CHAPTER II.
Ancient Gate—Greek Inscriptions—Mausoleum of Sultan Orcan—Monkish Chronicle—The Turbedar Hanoum—Inverted Columns—Painted Pillars—Splendid Marbles—Tombs of the Imperial Family—The Greek Cross—The Sultan’s Beard—Mausoleum of Sultan Ali Osman—Monastic Vaults—Ruined Chapel—Remains of a Greek Palace—Bassi Relievi—Ruined Fountains—Ancient Fosse—Dense Vegetation—Noble Prospect—Roman Aqueduct—Valley of the Source—Picturesque Groups—Coffee-Kiosks—Absence of Pretension among the Turks—The Tale Teller—Traveller’s Khan—Sick Birds—Roman Bridge—Armenian Mother.
At an early hour on the following morning we started, accompanied by a guide, and our own servant who acted as Dragoman, to visit such objects of interest as might exist in the immediate vicinity of the city; and after climbing the hill on which the ancient wall is based, and passing through a fine old gate, in whose neighbourhood we remarked several Greek inscriptions that had apparently been displaced at the capture of the city, as one or two of them are inverted, we found ourselves in front of the Mausoleum of Sultan Orcan.
This sovereign, who was the son of Othman, the first Turkish Emperor, took Broussa, (which was at the time the capital of Bithinia) in the year 1350; and, according to an old monkish chronicle which I consulted on the spot, “He found three towers filled with the treasures of these kings, which they had been amassing from the first building of the city; gold and silver in ingots and in coins; pearls and jewels, among which were twelve precious stones unique in value; furniture and dresses wrought in gold and silver; crowns of great price filled with gold and pearls; saddles, pantaloons, and swords worked with gold, and pearls, and jewels—forming altogether the lading of seven hundred camels, all of which he despatched to his native country. This done, he collected together all the young children: some he caused to lie on their stomachs upon the earth, where he trampled them beneath the feet of horses; others he flung into the river; and others again he exposed naked to the sun, where they died of thirst. Many mothers stifled their children, rather than deliver them over to the barbarian. It would be difficult to describe the torments inflicted on the Bishops, the Priesthood, and the monks; some were drowned, some burnt, some dragged by horses, &c. &c.”
“This monarch,” pursues the historian, “was brave, luxurious, and generous; and was the husband of Kilikia, the Princess of Caramania; he was wounded at the taking of Broussa, and died in consequence a few days afterwards, having reigned twenty-two years.”
It was the tomb of this “generous” conqueror which we were about to invade; and, while the guide was absent in search of the Turbedar Hanoum, or Holy Woman, who had charge of the keys, I amused myself by examining the exterior entrance of the building, or rather of that portion of it now converted into an Imperial Mausoleum.
The open porch, with its deeply projecting roof painted in fresco, is supported by two pillars of coarse old Byzantine architecture, and composed of delicately-veined white marble. This porch gives admittance only to the Court of the Tomb-house, and presents a spectacle probably unique, and so characteristic of the progress of the fine arts in this country, that it deserves especial mention. The pillars to which I have alluded as supporting the porch are reversed; the sculptured capitals rest on the earth, and a plaistered summit has been supplied, gaudily painted in blue and yellow; while the pillars themselves are only just beginning, thanks to time and weather, to reveal the material of which they are composed, through their decaying coat of whitewash!
When a frightful old woman, huddled up in a scarf of coarse white cotton, at length made her appearance, key in hand, and admitted us to the Inner Court, a second anomaly nearly as startling as the first presented itself. The enclosure was thickly planted with young trees, among which a pomegranate, gorgeous in its livery of green and scarlet, was the most conspicuous; and a sparkling fountain was pouring forth its copious stream of clear cool water into a marble reservoir; while the long flexile branches of a wild vine were gracefully wreathed across the entrance of the Mausoleum. But here again the hand of barbarism had been at work; and the four slender Ionic columns of gray marble which support the porch, had undergone the same melancholy process of painting, and their capitals were decorated with a wreath of many-coloured foliage!
Little did such an exhibition of modern Vandalism prepare me for the splendid coup-d’œil that awaited me within. The Mausoleum is a portion of an ancient Greek monastery, dismantled by Sultan Orcan at the capture of the city; and is supposed to have been a private chapel in which the Emperor was accustomed to perform his devotions. It is of an oval form; and, previously to a fire which partially destroyed it a few years since, was entirely lined with rich marbles. Those now deficient have been replaced by paint and stucco, in precisely the same taste as that which operated on the exterior; but, as their number is comparatively small, the general effect is not greatly marred.
Sultan Orcan, with his wife Kilikia, two of his Odaliques, and seventeen of his children, occupy the centre of the floor; whose fine mosaic pavement has been covered throughout the whole space thus appropriated with a mass of coarse plaister, raised about a foot from the floor, and supporting the Sarcophagi. That of the Sultan himself is overlaid with a costly cachemire shawl, above which are spread two richly embroidered handkerchiefs in crimson and green, worked with gold; while the turban at its head is decorated with a third, wrought in beautiful arabesques, and by far the most splendid thing of the kind that I ever saw, Those of the Sultanas and their children are simply painted of the sacred green, and totally unornamented; the first instance of such a marked distinction that I had yet met with in the country.
At the upper end of the chapel, three rows of marble seats, arranged amphitheatrically, occupy the extremity of the oval immediately opposite to the altar, and are surmounted by a centre seat, supposed to have been that from which the monarch was accustomed to hear the mass, while his nobles placed themselves on the benches at his feet. The lofty dome is supported by six gigantic square pillars of masonry, and the marbles that line the walls are inserted with considerable taste. In one of the side arches a cross still remains, which was introduced among the mosaics by the Greeks; but a second, of much larger dimensions, which surmounted their altar, has been destroyed, and the space that it occupied coarsely covered with plaister.
On the left-hand side of the Imperial Sarcophagus hangs a small wooden case, shaped like a bird-cage, and covered with green silk, containing the Sultan’s beard!—the precious relic of five centuries!
The Mausoleum of Sultan Ali Osman, the son of Orcan, which occupies the other wing of the building, contains no object of particular interest; the Hall of Sepulchre is similar in material and in arrangement, save that the Sarcophagi of his wives and children are simply whitewashed. The modern Emperors have been more gallant; and many a deceased Sultana sleeps the last sleep at Constantinople, covered with shawls which, during the rage for cachemeres in Paris, would have killed half the élégantes with envy.
From the Mausoleum of Sultan Ali Osman, we passed into the vaults of the Monastery, and through a subterranean cloister, supported by pillars; whence we clambered by a crazy ladder into what had evidently been the Chapel of the Monastery. Fragments of frescoes still remain about the dilapidated altar, and on the screen of the Sanctuary—here it is a head without a body, and there a pair of legs without either—on one side a half-effaced inscription in old Monkish Latin; and on the other a cluster of wild flowers, concealing the ruin against which they lean. Several of the arches of the chapel still remain, and are very gracefully formed, but the whole scene is one of melancholy: the only portions of the building which are perfect are the tombs of the Ottoman Emperors; all that yet bears the trace of Christianity is stamped with ruin.
We next visited the remains of the Palace of the ancient Greek Emperors, whose dilapidated gateway is flanked by the mouldering remains of two bassi relievi; and the fragments of two fountains of white marble, whose waters, unrestrained by the mutilated basins into which they poured themselves, have worn a narrow channel beside the road, where they rush along, sparkling in the sunshine. The capital of one of the columns which once graced them still remains nearly entire, and is of that elegant stalactite-like architecture peculiar to the Arabs, and quite unknown in Europe. Having passed the gate, we entered a small court, thickly planted with ancient mulberry trees, and containing the remains of some of the Imperial offices; whence a second door admitted us into a wide enclosure, now converted into a nursery-garden, full of vigorous vegetation.
Passing onward, we crossed, by a few unsteady planks, a portion of the ancient fosse, and found ourselves upon the wall overhanging the city, surrounded by the group of mouldering and ivy-grown towers that I had remarked on my journey, and which I found to be the remains of the Palace.
RUINS OF THE IMPERIAL PALACE.
Nothing more magnificent can be imagined than the view from this height. The wide plain through which we had travelled from the coast lay spread out before us, dotted over its whole surface with mulberry and olive trees—the river ran rushing in the light among the dense vegetation—far as the eye could reach, lofty mountains, purpled by the distance, shut in the prospect—while, immediately beneath us, Broussa lay mapped out in all its extent, the sober-coloured buildings overshadowed by lofty trees; and the three hundred and eighty mosques of the city scattered in the most picturesque irregularity along the side of the mountains, and on the skirts of the valley. The palace of a Pasha was close beside us, and behind us rose the lofty chain of land which veiled the lordly summit of Mount Olympus; while over all laughed the bluest and the brightest sky that imagination can picture.
Beyond this, and this was of course the result of situation, and in itself independent of other interest, the remains of the Imperial Palace are altogether destitute of attraction; its decay is too far advanced, or rather its destruction is too absolute, to present a single charm to the most determined ruin-hunter in the world.
About a mile higher up the mountain stand the remains of a Roman aqueduct; half a dozen mouldering towers of colossal dimensions rise hoar and gray against the sky, and at their feet rushes along the pellucid water that supplies the fountains of the city. A narrow channel formed of stone, and full to overflowing, guides the course of the stream, which escapes from the heart of the mountain at the point where it hems in the gayest and the greenest valley that ever fairy revelled in by moonlight. The channel skirts this valley, until it again passes beneath the living rock, and pours itself into the reservoirs of Broussa—but it is less of the mountain stream, or of the fine old Roman remains, that I desire to speak, than of the lovely glen to which I have just alluded.
This fair spot is the “Sweet Waters” of Broussa; and as we chanced to visit it for the first time on a Turkish Sunday, its effect was considerably heightened. Surrounded by lofty mountains, overtopped by mouldering ruins, shaded by stately trees, and fresh with springing verdure, its aspect was yet further gladdened by groups of happy idlers in their holyday costume, seated on their mats along the margin of the source, or lounging beneath the shade of two rudely constructed coffee-kiosks; one of which, built immediately beside the spring, and resting against the rock whence it issued, was shaded from the north wind by a small but elegant mosque, whose tall minaret was reflected in the clear stream; while the other, erected beneath the shade of two majestic maples, seemed to contend the prize of coolness and comfort with its neighbour. From one ridge of rock an elegant kiosk overhung the valley; while from another a cherry tree, laden with fruit, tempted the hand with its clustering riches.
Altogether, I never beheld a more lovely scene; and the last touch of beauty was given by the distant view of a Turkish cemetery, which clomb the side of the mountain, and whose grave-stones were shaded by clumps of the dark, silent cypress, relieved here and there by a stately walnut tree, with its bright leaves dancing in the wind. The groups that were scattered over the valley were eminently picturesque: there was the employé with his ill-cut frock-coat and unbecoming fèz—the Emir, with his ample green turban, and his vest and drawers of snowy cotton—the Tatar, clad in crimson, wrought with gold, his waist bound with a leathern belt, and his legs protected by Albanian gaiters—the Ulema, with a white shawl twisted about his brow, and a brass ink-bottle thrust into his girdle—the Turning Dervish, with his high cap of gray felt, and his pelisse of green cloth—the Greek serudjhe, with a black shawl twined round his fèz, his jacket slung at his back, his gaily-striped vest confined by a shawl about his waist, his full trowsers fastened at the knee, and his legs bare—the Armenian, with his tall calpac and flowing robe—all sitting in groups, smoking their chibouks, sipping their coffee, and drinking huge draughts of the cold rock-water, from goblets of crystal as clear and sparkling as the liquid which they contained.
At the coffee-kiosk of the source, groups were engaged in conversation, without any regard to rank or situation in life. The Turks are perfectly destitute of that morgue which renders European society a constant state of warfare against intrusion. Every individual is “eligible” in Turkey—no one loses caste from the contact of unprivileged associates—the hour of relaxation puts all men on a level; and the Bey sits down quietly by the caïquejhe, and the Effendi takes his place near the fisherman, as unmoved by the difference of their relative condition, as though they had been born to the same fortune.
There is something beautiful and touching in this utter absence of self-appreciation; and the young noble rises from the mat which he has shared with the old artisan, as uncontaminated by the contact as though he had been partaking the gilded cushions of a Pasha. But, ready as I am to admire this state of things, I am well aware that it could not exist with us; the lower orders of Turkey and the lower orders of Europe are composed of totally different elements. The poor man of the East is intuitively urbane, courteous, and dignified—he is never betrayed into forgetfulness, either of himself or of his neighbour—he never knows, although he was bred in a hut, that he may not die in a palace—and with this possibility before his eyes, he always acts as though the hour of his metathesis were at hand.
It is probably from this feeling that an Osmanli smiles when he hears a Frank vaunting himself on his high blood; and that he replies tersely and gravely to the boast that “every Turk is born noble.”
No greater proof of the superiority of the working classes of Turkey over those of Europe can be adduced, than the tranquillity of the Empire under a government destitute alike of head, heart, and hand—a government whose hollowness, weakness, and venality, will admit of no argument—whose elements are chicane, treachery, and egotism—and which would be unable to govern any other people upon earth even for a twelvemonth. Perhaps the great secret of this dignified docility is to be found in the high religious feeling which is universal among the Turks, and to which I have made allusion elsewhere. Should my judgment on this point be erroneous, however, it is certain that the character of the mass in Turkey must be moulded by principles and impulses, in themselves both respectable and praiseworthy, to produce so powerful a moral effect.
At the maple-tree kiosk the crowd was greater, for there one of the itinerant Improvvisatori, or Eastern story-tellers, was amusing his hearers with a history, which, judging from its length, and the patience with which it was heard to an end, ought to have been exceedingly interesting. But no sound of boisterous merriment arose amid the grave and bearded auditors; once or twice, a low chuckle, and a denser cloud of smoke emitted from the chibouk, gave slight indications of amusement: but that was all; every thing was as quiet, as orderly, and as well-conducted, as though every individual of the party had been under priestly surveillance. On quitting the Valley of the Source, we visited the Tekiè of the Turning Dervishes, with its two fine fountains and its elegant chapel; and then proceeded to one of the public Khans, or Caravanserais, in which are lodged all travelling merchants, and such strangers as have not the opportunity of procuring private houses during their residence in Broussa. The building was inconvenient, ill-built, and confined in size, being a very inefficient substitute for one which was destroyed a few years ago by fire in its immediate vicinity; but its court was adorned with a very handsome fountain richly ornamented, beneath whose projecting roof the inhabitants of the Khan congregate to smoke and converse.
A small erection just within one of the gates of the court attracted my attention, from the circumstance of its roof being occupied by three eagles; two of them about half fledged, and the other evidently sick. I inquired the meaning of this location, and learnt that the little edifice was appropriated to the use of such wild birds as the hunters and peasants chanced to meet during their rambles among the mountains, and which were suffering either from disease, desertion, or injury. Being carefully transported hither, they are fed, and attended to until they voluntarily take wing, and return to their rocky haunts. The present patients were two eaglets, which had been abandoned in the nest, and a wounded bird, which, without assistance, must have died from starvation. Such a trait of national character is well worthy of mention.
Upon the roof of a mosque about a hundred yards from the house which we occupied, a couple of storks had made their nest, and, at the time of our visit, were carefully tending their young, apparently quite indifferent to all the noise and clamour going on immediately beneath. The Turks repay the confidence thus reposed in them with an almost superstitious reverence for these feathered children of the wilderness; and the destruction of a bird of this species would be sure to draw down upon the aggressor the displeasure, if not the vengeance, of every neighbouring Musselmaun.
I must not omit to mention the covered bridge; a curious Roman remain in the Armenian quarter of the city, forming a street across a rapid torrent, which, falling from the mountain, pours itself into the plain. It is entirely tenanted by silk weavers, and its numerous windows are so patched and built up as to render it extremely picturesque. Its single arch is finely formed, and from a distance it is a very attractive object; but it is rapidly falling to decay.
ROMAN BRIDGE AT BROUSSA.
I sketched it from the window of an Armenian house; overlooked in my employment by a sweet young woman, who held upon her knees her dying infant—her first-born son. As the Orientals believe every Frank, whether male or female, to be skilled in the healing art, she never ceased her prayer, during the whole of my stay under her roof, that I would restore her child to health. I shall never think of the Roman bridge at Broussa but the weeping image of the young Armenian mother will be associated with it in my memory.