage, shaded the foamy twists of the Cydnus, as it plunged
down its difficult bed. The pine thrust its roots into the naked
precipices, and from their summits hung out over the great abysses below.
I thought of OEnone's
--"tall, dark pines, that fringed the craggy ledge
High over the blue gorge, and all between
The snowy peak and snow-white cataract
Fostered the callow eaglet;"
and certainly she had on Mount Ida no more beautiful trees than these.
We had doubled the Crag of the Fortress, when the pass closed before us,
shut in by two immense precipices of sheer, barren rock, more than a
thousand feet in height. Vast fragments, fallen from above, choked up the
entrance, whence the Cydnus, spouting forth in foam, leaped into the
defile. The ancient road was completely destroyed, but traces of it were
to be seen on the rocks, ten feet above the present bed of the stream, and
on the broken masses which had been hurled below. The path wound with
difficulty among these wrecks, and then merged into the stream itself, as
we entered the gateway. A violent wind blew in our faces as we rode
through the strait, which is not ten yards in breadth, while its walls
rise to the region of the clouds. In a few minutes we had traversed it,
and stood looking back on the enormous gap. There were several Greek
tablets cut in the rock above the old road, but so defaced as to be
illegible. This is undoubtedly the principal gate of the Taurus, and the
pass through which the armies of Cyrus and Alexander entered Cilicia.
Beyond the gate the mountains retreated, and we climbed up a little dell,
past two or three Turcoman houses, to the top of a hill, whence opened a
view of the principal range, now close at hand. The mountains in front
were clothed with dark cedars to their very tops, and the snow-fields
behind them seemed dazzlingly bright and near. Our course for several
miles now lay through a more open valley, drained by the upper waters of
the Cydnus. On two opposing terraces of the mountain chains are two
fortresses, built by Ibraham Pasha, but now wholly deserted. They are
large and well-constructed works of stone, and surrounded by ruins of
stables, ovens, and the rude houses of the soldiery. Passing between
these, we ascended to the shelf dividing the waters of the Cydnus and the
Sihoon. From the point where the slope descends to the latter river, there
opened before me one of the most glorious landscapes I ever beheld. I
stood at the extremity of a long hollow or depression between the two
ranges of the Taurus--not a valley, for it was divided by deep cloven
chasms, hemmed in by steeps overgrown with cedars. On my right rose a
sublime chain, soaring far out of the region of trees, and lifting its
peaked summits of gray rock into toe sky. Another chain, nearly as lofty,
but not so broken, nor with such large, imposing features, overhung me on
the left; and far in front, filling up the magnificent vista--filling up
all between the lower steeps, crowned with pine, and the round white
clouds hanging on the verge of heaven--were the shining snows of the
Taurus. Great God, how shall I describe the grandeur of that view! How
draw the wonderful outlines of those mountains! How paint the airy hue of
violet-gray, the soft white lights, the thousandfold pencillings of mellow
shadow, the height, the depth, the far-reaching vastness of the landscape!
In the middle distance, a great blue gorge passed transversely across the
two ranges and the region between. This, as I rightly conjectured, was the
bed of the Sihoon. Our road led downward through groves of fragrant
cedars, and we travelled thus for two hours before reaching the river.
Taking a northward course up his banks, we reached the second of the _Pylae
Ciliciae_ before sunset. It is on a grander scale than the first gate,
though not so startling and violent in its features. The bare walls on
either side fall sheer to the water, and the road, crossing the Sihoon by
a lofty bridge of a single arch, is cut along the face of the rock. Near
the bridge a subterranean stream, almost as large as the river, bursts
forth from the solid heart of the mountain. On either side gigantic masses
of rock, with here and there a pine to adorn their sterility, tower to the
height of 6,000 feet, in some places almost perpendicular from summit to
base. They are worn and broken into all fantastic forms. There are
pyramids, towers, bastions, minarets, and long, sharp spires, splintered
and jagged as the turrets of an iceberg. I have seen higher mountains,
but I have never seen any which looked so high as these. We camped on a
narrow plot of ground, in the very heart of the tremendous gorge. A
soldier, passing along at dusk, told us that a merchant and his servant
were murdered in the same place last winter, and advised us to keep watch.
But we slept safely all night, while the stars sparkled over the chasm,
and slips of misty cloud hung low on the thousand pinnacles of rock.
When I awoke, the gorge lay in deep shadow; but high up on the western
mountain, above the enormous black pyramids that arose from the river, the
topmost pinnacles of rock sparkled like molten silver, in the full gush of
sunrise. The great mountain, blocking up the gorge behind us, was bathed
almost to its foot in the rays, and, seen through such a dark vista, was
glorified beyond all other mountains of Earth. The air was piercingly cold
and keen, and I could scarcely bear the water of the Sihoon on my
sun-inflamed face. There was a little spring not far off, from which we
obtained sufficient water to drink, the river being too muddy. The spring
was but a thread oozing from the soil; but the Hadji collected it in
handfuls, which he emptied into his water-skin, and then brought to us.
The morning light gave a still finer effect to the manifold forms of the
mountains than that of the afternoon sun. The soft gray hue of the rocks
shone clearly against the cloudless sky, fretted all over with the shadows
thrown by their innumerable spires and jutting points, and by the natural
arches scooped out under the cliffs. After travelling less than an hour,
we passed the riven walls of the mighty gateway, and rode again under the
shade of pine forests. The height of the mountains now gradually
diminished, and their sides, covered with pine and cedar, became less
broken and abrupt. The summits, nevertheless, still retained the same
rocky spine, shooting up into tall, single towers, or long lines of even
parapets Occasionally, through gaps between, we caught glimpses of the
snow-fields, dazzlingly high and white.
After travelling eight or nine miles, we emerged from the pass, and left
the Sihoon at a place called Chiftlik Khan--a stone building, with a small
fort adjoining, wherein fifteen splendid bronze cannon lay neglected on
their broken and rotting carriages. As we crossed the stone bridge over
the river, a valley opened suddenly on the left, disclosing the whole
range of the Taurus, which we now saw on its northern side, a vast stretch
of rocky spires, with sparkling snow-fields between, and long ravines
filled with snow, extending far down between the dark blue cliffs and the
dark green plumage of the cedars.
Immediately after passing the central chain of the Taurus, the character
of the scenery changed. The heights were rounded, the rocky strata only
appearing on the higher peaks, and the slopes of loose soil were deeply
cut and scarred by the rains of ages. Both in appearance, especially in
the scattered growth of trees dotted over the dark red soil, and in their
formation, these mountains strongly resemble the middle ranges of the
Californian Sierra Nevada. We climbed a long, winding glen, until we had
attained a considerable height, when the road reached a dividing ridge,
giving us a view of a deep valley, beyond which a chain of barren
mountains rose to the height of some five thousand feet. As we descended
the rocky path, a little caravan of asses and mules clambered up to meet
us, along the brinks of steep gulfs. The narrow strip of bottom land
along the stream was planted with rye, now in head, and rolling in silvery
waves before the wind.
After our noonday halt, we went over the hills to another stream, which
came from the north-west. Its valley was broader and greener than that we
had left, and the hills inclosing it had soft and undulating outlines.
They were bare of trees, but colored a pale green by their thin clothing
of grass and herbs. In this valley the season was so late, owing to its
height above the sea, that the early spring-flowers were yet in bloom.
Poppies flamed among the wheat, and the banks of the stream were brilliant
with patches of a creeping plant, with a bright purple blossom. The
asphodel grew in great profusion, and an ivy-leaved shrub, covered with
flakes of white bloom, made the air faint with its fragrance. Still
further up, we came to orchards of walnut and plum trees, and vineyards
There were no houses, but the innabitants, who were mostly Turcomans, live
in villages during the winter, and in summer pitch their tents on the
mountains where they pasture their flocks. Directly over this quiet
pastoral, vale towered the Taurus, and I looked at once on its secluded
loveliness and on the wintry heights, whose bleak and sublime heads were
mantled in clouds. From no point is there a more imposing view of the
whole snowy range. Near the head of the valley we passed a large Turcoman
encampment, surrounded with herds of sheep and cattle.
We halted for the evening at a place called Kolue-Kushla---an immense
fortress-village, resembling Baias, and like it, wholly deserted. Near it
there is a small town of very neat houses, which is also deserted, the
inhabitants having gone into the mountains with their flocks. I walked
through the fortress, which is a massive building of stone, about 500
feet square, erected by Sultan Murad as a resting-place for the caravans
to Mecca. It has two spacious portals, in which the iron doors are still
hanging, connected by a vaulted passage, twenty feet high and forty wide,
with bazaars on each side. Side gateways open into large courts,
surrounded with arched chambers. There is a mosque entire, with its pulpit
and galleries, and the gilded crescent still glittering over its dome.
Behind it is a bath, containing an entrance hall and half a dozen
chambers, in which the water-pipes and stone tanks still remain. With a
little alteration, the building would make a capital Phalanstery, where
the Fourierites might try their experiment without contact with Society.
There is no field for them equal to Asia Minor--a glorious region,
abounding in natural wealth, almost depopulated, and containing a great
number of Phalansteries ready built.
We succeeded in getting some eggs, fowls, and milk from an old Turcoman
who had charge of the village. A man who rode by on a donkey sold us a bag
of _yaourt_ (sour milk-curds), which was delicious, notwithstanding the
suspicious appearance of the bag. It was made before the cream had been
removed, and was very rich and nourishing. The old Turcoman sat down and
watched us while we ate, but would not join us, as these wandering tribes
are very strict in keeping Ramazan. When we had reached our dessert--a
plate of fine cherries--another white-bearded and dignified gentleman
visited us. We handed him the cherries, expecting that he would take a few
and politely return the dish: but no such thing. He coolly produced his
handkerchief, emptied everything into it, and marched off. He also did not
venture to eat, although we pointed to the Taurus, on whose upper snows
the last gleam of daylight was just melting away.
We arose this morning in a dark, cloudy dawn. There was a heavy black
storm hanging low in the west, and another was gathering its forces along
the mountains behind us. A cold wind blew down the valley, and long peals
of thunder rolled grandly among the gorges of Taurus. An isolated hill,
crowned with a shattered crag which bore a striking resemblance to a
ruined fortress, stood out black and sharp against the far, misty, sunlit
peaks. As far as the springs were yet undried, the land was covered with
flowers. In one place I saw a large square plot of the most brilliant
crimson hue, burning amid the green wheat-fields, as if some Tyrian mantle
had been flung there. The long, harmonious slopes and rounded summits of
the hills were covered with drifts of a beautiful purple clover, and a
diminutive variety of the _achillea_, or yarrow, with glowing yellow
blossoms. The leaves had a pleasant aromatic odor, and filled the air with
their refreshing breath, as they were crushed under the hoofs of our
horses.
We had now reached the highest ridge of the hilly country along the
northern base of Taurus, and saw, far and wide before us, the great
central plain of Karamania. Two isolated mountains, at forty or fifty
miles distance, broke the monotony of the desert-like level: Kara Dagh in
the west, and the snow-capped summits of Hassan Dagh in the north-east.
Beyond the latter, we tried to catch a glimpse of the famous Mons Argseus,
at the base of which is Kaisariyeh, the ancient Caesarea of Cappadocia.
This mountain, which is 13,000 feet high, is the loftiest peak of Asia
Minor. The clouds hung low on the horizon, and the rains were falling,
veiling it from our sight.
Our road, for the remainder of the day, was over barren hills, covered
with scanty herbage. The sun shone out intensely hot, and the glare of the
white soil was exceedingly painful to my eyes. The locality of Eregli was
betrayed, some time before we reached it, by its dark-green belt of fruit
trees. It stands in the mouth of a narrow valley which winds down from the
Taurus, and is watered by a large rapid stream that finally loses itself
in the lakes and morasses of the plain. There had been a heavy black
thunder-cloud gathering, and as we reached our camping-ground, under some
fine walnut-trees near the stream, a sudden blast of cold wind swept over
the town, filling the air with dust. We pitched the tent in all haste,
expecting a storm, but the rain finally passed to the northward. We then
took a walk through the town, which is a forlorn place. A spacious khan,
built apparently for the Mecca pilgrims, is in ruins, but the mosque has
an exquisite minaret, eighty feet high, and still bearing traces of the
devices, in blue tiles, which once covered it. The shops were mostly
closed, and in those which were still open the owners lay at full length
on their bellies, their faces gaunt with fasting. They seemed annoyed at
our troubling them, even with purchases. One would have thought that some
fearful pestilence had fallen upon the town. The cobblers only, who
somewhat languidly plied their implements, seemed to retain a little life.
The few Jews and Armenians smoked their pipes in a tantalizing manner, in
the very faces of the poor Mussulmans. We bought an oka of excellent
cherries, which we were cruel enough to taste in the streets, before the
hungry eyes of the suffering merchants.
This evening the asses belonging to the place were driven in from
pasture--four or five hundred in all; and such a show of curious asinine
specimens as I never before beheld. A Dervish, who was with us in
Quarantine, at Adana, has just arrived. He had lost his _teskere_
(passport), and on issuing forth purified, was cast into prison. Finally
he found some one who knew him, and procured his release. He had come on
foot to this place in five days, suffering many privations, having been
forty-eight hours without food. He is bound to Konia, on a pilgrimage to
the tomb of Hazret Mevlana, the founder of the sect of dancing Dervishes.
We gave him food, in return for which he taught me the formula of his
prayers. He tells me I should always pronounce the name of Allah when my
horse stumbles, or I see a man in danger of his life, as the word has a
saving power. Hadji Youssuf, who has just been begging for an advance of
twenty piastres to buy grain for his horses, swore "by the pardon of God"
that he would sell the lame horse at Konia and get a better one. We have
lost all confidence in the old villain's promises, but the poor beasts
shall not suffer for his delinquencies.
Our tent is in a charming spot, and, from without, makes a picture to be
remembered. The yellow illumination from within strikes on the under sides
of the walnut boughs, while the moonlight silvers them from above. Beyond
gardens where the nightingales are singing, the tall minaret of Eregli
stands revealed in the vapory glow. The night is too sweet and balmy for
sleep, and yet I must close my eyes upon it, for the hot plains of
Karamania await us to-morrow.
Chapter XIX.
The Plains of Karamania.
The Plains of Karamania--Afternoon Heat--A Well--Volcanic
Phenomena--Kara-bounar--A Grand Ruined Khan--Moonlight Picture--A
Landscape of the Plains-Mirages--A Short Interview--The Village of
Ismil---Third Day on the Plains--Approach to Konia.
"A weary waste, expanding to the skies."--Goldsmith.
Konia, Capital of Karamania, _Friday, June_ 25, 1854.
Francois awoke us at the break of day, at Eregli, as we had a journey of
twelve hours before us. Passing through the town, we traversed a narrow
belt of garden and orchard land, and entered the great plain of Karamania.
Our road led at first northward towards a range called Karadja Dagh, and
then skirted its base westward. After three hours' travel we passed a
village of neat, whitewashed houses, which were entirely deserted, all the
inhabitants having gone off to the mountains. There were some herds
scattered over the plain, near the village. As the day wore on, the wind,
which had been chill in the morning, ceased, and the air became hot and
sultry. The glare from the white soil was so painful that I was obliged to
close my eyes, and so ran a continual risk of falling asleep and tumbling
from my horse. Thus, drowsy and half unconscious of my whereabouts, I rode
on in the heat and arid silence of the plain until noon, when we reached
a well. It was a shaft, sunk about thirty feet deep, with a long, sloping
gallery slanting off to the surface. The well was nearly dry, but by
descending the gallery we obtained a sufficient supply of cold, pure
water. We breakfasted in the shaded doorway, sharing our provisions with a
Turcoman boy, who was accompanying his father to Eregli with a load of
salt.
Our road now crossed a long, barren pass, between two parts of Karadja
Dagh. Near the northern side there was a salt lake of one hundred yards in
diameter, sunk in a deep natural basin. The water was intensely saline. On
the other side of the road, and a quarter of a mile distant, is an extinct
volcano, the crater of which, near two hundred feet deep, is a salt lake,
with a trachytic cone three hundred feet high rising from the centre. From
the slope of the mountain we overlooked another and somewhat deeper plain,
extending to the north and west. It was bounded by broken peaks, all of
which betrayed a volcanic origin. Far before us we saw the tower on the
hill of Kara-bounar, our resting-place for the night. The road thither was
over a barren plain, cheered here and there by patches of a cushion-like
plant, which was covered with pink blossoms. Mr. Harrison scared up some
coveys of the frankolin, a large bird resembling the pheasant, and
enriched our larder with a dozen starlings.
Kara-bounar is built on the slope of a mound, at the foot of which stands
a spacious mosque, visible far over the plain. It has a dome, and two
tall, pencil-like towers, similar to those of the Citadel-mosque of Cairo.
Near it are the remains of a magnificent khan-fortress, said to have been
built by the eunuch of one of the former Sultans. As there was no water in
the wells outside of the town, we entered the khan and pitched the tent
in its grass-grown court. Six square pillars of hewn stone made an aisle
to our door, and the lofty, roofless walls of the court, 100 by 150 feet,
inclosed us. Another court, of similar size, communicated with it by a
broad portal, and the remains of baths and bazaars lay beyond. A handsome
stone fountain, with two streams of running water, stood in front of the
khan. We were royally lodged, but almost starved in our splendor, as only
two or three Turcomans remained out of two thousand (who had gone off with
their herds to the mountains), and they were unable to furnish us with
provisions. But for our frankolins and starlings we should have gone
fasting.
The mosque was a beautiful structure of white limestone, and the galleries
of its minarets were adorned with rich arabesque ornaments. While the
muezzin was crying his sunset-call to prayer, I entered the portico and
looked into the interior, which was so bare as to appear incomplete. As we
sat in our palace-court, after dinner, the moon arose, lighting up the
niches in the walls, the clusters of windows in the immense eastern gable,
and the rows of massive columns. The large dimensions of the building gave
it a truly grand effect, and but for the whine of a distant jackal I could
have believed that we were sitting in the aisles of a roofless Gothic
cathedral, in the heart of Europe. Francois was somewhat fearful of
thieves, but the peace and repose of the place we've so perfect that I
would not allow any such apprehensions to disturb me. In two minutes after
I touched my bed I was insensible, and I did not move a limb until
sunrise.
Beyond Kara-bounar, there is a low, barren ridge, climbing which, we
overlooked an immense plain, uncultivated, apparently unfertile, and
without a sign of life as far as the eye could reach. Kara Dagh, in the
south, lifted nearer us its cluster of dark summits; to the north, the
long ridge of Uesedjik Dagh (the Pigmy Mountain) stretched like a cape into
the plain; Hassan Dagh; wrapped in a soft white cloud, receded behind us,
and the snows of Taurus seemed almost as distant as when we first beheld
them from the Syrian Gates. We rode for four hours over the dead level,
the only objects that met our eyes being an occasional herd of camels in
the distance. About noon, we reached a well, similar to that of the
previous day, but of recent construction. A long, steep gallery led down
to the water, which was very cold, but had a villainous taste of lime,
salt, and sulphur.
After an hour's halt, we started again. The sun was intensely hot, and for
hours we jogged on over the dead level, the bare white soil blinding our
eyes with its glare. The distant hills were lifted above the horizon by a
mirage. Long sheets of blue water were spread along their bases, islanding
the isolated peaks, and turning into ships and boats the black specks of
camels far away. But the phenomena were by no means on so grand a scale as
I had seen in the Nubian Desert. On the south-western horizon, we
discerned the summits of the Karaman range of Taurus, covered with snow.
In the middle of the afternoon, we saw a solitary tent upon the plain,
from which an individual advanced to meet us. As he drew nearer, we
noticed that he wore white Frank pantaloons, similar to the Turkish
soldiery, with a jacket of brown cloth, and a heavy sabre. When he was
within convenient speaking distance, he cried out: "Stop! why are you
running away from me?" "What do you call running away?" rejoined Francois;
"we are going on our journey." "Where do you come from?" he then asked.
"From there," said Francois, pointing behind us "Where are you going?"
"There!" and the provoking Greek simply pointed forwards. "You have
neither faith nor religion!" said the man, indignantly; then, turning upon
his heel, he strode back across the plain.
About four o'clock, we saw a long line of objects rising before us, but so
distorted by the mirage that it was impossible to know what they were.
After a while, however, we decided that they were houses interspersed with
trees; but the trees proved to be stacks of hay and lentils, heaped on the
flat roofs. This was Ismil, our halting-place. The houses were miserable
mud huts; but the village was large, and, unlike most of those we have
seen this side of Taurus, inhabited. The people are Turcomans, and their
possessions appear to be almost entirely in their herds. Immense numbers
of sheep and goats were pasturing on the plain. There were several wells
in the place, provided with buckets attached to long swing-poles; the
water was very cold, but brackish. Our tent was pitched on the plain, on a
hard, gravelly strip of soil. A crowd of wild-haired Turcoman boys
gathered in front, to stare at us, and the shepherds quarrelled at the
wells, as to which should take his turn at watering his flocks. In the
evening a handsome old Turk visited us, and, finding that we were bound to
Constantinople, requested Francois to take a letter to his son, who was
settled there.
Francois aroused us this morning before the dawn, as we had a journey of
thirty-five miles before us. He was in a bad humor; for a man, whom he had
requested to keep watch over his tent, while he went into the village, had
stolen a fork and spoon. The old Turk, who had returned as soon as we
were stirring, went out to hunt the thief, but did not succeed in finding
him. The inhabitants of the village were up long before sunrise, and
driving away in their wooden-wheeled carts to the meadows where they cut
grass. The old Turk accompanied us some distance, in order to show us a
nearer way, avoiding a marshy spot. Our road lay over a vast plain,
seemingly boundless, for the lofty mountain-ranges that surrounded it on
all sides were so distant and cloud-like, and so lifted from the horizon
by the deceptive mirage, that the eye did not recognize their connection
with it. The wind blew strongly from the north-west, and was so cold that
I dismounted and walked ahead for two or three hours.
Before noon, we passed two villages of mud huts, partly inhabited, and
with some wheat-fields around them. We breakfasted at another well, which
furnished us with a drink that tasted like iced sea-water. Thence we rode
forth again into the heat, for the wind had fallen by this time, and the
sun shone out with great force. There was ever the same dead level, and we
rode directly towards the mountains, which, to my eyes, seemed nearly as
distant as ever. At last, there was a dark glimmer through the mirage, at
their base, and a half-hour's ride showed it to be a line of trees. In
another hour, we could distinguish a minaret or two, and finally, walls
and the stately domes of mosques. This was Konia, the ancient Iconium, one
of the most renowned cities of Asia Minor.
Chapter XX
Scenes in Konia.
Kpproach to Konia---Tomb of Hazret Mevlana--Lodgings in a Khan--An
American Luxury--A Night-Scene in Ramazan--Prayers in the
Mosque--Remains of the Ancient City--View from the Mosque--The
Interior--A Leaning Minaret--The Diverting History of the Muleteers.
"But they shook off the dust on their feet, and came unto
Iconium."--Acts, xiii. 51.
Konia (Ancient Iconium), _June_ 27, 1852.
The view of Konia from the plain is not striking until one has approached
within a mile of the suburbs, when the group of mosques, with their heavy
central domes lifted on clusters of smaller ones, and their tall, light,
glittering minarets, rising above the foliage of the gardens, against the
background of airy hills, has a very pleasing effect. We approached
through a long line of dirty suburbs, which looked still more forlorn on
account of the Ramazan. Some Turkish officials, in shabby Frank dresses,
followed us to satisfy their curiosity by talking with our _Katurjees_, or
muleteers. Outside the city walls, we passed some very large barracks for
cavalry, built by Ibrahim Pasha. On the plain north-east of the city, the
battle between him and the forces of the Sultan, resulting in the defeat
of the latter, was fought.
We next came upon two magnificent mosques, built of white limestone, with
a multitude of leaden domes and lofty minarets, adorned with galleries
rich in arabesque ornaments. Attached to one of them is the tomb, of
Hazret Mevlana, the founder of the sect of Mevlevi Dervishes, which is
reputed one of the most sacred places in the East. The tomb is surmounted
by a dome, upon which stands a tall cylindrical tower, reeded, with
channels between each projection, and terminating in a long, tapering
cone. This tower is made of glazed tiles, of the most brilliant sea-blue
color, and sparkles in the sun like a vast pillar of icy spar in some
Polar grotto. It is a most striking and fantastic object, surrounded by a
cluster of minarets and several cypress-trees, amid which it seems placed
as the central ornament and crown of the group.
The aspect of the city was so filthy and uninviting that we preferred
pitching our tent; but it was impossible to find a place without going
back upon the plain; so we turned into the bazaar, and asked the way to a
khan. There was a tolerable crowd in the street, although many of the
shops were shut. The first khan we visited was too filthy to enter; but
the second, though most unpromising in appearance, turned out to be better
than it looked. The _oda-bashi_ (master of the rooms) thoroughly swept and
sprinkled the narrow little chamber he gave us, laid clean mats upon the
floor, and, when our carpets and beds were placed within, its walls of mud
looked somewhat comfortable. Its single window, with an iron grating in
lieu of glass, looked upon an oblong court, on the second story,
surrounded by the rooms of Armenian merchants. The main court (the gate of
which is always closed at sunset) is two stories in height, with a rough
wooden balcony running around it, and a well of muddy water in the centre.
The oda-bashi lent us a Turkish table and supplied us with dinner from
his own kitchen; kibabs, stewed beans, and cucumber salad. Mr. H. and I,
forgetting the Ramazan, went out to hunt for an iced sherbet; but all the
coffee-shops were closed until sunset. The people stared at our Egyptian
costumes, and a fellow in official dress demanded my _teskere_. Soon after
we returned, Francois appeared with a splendid lump of ice in a basin and
some lemons. The ice, so the _khangee_ said, is taken from a lake among
the mountains, which in winter freezes to the thickness of a foot. Behind
the lake is a natural cavern, which the people fill with ice, and then
close up. At this season they take it out, day by day, and bring it down
to the city. It is very pure and thick, and justifies the Turkish proverb
in regard to Konia, which is celebrated for three excellent things:
"_dooz, booz, kuez_"--salt, ice, and girls.
Soon after sunset, a cannon announced the close of the fast. We waited an
hour or two longer, to allow the people time to eat, and then sallied out
into the streets. Every minaret in the city blazed with a crown of lighted
lamps around its upper gallery, while the long shafts below, and the
tapering cones above, topped with brazen crescents, shone fair in the
moonlight. It was a strange, brilliant spectacle. In the square before the
principal mosque we found a crowd of persons frolicking around the
fountain, in the light of a number of torches on poles planted in the
ground. Mats were spread on the stones, and rows of Turks of all classes
sat thereon, smoking their pipes. Large earthen water-jars stood here and
there, and the people drank so often and so long that they seemed
determined to provide against the morrow. The boys were having their
amusement in wrestling, shouting and firing off squibs, which they threw
into the crowd. We kicked off our slippers, sat down among the Turks,
smoked a narghileh, drank a cup of coffee and an iced sherbet of raisin
juice, and so enjoyed the Ramazan as well as the best of them.
Numbers of True Believers were drinking and washing themselves at the
picturesque fountain, and just as we rose to depart, the voice of a
boy-muezzin, on one of the tallest minarets, sent down a musical call to
prayer. Immediately the boys left off their sports and started on a run
for the great mosque, and the grave, gray-bearded Turks got up from the
mats, shoved on their slippers, and marched after them. We followed,
getting a glimpse of the illuminated interior of the building, as we
passed; but the oda-bashi conducted us still further, to a smaller though
more beautiful mosque, surrounded with a garden-court. It was a truly
magical picture. We entered the gate, and passed on by a marble pavement,
under trees and arbors of vines that almost shut out the moonlight, to a
paved space, in the centre whereof was a beautiful fountain, in the purest
Saracenic style. Its heavy, projecting cornices and tall pyramidal roof
rested on a circle of elegant arches, surrounding a marble structure,
whence the water gushed forth in a dozen sparkling streams. On three sides
it was inclosed by the moonlit trees and arbors; on the fourth by the
outer corridor of the mosque, the door of entrance being exactly opposite.
Large numbers of persons were washing their hands and feet at the
fountain, after which they entered and knelt on the floor. We stood
unobserved in the corridor, and looked in on the splendidly illuminated
interior and the crowd at prayer, all bending their bodies to the earth at
regular intervals and murmuring the name of Allah. They resembled a
plain, of reeds bending before the gusts of wind which precede a storm.
When all had entered and were united in solemn prayer, we returned,
passing the grand mosque. I stole up to the door, lifted the heavy carpet
that hung before it, and looked in. There was a Mevlevi Dervish standing
in the entrance, but his eyes were lifted in heavenly abstraction, and he
did not see me. The interior was brilliantly lit by white and colored
lamps, suspended from the walls and the great central dome. It was an
imposing structure, simple in form, yet grand from its dimensions. The
floor was covered with kneeling figures, and a deep voice, coming from the
other end of the mosque, was uttering pious phrases in a kind of chant. I
satisfied my curiosity quickly, and we then returned to the khan.
Yesterday afternoon I made a more thorough examination of the city.
Passing through the bazaars, I reached the Serai, or Pasha's Palace, which
stands on the site of that of the Sultans of Iconium. It is a long, wooden
building, with no pretensions to architectural beauty. Near it there is a
large and ancient mosque, with a minaret of singular elegance. It is about
120 feet high, with two hanging galleries; the whole built of blue and red
bricks, the latter projecting so as to form quaint patterns or designs.
Several ancient buildings near this mosque are surmounted with pyramidal
towers, resembling Pagodas of India. Following the long, crooked lanes
between mud buildings, we passed these curious structures and reached the
ancient wall of the city. In one of the streets lay a marble lion, badly
executed, and apparently of the time of the Lower Empire. In the wall were
inserted many similar figures, with fragments of friezes and cornices.
This is the work of the Seljook Kings, who, in building the wall, took
great pains to exhibit the fragments of the ancient city. The number of
altars they have preserved is quite remarkable. On the square towers are
sunken tablets, containing long Arabic inscriptions.
The high walls of a ruined building in the southern part of the city
attracted us, and on going thither we found it to be an ancient mosque,
standing on an eminence formed apparently of the debris of other
buildings. Part of the wall was also ancient, and in some places showed
the marks of an earthquake. A long flight of steps led up to the door of
the mosque, and as we ascended we were rewarded by the most charming view
of the city and the grand plain. Konia lay at our feet--a wide, straggling
array of low mud dwellings, dotted all over with patches of garden
verdure, while its three superb mosques, with the many smaller tombs and
places of worship, appeared like buildings left from some former and more
magnificent capital. Outside of this circle ran a belt of garden land,
adorned with groves and long lines of fruit trees; still further, the
plain, a sea of faded green, flecked with the softest cloud-shadows, and
beyond all, the beautiful outlines and dreamy tints of the different
mountain chains. It was in every respect a lovely landscape, and the city
is unworthy such surroundings. The sky, which in this region is of a pale,
soft, delicious blue, was dotted with scattered fleeces of white clouds,
and there was an exquisite play of light and shade over the hills.
There were half a dozen men and boys about the door, amusing themselves
with bursting percussion caps on the stone. They addressed us as
"_hadji_!" (pilgrims), begging for more caps. I told them I was not a
Turk, but an Arab, which they believed at once, and requested me to enter
the mosque. The interior had a remarkably fine effect. It was a maze of
arches, supported by columns of polished black marble, forty in number. In
form it was nearly square, and covered with a flat, wooden roof. The floor
was covered with a carpet, whereon several persons were lying at full
length, while an old man, seated in one of the most remote corners, was
reading in a loud, solemn voice. It is a peculiar structure, which I
should be glad to examine more in detail.
Not far from this eminence is a remarkable leaning minaret, more than a
hundred feet in height, while in diameter it cannot be more than fifteen
feet. In design it is light and elegant, and the effect is not injured by
its deviation from the perpendicular, which I should judge to be about six
feet. From the mosque we walked over the mounds of old Iconium to the
eastern wall, passing another mosque, wholly in ruin, but which must have
once been more splendid than any now standing. The portal is the richest
specimen of Saracenic sculpture I have ever seen: a very labyrinth of
intricate ornaments. The artist must have seen the great portal of the
Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. The minarets have tumbled down, the roof has
fallen in, but the walls are still covered with white and blue tiles, of
the finest workmanship, resembling a mosaic of ivory and lapis lazuli.
Some of the chambers seem to be inhabited, for two old men with white
beards lay in the shade, and were not a little startled by our sudden
appearance.
We returned to the great mosque, which we had visited on the evening of
our arrival, and listened for some time to the voice of a mollah who was
preaching an afternoon sermon to a small and hungry congregation. We then
entered the court before the tomb of Hazret Mevlana. It was apparently
forbidden ground to Christians, but as the Dervishes did not seem to
suspect us we walked about boldly, and were about to enter, when an
indiscretion of my companion frustrated our plans. Forgetting his assumed
character, he went to the fountain and drank, although it was no later
than the _asser_, or afternoon prayer. The Dervishes were shocked and
scandalized by this violation of the fast, in the very court-yard of their
holiest mosque, and we judged it best to retire by degrees. We sent this
morning to request an interview with the Pasha, but he had gone to pass
the day in a country palace, about three hours distant. It is a still,
hot, bright afternoon, and the silence of the famished populace disposes
us to repose. Our view is bounded by the mud walls of the khan, and I
already long for the freedom of the great Karamanian Plain. Here, in the
heart of Asia Minor, all life seems to stagnate. There is sleep
everywhere, and I feel that a wide barrier separates me from the living
world.
We have been detained here a whole day, through a chain of accidents, all
resulting from the rascality of our muleteers on leaving Aleppo. The lame
horse they palmed upon us was unable to go further, so we obliged them to
buy another animal, which they succeeded in getting for 350 piastres. We
advanced the money, although they were still in our debt, hoping to work
our way through with the new horse, and thus avoid the risk of loss or
delay. But this morning at sunrise Hadji Youssuf comes with a woeful face
to say that the new horse has been stolen in the night, and we, who are
ready to start, must sit down and wait till he is recovered. I suspected
another trick, but when, after the lapse of three hours, Francois found
the hadji sitting on the ground, weeping, and Achmet beating his breast,
it seemed probable that the story was true. All search for the horse being
vain, Francois went with them to the shekh of the horses, who promised, in
case it should hereafter be found, to place it in the general pen, where
they would be sure to get it on their return. The man who sold them the
horse offered them another for the lame one and 150 piastres, and there
was no other alternative but to accept it. But _we_ must advance the 150
piastres, and so, in mid-journey, we have already paid them to the end,
with the risk of their horses breaking down, or they, horses and all,
absconding from us. But the knavish varlets are hardly bold enough for
such a climax of villany.
Chapter XXI.
The Heart of Asia Minor.
Scenery of the Hills--Ladik, the Ancient Laodicea--The Plague of
Gad-Flies--Camp at Ilguen--A Natural Warm Bath--The Gad-Flies Again--A
Summer Landscape--Ak-Sheher--The Base of Sultan Dagh--The Fountain of
Midas--A Drowsy Journey--The Town of Bolawaduen.
"By the forests, lakes, and fountains,
Though the many-folded mountains." Shelley.
Bolawaduen, _July_ 1, 1852.
Our men brought all the beasts into the court-yard of the khan at Konia,
the evening before our departure, so that no more were stolen during the
night. The oda-bashi, indefatigable to the last in his attention to us,
not only helped load the mules, but accompanied us some distance on our
way. All the merchants in the khan collected in the gallery to see us
start, and we made our exit in some state. The morning was clear, fresh,
and delightful. Turning away from the city walls, we soon emerged from the
lines of fruit-trees and interminable fields of tomb-stones, and came out
upon the great bare plain of Karamania. A ride of three hours brought us
to a long, sloping hill, which gave us a view of the whole plain, and its
circuit of mountains. A dark line in the distance marked the gardens of
Konia. On the right, near the centre of the plain, the lake, now
contracted to very narrow limits, glimmered in the sun. Notwithstanding
the waste and unfertile appearance of the country, the soft, sweet sky
that hangs over it, the pure, transparent air, the grand sweep of the
plain, and the varied forms of the different mountain chains that
encompass it, make our journey an inspiring one. A descent of the hills
soon shut out the view; and the rest of the day's journey lay among them,
skirting the eastern base of Allah Dagh.
The country improved in character, as we advanced. The bottoms of the dry
glens were covered with wheat, and shrubbery began to make its appearance
on the mountain-sides In the afternoon, we crossed a watershed, dividing
Karamania from the great central plain of Asia Minor, and descended to a
village called Ladik, occupying the site of the ancient Laodicea, at the
foot of Allah Dagh. The plain upon which we came was greener and more
flourishing than that we had left. Trees were scattered here and there in
clumps, and the grassy wastes, stretching beyond the grain-fields, were
dotted with herds of cattle. Emir Dagh stood in the north-west, blue and
distant, while, towards the north and north-east, the plain extended to
the horizon--a horizon fifty miles distant--without a break. In that
direction lay the great salt lake of Yuezler, and the strings of camels we
met on the road, laden with salt, were returning from it. Ladik is
surrounded with poppy-fields, brilliant with white and purple blossoms.
When the petals have fallen, the natives go carefully over the whole field
and make incisions in every stalk, whence the opium exudes.
We pitched our tent under a large walnut tree, which we found standing in
a deserted inclosure. The graveyard of the village is studded with relics
of the ancient town. There are pillars, cornices, entablatures, jambs,
altars, mullions and sculptured tablets, all of white marble, and many of
them in an excellent state of preservation. They appear to date from the
early time of the Lower Empire, and the cross has not yet been effaced
from some which serve as head-stones for the True Believers. I was
particularly struck with the abundance of altars, some of which contained
entire and legible inscriptions. In the town there is the same abundance
of ruins. The lid of a sarcophagus, formed of a single block of marble,
now serves as a water-trough, and the fountain is constructed of ancient
tablets. The town stands on a mound which appears to be composed entirely
of the debris of the former place, and near the summit there are many
holes which the inhabitants have dug in their search for rings, seals and
other relics.
The next day we made a journey of nine hours over a hilly country lying
between the ranges of Allah Dagh and Emir Dagh. There were wells of
excellent water along the road, at intervals of an hour or two. The day
was excessively hot and sultry during the noon hours, and the flies were
so bad as to give great inconvenience to our horses. The animal I bestrode
kicked so incessantly that I could scarcely keep my seat. His belly was
swollen and covered with clotted blood, from their bites. The hadji's mule
began to show symptoms of illness, and we had great difficulty in keeping
it on its legs. Mr. Harrison bled it in the mouth, as a last resource, and
during the afternoon it partly recovered.
An hour before sunset we reached Ilguen, a town on the plain, at the foot
of one of the spurs of Emir Dagh. To the west of it there is a lake of
considerable size, which receives the streams that flow through the town
and water its fertile gardens. We passed through the town and pitched our
tent upon a beautiful grassy meadow. Our customary pipe of refreshment was
never more heartily enjoyed than at this place. Behind us was a barren
hill, at the foot of which was a natural hot bath, wherein a number of
women and children were amusing themselves. The afternoon heat had passed
away, the air was calm, sweet, and tempered with the freshness of coming
evening, and the long shadows of the hills, creeping over the meadows, had
almost reached the town. Beyond the line of sycamore, poplar and fig-trees
that shaded the gardens of Ilguen, rose the distant chain of Allah Dagh,
and in the pale-blue sky, not far above it, the dim face of the gibbous
moon showed like the ghost of a planet. Our horses were feeding on the
green meadow; an old Turk sat beside us, silent with fasting, and there
was no sound but the shouts of the children in the bath. Such hours as
these, after a day's journey made in the drowsy heat of an Eastern summer,
are indescribably grateful.
After the women had retired from the bath, we were allowed to enter. The
interior consisted of a single chamber, thirty feet high, vaulted and
almost dark. In the centre was a large basin of hot water, filled by four
streams which poured into it. A ledge ran around the sides, and niches in
the wall supplied places for our clothes. The bath-keeper furnished us
with towels, and we undressed and plunged in. The water was agreeably warm
(about 90 deg.), had a sweet taste, and a very slight sulphury smell. The
vaulted hall redoubled the slightest noise, and a shaven Turk, who kept us
company, sang in his delight, that he might hear the echo of his own
voice. When we went back to the tent we found our visitor lying on the
ground, trying to stay his hunger. It was rather too bad in us to light
our pipes, make a sherbet and drink and smoke in his face, while we joked
him about the Ramazan; and he at last got up and walked off, the picture
of distress.
We made an early start the next morning, and rode on briskly over the
rolling, grassy hills. A beautiful lake, with an island in it, lay at the
foot of Emir Dagh. After two hours we reached a guard-house, where our
_teskeres_ were demanded, and the lazy guardsman invited us in to take
coffee, that he might establish a right to the backsheesh which he could
not demand. He had seen us afar off, and the coffee was smoking in the
_finjans_ when we arrived. The sun was already terribly hot, and the
large, green gad-flies came in such quantities that I seemed to be riding
in the midst of a swarm of bees. My horse suffered very much, and struck
out his hind feet so violently, in his endeavors to get rid of them, that
he racked every joint in my body. They were not content with sucking his
blood, but settling on the small segment of my calf, exposed between the
big Tartar boot and the flowing trowsers, bit through my stockings with
fierce bills. I killed hundreds of them, to no purpose, and at last, to
relieve my horse, tied a bunch of hawthorn to a string, by which I swung
it under his belly and against the inner side of his flanks. In this way I
gave him some relief--a service which he acknowledged by a grateful motion
of his head.
As we descended towards Ak-Sheher the country became exceedingly rich and
luxuriant. The range of Sultan Dagh (the Mountain of the Sultan) rose on
our left, its sides covered with a thick screen of shrubbery, and its
highest peak dotted with patches of snow; opposite, the lower range of
Emir Dagh (the Mountain of the Prince) lay blue and bare in the sun
shine. The base of Sultan Dagh was girdled with groves of fruit-trees,
stretching out in long lines on the plain, with fields of ripening wheat
between. In the distance the large lake of Ak-Sheher glittered in the sun.
Towards the north-west, the plain stretched away for fifty miles before
reaching the hills. It is evidently on a much lower level than the plain
of Konia; the heat was not only greater, but the season was further
advanced. Wheat was nearly ready for cutting, and the poppy-fields where,
the day previous, the men were making their first incisions for opium,
here had yielded their harvest and were fast ripening their seed.
Ak-Sheher is beautifully situated at the entrance of a deep gorge in the
mountains. It is so buried in its embowered gardens that little, except
the mosque, is seen as you approach it. It is a large place, and boasts a
fine mosque, but contains nothing worth seeing. The bazaar, after that of
Konia, was the largest we had seen since leaving Tarsus. The greater part
of the shopkeepers lay at full length, dozing, sleeping, or staying their
appetites till the sunset gun. We found some superb cherries, and plenty
of snow, which is brought down from the mountain. The natives were very
friendly and good-humored, but seemed surprised at Mr. Harrison tasting
the cherries, although I told them we were upon a journey. Our tent was
pitched under a splendid walnut tree, outside of the town. The green
mountain rose between us and the fading sunset, and the yellow moon was
hanging in the east, as we took our dinner at the tent-door. Turks were
riding homewards on donkeys, with loads of grass which they had been
cutting in the meadows. The gun was fired, and the shouts of the children
announced the close of the day's fast, while the sweet, melancholy voice
of a boy muezzin called us to sunset prayer, from the minaret.
Leaving Ak-Sheher this morning, we rode along the base of Sultan Dagh. The
plain which we overlooked was magnificent. The wilderness of shrubbery
which fringed the slopes of the mountain gave place to great orchards and
gardens, interspersed with fields of grain, which extended far out on the
plain, to the wild thickets and wastes of reeds surrounding the lake. The
sides of Sultan Dagh were terraced and cultivated wherever it was
practicable, and I saw some fields of wheat high up on the mountain. There
were many, people in the road or laboring in the fields; and during the
forenoon we passed several large villages. The country is more thickly
inhabited, and has a more thrifty and prosperous air than any part of Asia
Minor which I have seen. The people are better clad, have more open,
honest, cheerful and intelligent faces, and exhibit a genuine courtesy and
good-will in their demeanor towards us. I never felt more perfectly
secure, or more certain of being among people whom I could trust.
We passed under the summit of Sultan Dagh, which shone out so clear and
distinct in the morning sun, that I could scarcely realize its actual
height above the plain. From a tremendous gorge, cleft between the two
higher peaks, issued a large stream, which, divided into a hundred
channels, fertilizes a wide extent of plain. About two hours from
Ak-Sheher we passed a splendid fountain of crystal water, gushing up
beside the road. I believe it is the same called by some travellers the
Fountain of Midas, but am ignorant wherefore the name is given it. We rode
for several hours through a succession of grand, rich landscapes. A
smaller lake succeeded to that of Ak-Sheher, Emir Dagh rose higher in the
pale-blue sky, and Sultan Dagh showed other peaks, broken and striped with
snow; but around us were the same glorious orchards and gardens, the same
golden-green wheat and rustling phalanxes of poppies--armies of vegetable
Round-heads, beside the bristling and bearded Cavaliers. The sun was
intensely hot during the afternoon, as we crossed the plain, and I became
so drowsed that it required an agony of exertion to keep from tumbling off
my horse. We here left the great post-road to Constantinople, and took a
less frequented track. The plain gradually became a meadow, covered with
shrub cypress, flags, reeds, and wild water-plants. There were vast wastes
of luxuriant grass, whereon thousands of black buffaloes were feeding. A
stone causeway, containing many elegant fragments of ancient sculpture,
extended across this part of the plain, but we took a summer path beside
it, through beds of iris in bloom--a fragile snowy blossom, with a lip of
the clearest golden hue. The causeway led to a bare salt plain, beyond
which we came to the town of Bolawaduen, and terminated our day's journey
of forty miles.
Bolawaduen is a collection of mud houses, about a mile long, situated on an
eminence at the western base of Emir Dagh. I went into the bazaar, which
was a small place, and not very well supplied, though, as it was near
sunset, there was quite a crowd of people, and the bakers were shovelling
out their fresh bread at a brisk rate. Every one took me for a good
Egyptian Mohammedan, and I was jostled right and left among the turbans,
in a manner that certainly would not have happened me had I not also worn
one. Mr. H., who had fallen behind the caravan, came up after we had
encamped, and might have wandered a long time without finding us, but for
the good-natured efforts of the inhabitants to set him aright. This
evening he knocked over a hedgehog, mistaking it for a cat. The poor
creature was severely hurt, and its sobs of distress, precisely like those
of a little child, were to painful to hear, that we were obliged to have
it removed from the vicinity of the tent.
Chapter XXII
The Forests of Phrygia.
The Frontier of Phrygia--Ancient Quarries and Tombs--We Enter the Pine
Forests--A Guard-House--Encampments of the Turcomans--Pastoral
Scenery--A Summer Village--The Valley of the Tombs--Rock Sepulchres of
the Phrygian Kings--The Titan's Camp--The Valley of Kuembeh--A Land of
Flowers--Turcoman Hospitality--The Exiled Effendis--The Old Turcoman--A
Glimpse of Arcadia--A Landscape--Interested Friendship--The Valley of
the Pursek--Arrival at Kiutahya.
"And round us all the thicket rang
To many a flute of Arcady." Tennyson.
Kiutahya, _July_ 5, 1852.
We had now passed through the ancient provinces of Cilicia, Cappadocia,
and Lycaonia, and reached the confines of Phrygia--a rude mountain region,
which was never wholly penetrated by the light of Grecian civilization. It
is still comparatively a wilderness, pierced but by a single high-road,
and almost unvisited by travellers, yet inclosing in its depths many
curious relics of antiquity. Leaving Bolawaduen in the morning, we ascended
a long, treeless mountain-slope, and in three or four hours reached the
dividing ridge---the watershed of Asia Minor, dividing the affluents of
the Mediterranean and the central lakes from the streams that flow to the
Black Sea. Looking back, Sultan Dagh, along whose base we had travelled
the previous day, lay high and blue in the background, streaked with
shining snow, and far away behind it arose a still higher peak, hoary with
the lingering winter. We descended into a grassy plain, shut in by a range
of broken mountains, covered to their summits with dark-green shrubbery,
through which the strata of marble rock gleamed like patches of snow. The
hills in front were scarred with old quarries, once worked for the
celebrated Phrygian marble. There was neither a habitation nor a human
being to be seen, and the landscape had a singularly wild, lonely, and
picturesque air.
Turning westward, we crossed a high rolling tract, and entered a valley
entirely covered with dwarf oaks and cedars. In spite of the dusty road,
the heat, and the multitude of gad-flies, the journey presented an
agreeable contrast to the great plains over which we had been travelling
for many days. The opposite side of the glen was crowned with a tall crest
of shattered rock, in which were many old Phrygian tombs. They were mostly
simple chambers, with square apertures. There were traces of many more,
the rock having been blown up or quarried down--the tombs, instead of
protecting it, only furnishing one facility the more for destruction.
After an hour's rest at a fountain, we threaded the windings of the glen
to a lower plain, quite shut in by the hills, whose ribs of marble showed
through the forests of oak, holly, cedar, and pine, which dotted them. We
were now fully entered into the hill-country, and our road passed over
heights and through hollows covered with picturesque clumps of foliage. It
resembled some of the wild western downs of America, and, but for the
Phrygian tombs, whose doorways stared at us from every rock, seemed as
little familiar with the presence of Man.
Hadji Youssuf, in stopping to arrange some of the baggage, lost his hold
of his mule, and in spite of every effort to secure her, the provoking
beast kept her liberty for the rest of the day. In vain did we head her
off, chase her, coax her, set traps for her: she was too cunning to be
taken in, and marched along at her ease, running into every field of
grain, stopping to crop the choicest bunches of grass, or walking demurely
in the caravan, allowing the hadji to come within arm's length before she
kicked up her heels and dashed away again. We had a long chase through the
clumps of oak and holly, but all to no purpose. The great green gad-flies
swarmed around us, biting myself as well as my horse. Hecatombs, crushed
by my whip, dropped dead in the dust, but the ranks were immediately
filled from some invisible reserve. The soil was no longer bare, but
entirely covered with grass and flowers. In one of the valleys I saw a
large patch of the crimson larkspur, so thick as to resemble a pool of
blood. While crossing a long, hot hill, we came upon a little arbor of
stones, covered with pine branches. It inclosed an ancient sarcophagus of
marble, nearly filled with water. Beside it stood a square cup, with a
handle, rudely hewn out of a piece of pine wood. This was a charitable
provision for travellers, and constantly supplied by the Turcomans who
lived in the vicinity.
The last two hours of our journey that day were through a glorious forest
of pines. The road lay in a winding glen, green and grassy, and covered to
the summits on both sides with beautiful pine trees, intermixed with
cedar. The air had the true northern aroma, and was more grateful than
wine. Every turn of the glen disclosed a charming woodland view. It was a
wild valley of the northern hills, filled with the burning lustre of a
summer sun, and canopied by the brilliant blue of a summer sky. There were
signs of the woodman's axe, and the charred embers of forest camp-fires. I
thought of the lovely _canadas_ in the pine forests behind Monterey, and
could really have imagined myself there. Towards evening we reached a
solitary guard-house, on the edge of the forest. The glen here opened a
little, and a stone fountain of delicious water furnished all that we
wanted for a camping-place. The house was inhabited by three soldiers;
sturdy, good-humored fellows, who immediately spread a mat in the shade
for us and made us some excellent coffee. A Turcoman encampment in the
neighborhood supplied us with milk and eggs.
The guardsmen were good Mussulmans, and took us for the same. One of them
asked me to let him know when the sun was down, and I prolonged his fast
until it was quite dark, when I gave him permission to eat. They all had
tolerable stallions for their service, and seemed to live pleasantly
enough, in their wild way. The fat, stumpy corporal, with his enormously
broad pantaloons and automaton legs, went down to the fountain with his
musket, and after taking a rest and sighting full five minutes, fired at a
dove without hitting it. He afterwards joined us in a social pipe, and we
sat on a carpet at the door of the guard-house, watching the splendid
moonrise through the pine boughs. When the pipes had burned out I went to
bed, and slept a long, sweet sleep until dawn.
We knew that the tombs of the Phrygian Kings could not be far off, and, on
making inquiries of the corporal, found that he knew the place. It was not
four hours distant, by a by-road and as it would be impossible to reach
it without a guide, he would give us one of his men, in consideration of a
fee of twenty piastres. The difficulty was evident, in a hilly, wooded
country like this, traversed by a labyrinth of valleys and ravines, and so
we accepted the soldier. As we were about leaving, an old Turcoman, whose
beard was dyed a bright red, came up, saying that he knew Mr. H. was a
physician, and could cure him of his deafness. The morning air was sweet
with the breath of cedar and pine, and we rode on through the woods and
over the open turfy glades, in high spirits. We were in the heart of a
mountainous country, clothed with evergreen forests, except some open
upland tracts, which showed a thick green turf, dotted all over with
park-like clumps, and single great trees. The pines were noble trunks,
often sixty to eighty feet high, and with boughs disposed in all possible
picturesqueness of form. The cedar frequently showed a solid white bole,
three feet in diameter.
We took a winding footpath, often a mere track, striking across the hills
in a northern direction. Everywhere we met the Turks of the plain, who are
now encamped in the mountains, to tend their flocks through the summer
months. Herds of sheep and goats were scattered over the green
pasture-slopes, and the idle herd-boys basked in the morning sun, playing
lively airs on a reed flute, resembling the Arabic _zumarra_. Here and
there was a woodman, busy at a recently felled tree, and we met several of
the creaking carts of the country, hauling logs. All that we saw had a
pleasant rural air, a smack of primitive and unsophisticated life. From
the higher ridges over which we passed, we could see, far to the east and
west, other ranges of pine-covered mountains, and in the distance the
cloudy lines of loftier chains. The trunks of the pines were nearly all
charred, and many of the smaller trees dead, from the fires which, later
in the year, rage in these forests.
After four hours of varied and most inspiring travel, we reached a
district covered for the most part with oak woods--a more open though
still mountainous region. There was a summer village of Turks scattered
over the nearest slope--probably fifty houses in all, almost perfect
counterparts of Western log-cabins. They were built of pine logs, laid
crosswise, and covered with rough boards. These, as we were told, were the
dwellings of the people who inhabit the village of Khosref Pasha Khan
during the winter. Great numbers of sheep and goats were browsing over the
hills or lying around the doors of the houses. The latter were beautiful
creatures, with heavy, curved horns, and long, white, silky hair, that
entirely hid their eyes. We stopped at a house for water, which the man
brought out in a little cask. He at first proposed giving us _yaourt_, and
his wife suggested _kaimak_ (sweet curds), which we agreed to take, but it
proved to be only boiled milk.
Leaving the village, we took a path leading westward, mounted a long hill,
and again entered the pine forests. Before long, we came to a well-built
country-house, somewhat resembling a Swiss cottage. It was two stories
high, and there was an upper balcony, with cushioned divans, overlooking a
thriving garden-patch and some fruit-trees. Three or four men were weeding
in the garden, and the owner came up and welcomed us. A fountain of
ice-cold water gushed into a stone trough at the door, making a tempting
spot for our breakfast, but we were bent on reaching the tombs. There were
convenient out-houses for fowls, sheep, and cattle. The herds were out,
grazing along the edges of the forest, and we heard the shrill, joyous
melodies of the flutes blown by the herd-boys.
We now reached a ridge, whence we looked down through the forest upon a
long valley, nearly half a mile wide, and bordered on the opposite side by
ranges of broken sandstone crags. This was the place we sought--the Valley
of the Phrygian Tombs. Already we could distinguish the hewn faces of the
rocks, and the dark apertures to the chambers within. The bottom of the
valley was a bed of glorious grass, blazoned with flowers, and redolent of
all vernal smells. Several peasants, finding it too hot to mow, had thrown
their scythes along the swarths, and were lying in the shade of an oak. We
rode over the new-cut hay, up the opposite side, and dismounted at the
face of the crags. As we approached them, the number of chambers hewn in
the rock, the doors and niches now open to the day, surmounted by
shattered spires and turrets, gave the whole mass the appearance of a
grand fortress in ruins. The crags, which are of a very soft, reddish-gray
sandstone, rise a hundred and fifty feet from their base, and their
summits are worn by the weather into the most remarkable forms.
The principal monument is a broad, projecting cliff, one side of which has
been cut so as to resemble the facade of a temple. The sculptured part is
about sixty feet high by sixty in breadth, and represents a solid wall
with two pilasters at the ends, upholding an architrave and pediment,
which is surmounted by two large volutes. The whole face of the wall is
covered with ornaments resembling panel-work, not in regular squares, but
a labyrinth of intricate designs. In the centre, at the bottom, is a
shallow square recess, surrounded by an elegant, though plain moulding,
but there is no appearance of an entrance to the sepulchral chamber, which
may be hidden in the heart of the rock. There is an inscription in Greek
running up one side, but it is of a later date than the work itself. On
one of the tombs there is an inscription: "To King Midas." These relics
are supposed to date from the period of the Gordian Dynasty, about seven
centuries before Christ.
A little in front of a headland, formed by the summit walls of two meeting
valleys, rises a mass of rocks one hundred feet high, cut into sepulchral
chambers, story above story, with the traces of steps between them,
leading to others still higher. The whole rock, which may be a hundred and
fifty feet long by fifty feet broad, has been scooped out, leaving but
narrow partitions to separate the chambers of the dead. These chambers are
all plain, but some are of very elegant proportions, with arched or
pyramidal roofs, and arched recesses at the sides, containing sarcophagi
hewn in the solid stone. There are also many niches for cinerary urns. The
principal tomb had a portico, supported by columns, but the front is now
entirely hurled down, and only the elegant panelling and stone joists of
the ceiling remain. The entire hill was a succession of tombs. There is
not a rock which does not bear traces of them. I might have 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.
We rose very early yesterday morning, shivering in the cold air of the
mountains, and just as the sun, bursting through the pines, looked down
the little hollow where our tents were pitched, set the caravan in motion.
The ride down the valley was charming. The land was naturally rich and
highly cultivated, which made its desertion the more singular. Leagues of
wheat, rye and poppies spread around us, left for the summer warmth to do
its silent work. The dew sparkled on the fields as we rode through them,
and the splendor of the flowers in blossom was equal to that of the plains
of Palestine. There were purple, white and scarlet poppies; the rich
crimson larkspur; the red anemone; the golden daisy; the pink convolvulus;
and a host of smaller blooms, so intensely bright and dazzling in their
hues, that the meadows were richer than a pavement of precious jewels. To
look towards the sun, over a field of scarlet poppies, was like looking on
a bed of live coals; the light, striking through the petals, made them
burn as with an inward fire. Out of this wilderness of gorgeous color,
rose the tall spires of a larger plant, covered with great yellow flowers,
while here and there the snowy blossoms of a clump of hawthorn sweetened
the morning air.
A short distance beyond Kuembeh, we passed another group of ancient tombs,
one of which was of curious design. An isolated rock, thirty feet in
height by twenty in diameter, was cut so as to resemble a triangular
tower, with the apex bevelled. A chamber, containing a sarcophagus, was
hewn out of the interior. The entrance was ornamented with double columns
in bas-relief, and a pediment. There was another arched chamber, cut
directly through the base of the triangle, with a niche on each side,
hollowed out at the bottom so as to form a sarcophagus.
Leaving these, the last of the Phrygian tombs, we struck across the valley
and ascended a high range of hills, covered with pine, to an upland,
wooded region. Here we found a summer village of log cabins, scattered
over a grassy slope. The people regarded us with some curiosity, and the
women hastily concealed their faces. Mr. H. rode up to a large new house,
and peeped in between the logs. There were several women inside, who
started up in great confusion and threw over their heads whatever article
was most convenient. An old man, with a long white beard, neatly dressed
in a green jacket and shawl turban, came out and welcomed us. I asked for
_kaimak_, which he promised, and immediately brought out a carpet and
spread it on the ground. Then followed a large basin of kaimak, with
wooden spoons, three loaves of bread, and a plate of cheese. We seated
ourselves on the carpet, and delved in with the spoons, while the old man
retired lest his appetite should be provoked. The milk was excellent, nor
were the bread and cheese to be despised.
While we were eating, the Khowagee, or schoolmaster of the community, a
genteel little man in a round white turban, came op to inquire of Francois
who we were. "That effendi in the blue dress," said he, "is the Bey, is he
not?" "Yes," said F. "And the other, with the striped shirt and white
turban, is a writer?" [Here he was not far wrong.] "But how is it that the
effendis do not speak Turkish?" he persisted. "Because," said Francois,
"their fathers were exiled by Sultan Mahmoud when they were small
children. They have grown up in Aleppo like Arabs, and have not yet
learned Turkish; but God grant that the Sultan may not turn his face away
from them, and that they may regain the rank their fathers once had in
Stamboul." "God grant it!" replied the Khowagee, greatly interested in the
story. By this time we had eaten our full share of the kaimak, which was
finished by Francois and the katurgees. The old man now came up, mounted
on a dun mare, stating that he was bound for Kiutahya, and was delighted
with the prospect of travelling in such good company, I gave one of his
young children some money, as the kaimak was tendered out of pure
hospitality, and so we rode off.
Our new companion was armed to the teeth, having a long gun with a heavy
wooden stock and nondescript lock, and a sword of excellent metal. It was,
in fact, a weapon of the old Greek empire, and the cross was still
enamelled in gold at the root of the blade, in spite of all his efforts to
scratch it out. He was something of a _fakeer_, having made a pilgrimage
to Mecca and Jerusalem. He was very inquisitive, plying Francois with
questions about the government. The latter answered that we were not
connected with the government, but the old fellow shrewdly hinted that he
knew better--we were persons of rank, travelling incognito. He was very
attentive to us, offering us water at every fountain, although he believed
us to be good Mussulmans. We found him of some service as a guide,
shortening our road by taking by-paths through the woods.
For several hours we traversed a beautifully wooded region of hills.
Graceful clumps of pine shaded the grassy knolls, where the sheep and
silky-haired goats were basking at rest, and the air was filled with a
warm, summer smell, blown from the banks of golden broom. Now and then,
from the thickets of laurel and arbutus, a shrill shepherd's reed piped
some joyous woodland melody. Was it a Faun, astray among the hills? Green
dells, open to the sunshine, and beautiful as dreams of Arcady, divided
the groves of pine. The sky overhead was pure and cloudless, clasping the
landscape with its belt of peace and silence. Oh, that delightful region,
haunted by all the bright spirits of the immortal Grecian Song! Chased
away from the rest of the earth, here they have found a home--here
secret altars remain to them from the times that are departed!
Out of these woods, we passed into a lonely plain, inclosed by piny hills
that brightened in the thin, pure ether. In the distance were some
shepherds' tents, and musical goat-bells tinkled along the edges of the
woods. From the crest of a lofty ridge beyond this plain, we looked back
over the wild solitudes wherein we had been travelling for two days--long
ranges of dark hills, fading away behind each other, with a perspective
that hinted of the hidden gulfs between. From the western slope, a still
more extensive prospect opened before us. Over ridges covered with forests
of oak and pine, we saw the valley of the Pursek, the ancient Thymbrius,
stretching far away to the misty line of Keshish Dagh, The mountains
behind Kintahya loomed up high and grand, making a fine feature in the
middle distance. We caught but fleeting glimpses of the view through the
trees; and then, plunging into the forest again, descended to a cultivated
slope, whereon there was a little village, now deserted. The graveyard
beside it was shaded with large cedar-trees, and near it there was a
fountain of excellent water. "Here," said the old man, "you can wash and
pray, and then rest awhile under the trees." Francois excused us by saying
that, while on a journey, we always bathed before praying; but, not to
slight his faith entirely, I washed my hands and face before sitting down
to our scanty breakfast of bread and water.
Our path now led down through long, winding glens, over grown with oaks,
from which the wild yellow honeysuckles fell in a shower of blossoms. As
we drew near the valley, the old man began to hint that his presence had
been of great service to us, and deserved recompense. "God knows," said
he to Francois, "in what corner of the mountains you might now be, if I
had not accompanied you." "Oh," replied Francois, "there are always plenty
of people among the woods, who would have been equally as kind as yourself
in showing us the way." He then spoke of the robbers in the neighborhood,
and pointed out some graves by the road-side, as those of persons who had
been murdered. "But," he added, "everybody in these parts knows me, and
whoever is in company with me is always safe." The Greek assured him that
we always depended on ourselves for our safety. Defeated on these tacks,
he boldly affirmed that his services were worthy of payment. "But," said
Francois "you told us at the village that you had business in Kiutahya,
and would be glad to join us for the sake of having company on the road."
"Well, then," rejoined the old fellow, making a last effort, "I leave the
matter to your politeness." "Certainly," replied the imperturbable
dragoman, "we could not be so impolite as to offer money to a man of your
wealth and station; we could not insult you by giving you alms." The old
Turcoman thereupon gave a shrug and a grunt, made a sullen good-by
salutation, and left us.
It was nearly six o'clock when we reached the Pursek. There was no sign of
the city, but we could barely discern an old fortress on the lofty cliff
which commands the town. A long stone bridge crossed the river, which here
separates into half a dozen channels. The waters are swift and clear, and
wind away in devious mazes through the broad green meadows. We hurried on,
thinking we saw minarets in the distance, but they proved to be poplars.
The sun sank lower and lower, and finally went down before there was any
token of our being in the vicinity of the city. Soon, however, a line of
tiled roofs appeared along the slope of a hill on our left, and turning
its base, we saw the city before us, filling the mouth of a deep valley or
gorge, which opened from the mountains.
But the horses are saddled, and Francois tells me it is time to put up my
pen. We are off, over the mountains, to the Greek city of OEzani, in
the valley of the Rhyndacus.
Chapter XXIII.
Kiutahya and the Ruins of OEzani.
Entrance into Kiutahya--The New Khan--An Unpleasant
Discovery--Kiutahya--The Citadel--Panorama from the Walls--The Gorge of
the Mountains--Camp in a Meadow--The Valley of the
Rhyndacus--Chavduer--The Ruins of OEzani--The Acropolis and
Temple--The Theatre and Stadium--Ride down the Valley--Camp at Daghje
Koei
"There is a temple in ruin stands,
Fashioned by long-forgotten hands;
Two or three columns and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown!
Out upon Time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before!"
Daghje Koei, on the Rhyndacus, _July_ 6, 1852.
On entering Kiutahya, we passed the barracks, which were the residence of
Kossuth and his companions in exile. Beyond them, we came to a broad
street, down which flowed the vilest stream of filth of which even a
Turkish city could ever boast. The houses on either side were two stories
high, the upper part of wood, with hanging balconies, over which shot the
eaves of the tiled roofs. The welcome cannon had just sounded, announcing
the close of the day's fast. The coffee-shops were already crowded with
lean and hungry customers, the pipes were filled and lighted, and the
coffee smoked in the finjans. In half a minute such whiffs arose on all
sides as it would have cheered the heart of a genuine smoker to behold.
Out of these cheerful places we passed into other streets which were
entirely deserted, the inhabitants being at dinner. It had a weird,
uncomfortable effect to ride through streets where the clatter of our
horses' hoofs was the only sound of life. At last we reached the entrance
to a bazaar, and near it a khan--a new khan, very neatly built, and with a
spare room so much better than we expected, that we congratulated
ourselves heartily. We unpacked in a hurry, and Francois ran off to the
bazaar, from which he speedily returned with some roast kid, cucumbers,
and cherries. We lighted two lamps, I borrowed the oda-bashi's narghileh,
and Francois, learning that it was our national anniversary, procured us a
flask of Greek wine, that we might do it honor. The beverage, however,
resembled a mixture of vinegar and sealing-wax, and we contented ourselves
with drinking patriotic toasts, in two finjans of excellent coffee. But in
the midst of our enjoyment, happening to cast my eye on the walls, I saw a
sight that turned all our honey into gall. Scores on scores--nay, hundreds
on hundreds--of enormous bed-bugs swarmed on the plaster, and were already
descending to our beds and baggage. To sleep there was impossible, but we
succeeded in getting possession of one of the outside balconies, where we
made our beds, after searching them thoroughly.
In the evening a merchant, who spoke a little Arabic, came up to me and
asked: "Is not your Excellency's friend the _hakim pasha_" (chief
physician). I did not venture to assent, but replied: "No; he is a
_sowakh_" This was beyond his comprehension, and he went away with the
impression that Mr. H. was much greater than a _hakim pasha_. I slept
soundly on my out-doors bed, but was awakened towards morning by two
tremendous claps of thunder, echoing in the gorge, and the rattling of
rain on the roof of the khan.
I spent two or three hours next morning in taking a survey of Kiutahya.
The town is much larger than I had supposed: I should judge it to contain
from fifty to sixty thousand inhabitants. The situation is remarkable, and
gives a picturesque effect to the place when seen from above, which makes
one forget its internal filth. It is built in the mouth of a gorge, and
around the bases of the hills on either side. The lofty mountains which
rise behind it supply it with perpetual springs of pure water. At every
dozen steps you come upon a fountain, and every large street has a brook
in the centre. The houses are all two and many of them three stories high,
with hanging balconies, which remind me much of Switzerland. The bazaars
are very extensive, covering all the base of the hill on which stands the
ancient citadel. The goods displayed were mostly European cotton fabrics,
_quincaillerie_, boots and slippers, pipe-sticks and silks. In the parts
devoted to the produce of the country, I saw very fine cherries, cucumbers
and lettuce, and bundles of magnificent clover, three to four feet high.
We climbed a steep path to the citadel, which covers the summit of an
abrupt, isolated hill, connected by a shoulder with the great range. The
walls are nearly a mile in circuit, consisting almost wholly of immense
circular buttresses, placed so near each other that they almost touch. The
connecting walls are broken down on the northern side, so that from below
the buttresses have the appearance of enormous shattered columns. They are
built of rough stones, with regular layers of flat, burnt bricks. On 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, the katurgee, to the village for milk and eggs. The ewes had just
been milked for the suppers of their owners, but they went over the flock
again, stripping their udders, which greatly improved the quality of the
milk. The night was so cold that I could scarcely sleep during the morning
hours. There was a chill, heavy dew on the meadow; but when Francois awoke
me at sunrise, the sky was splendidly clear and pure, and the early beams
had a little warmth in them. Our coffee, before starting, made with
sheep's milk, was the richest I ever drank.
After riding for two hours across broad, wild ridges, covered with cedar,
we reached a height overlooking the valley of the Rhyndacus, or rather the
plain whence he draws his sources--a circular level, ten or twelve miles
in diameter, and contracting towards the west into a narrow dell, through
which his waters find outlet; several villages, each embowered in gardens,
were scattered along the bases of the hills that inclose it. We took the
wrong road, but were set aright by a herdsman, and after threading a lane
between thriving grain-fields, were cheered by the sight of the Temple of
OEzani, lifted on its acropolis above the orchards of Chavduer, and
standing out sharp and clear against the purple of the hills.
Our approach to the city was marked by the blocks of sculptured marble
that lined the way: elegant mouldings, cornices, and entablatures, thrown
together with common stone to make walls between the fields. The village
is built on both sides of the Rhyndacus; it is an ordinary Turkish hamlet,
with tiled roofs and chimneys, and exhibits very few of the remains of the
old city in its composition. This, I suspect, is owing to the great size
of the hewn blocks, especially of the pillars, cornices, and entablatures,
nearly all of which are from twelve to fifteen feet long. It is from the
size and number of these scattered blocks, rather than from the buildings
which still partially exist, that one obtains an idea of the size and
splendor of the ancient OEzani. The place is filled with fragments,
especially of columns, of which there are several hundred, nearly all
finely fluted. The Rhyndacus is still spanned by an ancient bridge of
three arches, and both banks are lined with piers of hewn stone. Tall
poplars and massy walnuts of the richest green shade the clear waters, and
there are many picturesque combinations of foliage and ruin--death and
life--which would charm a painter's eye. Near the bridge we stopped to
examine a pile of immense fragments which have been thrown together by the
Turks--pillars, cornices, altars, pieces of a frieze, with bulls' heads
bound together by hanging garlands, and a large square block, with a
legible tablet. It resembled an altar in form, and, from the word
"_Artemidoron_" appeared to have belonged to some temple to Diana.
Passing through the village we came to a grand artificial platform on its
western side, called the Acropolis. It is of solid masonry, five hundred
feet square, and averaging ten feet in height. On the eastern side it is
supported on rude though massive arches, resembling Etruscan workmanship.
On the top and around the edges of this platform lie great numbers of
fluted columns, and immense fragments of cornice and architrave. In the
centre, on a foundation platform about eight feet high, stands a beautiful
Ionic temple, one hundred feet in length. On approaching, it appeared
nearly perfect, except the roof, and so many of the columns remain
standing that its ruined condition scarcely injures the effect. There are
seventeen columns on the side and eight at the end, Ionic in style,
fluted, and fifty feet in height. About half the cella remains, with an
elegant frieze and cornice along the top, and a series of tablets, set in
panels of ornamental sculpture, running along the sides. The front of the
cella includes a small open peristyle, with two composite Corinthian
columns at the entrance, making, with those of the outer colonnade,
eighteen columns standing. The tablets contain Greek inscriptions,
perfectly legible, where the stone has not been shattered. Under the
temple there are large vaults, which we found filled up with young kids,
who had gone in there to escape the heat of the sun. The portico was
occupied by sheep, which at first refused to make room for us, and gave
strong olfactory evidence of their partiality for the temple as a
resting-place.
On the side of a hill, about three hundred yards to the north, are the
remains of a theatre. Crossing some patches of barley and lentils, we
entered a stadium, forming an extension of the theatre---that is, it took
the same breadth and direction, so that the two might be considered as one
grand work, more than one thousand feet long by nearly four hundred wide.
The walls of the stadium are hurled down, except an entrance of five
arches of massive masonry, on the western side. We rode up the artificial
valley, between high, grassy hills, completely covered with what at a
distance resembled loose boards, but which were actually the long marble
seats of the stadium. Urging our horses over piles of loose blocks, we
reached the base of the theatre, climbed the fragments that cumber the
main entrance, and looked on the spacious arena and galleries within.
Although greatly ruined, the materials of the whole structure remain, and
might be put together again. It is a grand wreck; the colossal fragments
which have tumbled from the arched proscenium fill the arena, and the rows
of seats, though broken and disjointed, still retain their original order.
It is somewhat more than a semicircle, the radius being about one hundred
and eighty feet. The original height was upwards of fifty feet, and there
were fifty rows of seats in all, each row capable of seating two hundred
persons, so that the number of spectators who could be accommodated was
eight thousand.
The fragments cumbering the arena were enormous, and highly interesting
from their character. There were rich blocks of cornice, ten feet long;
fluted and reeded pillars; great arcs of heavily-carved sculpture, which
appeared to have served as architraves from pillar to pillar, along the
face of the proscenium, where there was every trace of having been a
colonnade; and other blocks sculptured with figures of animals in
alto-relievo. There were generally two figures on each block, and among
those which could be recognized were the dog and the lion. Doors opened
from the proscenium into the retiring-rooms of the actors, under which
were the vaults where the beasts were kept. A young fox or jackal started
from his siesta as we entered the theatre, and took refuge under the loose
blocks. Looking backwards through the stadium from the seats of the
theatre, we had a lovely view of the temple, standing out clear and bright
in the midst of the summer plain, with the snow-streaked summits of Murad
Dagh in the distance. It was a picture which I shall long remember. The
desolation of the magnificent ruins was made all the more impressive by
the silent, solitary air of the region around them.
Leaving Chavduer in the afternoon, we struck northward, down the valley of
the Rhyndacus, over tracts of rolling land, interspersed with groves of
cedar and pine. There were so many branch roads and crossings that we
could not fail to go wrong; and after two or three hours found ourselves
in the midst of a forest, on the broad top of a mountain, without any road
at all. There were some herdsmen tending their flocks near at hand, but
they could give us no satisfactory direction. We thereupon, took our own
course, and soon brought up on the brink of a precipice, overhanging a
deep valley. Away to the eastward we caught a glimpse of the Rhyndacus,
and the wooden minaret of a little village on his banks. Following the
edge of the precipice, we came at last to a glen, down which ran a rough
footpath that finally conducted us, by a long road through the forests, to
the village of Daghje Koei, where we are now encamped.
The place seems to be devoted to the making of flints, and the streets are
filled with piles of the chipped fragments. Our tent is pitched on the
bank of the river, in a barren meadow. The people tell us that the whole
region round about has just been visited by a plague of grasshoppers,
which have destroyed their crops. Our beasts have wandered off to the
hills, in search for grass, and the disconsolate Hadji is hunting them.
Achmet, the katurgee, lies near the fire, sick; Mr. Harrison complains of
fever, and Francois moves about languidly, with a dismal countenance. So
here we are in the solitudes of Bithynia, but there is no God but God, and
that which is destined comes to pass.
Chapter XXIV.
The Mysian Olympus.
Journey Down the Valley--The Plague of Grasshoppers--A Defile--The Town
of Taushanlue--The Camp of Famine--We leave the Rhyndacus--The Base of
Olympus--Primeval Forests--The Guard-House--Scenery of the
Summit--Forests of Beech--Saw-Mills--Descent of the Mountain--The View
of Olympus--Morning--The Land of Harvest--Aineghioel--A Showery Ride--The
Plain of Brousa--The Structure of Olympus--We reach Brousa--The Tent is
Furled.
"I looked yet farther and higher, and saw in the heavens a silvery cloud
that stood fast, and still against the breeze; * * * * and so it was as
a sign and a testimony--almost as a call from the neglected gods, that I
now saw and acknowledged the snowy crown of the Mysian Olympus!"
Kinglake.
Brousa, _July_ 9, 1852.
From Daghje Kuei, there were two roads to Taushanlue, but the people
informed us that the one which led across the mountains was difficult to
find, and almost impracticable. We therefore took the river road, which we
found picturesque in the highest degree. The narrow dell of the Rhyndacus
wound through a labyrinth of mountains, sometimes turning at sharp angles
between craggy buttresses, covered with forests, and sometimes broadening
out into a sweep of valley, where the villagers were working in companies
among the grain and poppy fields. The banks of the stream were lined with
oak, willow and sycamore, and forests of pine, descending from the
mountains, frequently overhung the road. We met numbers of peasants,
going to and from the fields, and once a company of some twenty women,
who, on seeing us, clustered together like a flock of frightened sheep,
and threw their mantles over their heads. They had curiosity enough,
however, to peep at us as we went by, and I made them a salutation, which
they returned, and then burst into a chorus of hearty laughter. All this
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