The Lands of the Saracen - Bayard Taylor
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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.