THE PYRAMUS. GIAOUR DAGH AND MARASH.
_April 28th._—Rose at daybreak, and went down to the river. It is here
fully 200 yards in width, and flows with a swift and even current of
some five miles an hour. The banks are so hollow and brittle that it
is dangerous to approach the water’s edge, and anyone falling into the
stream would certainly be lost.
We started at 8.50 A.M.; our road crossed a grassy plain, cultivated in a
few little patches; the soil is magnificent, a rich black earth, equal to
the finest part of the Delta in Egypt. Most striking is the lonesomeness
of the country. We met a few wandering Turkmans, and saw only one little
village, Azizlü, on the mountain side to our right. Below it is a large
ancient cemetery, full of tombstones of lava, inscribed with Roman
numerals.
We were now approaching the edge of the plain, which in this quarter is
bordered by an immense marsh, full of tall canes, and traversed by a
clear and rapid stream, a tributary of the Jeyhoun (or Jeyhāan, as the
people of the country call it). The range of the Amanus here gradually
sinks into low, rounded hills of lava, and the black and porous stone
projects from the soil everywhere. In front of us, upon a lofty, conical
hill, was a large castle, built entirely of black lava. We halted
near it at a Turkman summer encampment, consisting of half a dozen
huts of sticks and cane, plastered over with clay; and after rest and
refreshment, ascended the steep hill to visit the old fort known as
Toprak Kalesi. It is a fortress of the middle ages, probably Armenian,
and evidently constructed in order to command the approach to the plain
on this side. It has a double line of walls (the inner line of very great
solidity), and a keep, with great vaulted halls under it; all round the
walls are small chambers, loopholed; below these are the stables and
magazines, and in the middle of the great courtyard is a large cistern
for receiving the rain-water. The whole surface of the hill is so thickly
overgrown with brushwood and plants that it was not easy to make a way
through it. In all these old Cilician fortresses snakes abound, many of
them extremely poisonous, and half-way up the hill my friend pointed out
to me a large black snake in the brushwood. Below the fortress had once
been a considerable village, but all is now in ruin, excepting a handsome
minaret of black lava and limestone. Several antique pillars had been
used in building the mosque attached to it, and I noticed one handsome
Corinthian capital of white marble.
Our arrival excited much curiosity among the Turkman villagers, but they
were very civil, and the women came round us unveiled. Their headdress
was a tall cap of white muslin, folded under the chin, and many had large
gold or silver coins hanging at the temples.
The valley, at the mouth of which is the fortress of Toprak Kalesi,
leads into another wild and uncultivated valley, lying between the main
chain of Giaour Dagh, and the low hills in front of it. The valley is
watered by a fine little stream (the Arra Sou), but nearly the whole
district consists of marsh land and pasturage, covered with low brushwood.
The aspect of Giaour Dagh from this side is very fine, the front range
being thickly covered with forest, while behind it tower the main ridges,
white with perennial snow.
In about an hour and a half after leaving Toprak Kalesi, we came to the
village of Osmanieh. Near it we met some 150 recruits on their march
down to Adana, a fine-looking set of fellows, though for the most part
in rags; several of them saluted us very civilly as we passed. Nowhere,
indeed, during my whole journey had I any reason to complain of the
behaviour of the people on the score of politeness. I was a foreigner, a
Christian; my appearance, dress, and manners, could not fail to present
many distasteful, many ridiculous points; yet never once was I treated
with rudeness, and once only, viz. in this very village of Osmanieh,
was there even the smallest laugh raised at my expense, and even on the
occasion referred to it was all in good humour. The Osmanli, whether of
high or low rank, is naturally a gentleman; whatever may be his faults,
low buffoonery or laughter at the expense of other people is not amongst
them. I wonder what the experiences of a foreigner would have been under
similar circumstances in many a village nearer home?
The village of Osmanieh is only about ten years old, and was established
under the following circumstances.
It is well known that at all times the border between Syria and Turkey
has been one of the most disturbed and unquiet districts in the empire,
owing to the mountaineers and robber chiefs who inhabited the Giaour
Dagh. At present the country is tolerably safe, but this has only been
the case for about five years past. Before that time the route we
took would have been most dangerous, to a European perhaps fatal, as
the fierce mountaineers would never have permitted a foreigner, and a
Giaour, to pass through their country unmolested. Until about five years
ago these men were completely masters of this district. They robbed,
murdered, and made raids in all directions at their pleasure. Caravans
could not pass; at times even a strong armed escort could not afford
protection. At length even the inert authorities in Stamboul felt that
something must be done, and about eleven years ago Dervish Pasha was
expressly sent from Stamboul to take the command of a strong force, and
put an end to this state of things. But the mountaineers made a stubborn
resistance, and it required four or five years of active warfare before
they were subdued. The loss of life on both sides was great, and Dervish
Pasha was succeeded by Ismail, Jevdet, and Daoud Pashas in the operations
against the rebels. The mountain villages were at length captured, the
chiefs taken prisoners and sent either to Constantinople or “interned”
in some remote part of the empire, the villages were destroyed, and
the common people removed from the mountains and forced to settle in
the plains. For a long time small detachments of soldiers were kept
in the mountains, at distances of three or four hours apart. Most of
these are now withdrawn, and there is no one living in the mountains,
but the passes are still kept by strong guards. Yet even now robberies
and murderous attacks are common, especially on the side towards
Alexandretta. We heard of a case which had just occurred a little to the
south of Osmanieh, where the mountains are much lower, and the caravan
route to Alexandretta crosses them. Indeed, if the Government at all
relaxed its vigilance matters would soon be as bad as ever.
Osmanieh was one of the villages in which the mountaineers had been
forced to settle. It is a primitive little place, with a cold, bracing
air in winter, but in summer it is nearly deserted, owing to malaria. The
people live almost entirely by their flocks and herds, and, although the
soil is fertile, there is but little cultivation. From a distance its
whitewashed houses and high minaret give the impression of a flourishing
little place, but it consists of only 140 to 150 scattered houses.
We entered it just before sunset, and stopped at the shop of a Syrian
tailor to rest, while our interpreter tried to find us a lodging. In a
few minutes nearly all the population gathered round to stare at us;
conspicuous amongst them was a fine-looking Keurdt, with a long beard,
beautiful teeth, bright eyes, and a profile resembling the handsomest
faces on the Assyrian monuments. He seemed extremely amused at us, and
his observations caused a little merriment among the crowd. However
they were not rude, but we were glad to retire to a shed offered us by
an Armenian. It was not a luxurious lodging, being simply an outhouse in
his garden, with great holes in the wall and roof, freely admitting sun
and air, but here at all events we were secure from intrusion, and so no
doubt more comfortable than if we had lodged in the Government House, the
usual resort of travellers like ourselves, and been obliged to hold a
kind of levée, which to a tired traveller could not fail to be irksome,
though meant in all kindness by the visitors.
Our host told us that there were only five Armenian families in Osmanieh,
and complained much of the hard treatment they endured from the Muslims.
He seemed a good, simple kind of man. He had lately lost his wife,
and was left in a miserable state of poverty with two or three little
children. He told me that owing to the wildness of the country, and the
want of population, wild animals were numerous, and sometimes dangerous.
A year ago a leopard had killed four children and a man before it was
itself hunted and killed. In severe winter weather the wolves are
dangerous; about three years back five persons had been killed by them in
that neighbourhood. The cattle and sheep must be driven into the villages
every night to secure them from wild animals and robbers.
In the middle of the night I was suddenly awakened by the cry of a pack
of jackals, and the furious barking of the village dogs.
_April 29._—Left Osmanieh at 8 A.M. Rode up the wide valley, which is
marshy, but with here and there a bit of finely cultivated land. It is
well watered. Half an hour from Osmanieh we crossed a stream running
left to right, soon afterwards another flowing right to left. This our
guide called Yalpouzi Tchai. The banks of these streams are well wooded,
and literally alive with birds of many kinds, especially the thrush (or
blackbird), and the nightingale filled the air with melody.
On our right was the village of Tchardak, and above it, on a towering
peak of the mountains, the ruined fort of Tchardak. The mountains on
either hand, thickly covered with oaks, pines, ash, myrtle, and arbutus,
gradually closed up the extremity of the valley. At 10 A.M. we reached
the military post of Devrishli, from which the pass has its name,
Devrishli Bel. This pass traverses a chain of mountains connected with
the Giaour Dagh, but not the main chain; this could be seen at intervals,
rising far above all the mountains round it.
The Yalpouzi Tchai issues from the pass just at the point where we
entered it, and the same stream (I think) enters the pass on the other
side by a tremendous gorge, at the point of our exit from the pass. It
is the same stream which flows down from Bagtche and above it, but it is
there called by another name. Almost every village gives a different name
to the river adjoining. Some of the peasants only know a river as “the
river,” e.g. in the Billali Pass above Bagtche I asked a man the name of
the river, to which he replied “Neh olour? Sou olour!” “What should it
be? It is ‘the river.’” The entrance to the pass is very marshy, and
the road was rendered worse by a heavy thunderstorm, but we made our way
through thick bushes of myrtle and jasmine rising high above the horses’
backs, and began the ascent of the pass.
Though the Devrishli Pass has no very steep, precipitous ascents, as the
mountain passes of Western Anatolia, it is very long and difficult, and
in winter quite impassable. It runs across the crests of a succession of
broken heights, the offsets of the main chain, but diving deep at times
into ravines. The ridges along which the pass runs are separated from the
rest of the mountains by deep ravines and river channels. The slopes on
the other side of these ravines run up to heights more elevated than our
path, but still far lower than the main range, the snowy ridges of which
were visible at intervals. Many spots on the slopes, to all appearance
almost inaccessible, were nevertheless cultivated, for there were here
and there cleared patches sown with wheat.
The wanton and insensate destruction of the forest is very striking. In
some spots spaces had been cleared by burning, and the blackened stumps
formed a strong contrast to the bright verdure of the crops below them.
In other spots the trees had been ringed, and then left to fall through
time and decay; and in others, again, the axe had levelled a whole
plantation, which still cumbered the ground, and would probably never
be used, even for fuel. All the finest pines had been cut and fired at
the base, to make “tcheragh.”[8] It was melancholy to see such wanton
and mischievous destruction. The Government is said to be taking up the
question of the forests in earnest, and assuredly it is high time to do
so, but it may be doubted whether anything will really be done.
We met many parties of peasants on their way down to reap the harvest in
the plain of Cilicia. They were very poorly clad, and appeared a strong,
lithe set of men; not one in twenty of them was armed.
One party seemed well off. They had their women with them, who were all
well dressed, and wore no veils, but had many ornaments, amongst others
two large bronze or silver medallions, hung at the left temple. Their
headdress, like that of all the women in this district, was a tall,
square coif of white muslin or cotton, the ends wrapped under the chin.
At about the middle of the pass, on a rock with precipitous sides from
400 to 500 feet high, and cut off by deep gorges from the surrounding
heights, was a ruined fort “Keupèk Kalesi” (Dog Castle), perhaps one of
the many robber holds destroyed by the Government troops a few years ago.
So far as we could learn, these mountains are only traversed by the pass
through which we came, and its continuation, the “Billali Pass.” The
whole group of mountains lying N.W. and N. of the high chain of Giaour
Dagh, and E. and N.E. of the continuation of the Amanus, up to the south
edge of the plain of Marash, forms one chaotic, intricate, and lofty
mass, the scenery of which is of the grandest order. A few streams make
their way through it, but their channels are impassable and their course
only known by conjecture. No wonder that caravans and travellers, and
all the country round, were at the mercy of the ruffian chiefs who lived
in this great natural fortress.
The general direction of the pass, with but slight variation, was
eastwards. It occupied us nearly three hours to traverse, and then we
made our way through pleasant, winding valleys, watered by a considerable
river, and amidst well-wooded heights to the village of Bagtche. This
is prettily situated at the junction of two deep ravines, down which
flow the head-waters of the Yalpouzi. It consists of a few solidly
built houses, clustered round the village mosque, a graceful and pretty
building, the whole buried in a grove of poplar and walnut trees. The
inhabitants consist of fifteen Muslims and about one hundred and fifty
Protestant Armenians, connected with the American Missions at Marash and
Aintab. But the Mohammedan is evidently the dominant and established
faith. The village seems new, at least we looked in vain in its extensive
cemetery for any antique remains. The kaimakam, a fine-looking, elderly
gentleman, who was in very bad health, invited us to drink coffee;
afterwards we adjourned to the shop of the village dyer. The only food
we could procure was a little very bad bread, and yet worse yaourt, and
I was tired, cold, and faint with hunger, having only been able to get a
little bread and coffee at 6.30 A.M. The villagers—evidently miserably
poor—clustered round us, glad to exchange a few words with Europeans.
They said they were twenty-four hours distant from Aintab, which lay
to the east, and thirty-six hours from Aleppo. They had no resident
minister, but at stated times a native clergyman came round from Marash
or Aintab, and sometimes one of the American Missionaries. They were not
at all molested in their worship by their Mohammedan masters, but showed
their dislike to them very clearly.
The land all round the village is thickly strewn with great blocks and
boulders of stone, red, white, black, greenish, and yellowish, which
rendered the paths intricate and difficult; some of these rocks were
extremely beautiful in the clear water of the river.
After a short repose we entered the Billali Bel (Whetstone Pass). Its
general direction is N.E., and it is traversed by a comparatively good
road, which is kept up with some care, but its declivities are numerous
and very steep. Some of the slopes across which it passes are at so steep
an incline, that a stone could be thrown down directly, and without
effort, into the roaring river hundreds of feet below. The scenery is
grand and beautiful, with lovely views down the pass of the great ridges
of Giaour Dagh. All is well wooded, especially the river ravine, which
is full of fine planes, walnuts, and other trees, few as yet in leaf.
The stream itself is very lovely, clear as crystal, now roaring along in
rapid torrent, now foaming in cascades over great masses of green or red
marble or dolomite, now curling round roots of gnarled and aged trees,
now sleeping in a placid pool, and every side valley brings its tribute
of waters.
Here and there are lonely cottages, with a few patches of cultivated
ground round them, perched high up in positions almost inaccessible on
the sides of the ravine. What a life their owners must lead! And yet
I am convinced that on the whole it is a far happier life than that of
most persons of a similar rank in Western Europe. Though poor, their
wants are few, and at least they can enjoy the bright sun and free air of
heaven, and are not condemned to pass an existence of monotonous toil and
trouble—only varied by an occasional drinking bout—in the thick, murky,
joyless atmosphere of some great manufacturing town, or in the close
courts and reeking alleys of some populous city.
They are a simple-minded, honest, and really religious race, free,
moreover, from many of the vices of civilized society.
After all, life is a system of compensations!
I thought we should not require more than two hours to traverse the
pass, but it occupied us four and a half hours. We followed the course
of the river till it received a large tributary from the east, and
then we approached the water-parting, which, according to my friend’s
mountain barometer, was about 3500 feet above the sea, and was formed by
a series of low, rounded hills, full of magnificent pine forests. Just
then darkness came on; our cavass hesitated, he had lost the way, and we
had the unpleasant prospect of spending the night out in the cold. But
presently we met a party of woodcutters returning to the village, who
took us back in quite a different direction, and at 8 P.M. we reached
the Armenian mountain-village of Kizil Aghadj Oldousou, and alighted
at the house of the mukhtar, a rich Armenian landholder, named Toros
Chakrian, welcomed by the fierce baying of a pack of huge wolf dogs; but
I was so cold, so stiff, so exhausted by fatigue and want of food, that
I could scarcely mount the staircase of wood that led up to the house.
The hospitable host kindly helped me up, and we entered a handsome room,
well carpeted, well lighted, and with cushions and silken coverlets on
the floor. A raised daïs ran along one side of the room, and a blazing
wood fire cast its cheerful gleam over the company. Nothing could exceed
their hospitality. I was so benumbed that I could not take off my boots
and riding gaiters (a necessary piece of etiquette for a guest), so
that the master himself kindly helped me, and I was soon seated at the
fireside. Two more candelabras were brought in, and coffee and cigarettes
offered. Two splendid silver narghilehs succeeded, which Toros himself
lighted for us. Then, seeing that I was still shivering with cold, he
ordered glasses of hot tea to be prepared, but it was long before I could
recover the natural heat, so chilled was I by the sharp mountain air and
by want of food; and our host, with the best intentions, kept us waiting
till nearly eleven o’clock for an elaborate supper, instead of giving us
what was at hand. In the meantime we sat and conversed. Our host was a
well-made man of about thirty-five years of age, with handsome features,
splendid teeth, bright eyes, and a look of great determination. His
dress was of the Marash style, a maroon-coloured woollen robe, heavily
embroidered with gold and crimson silk, a waistcoat of the same, thick
cloth trousers, and a Syrian silk turban round his fez. He had been
indulging in a little raki, and was very voluble. He seemed delighted
to welcome us, and repeated twenty times at least, “memnoùn im̆,” “I am
thankful” (i.e. that you are come). Now, pleased at finding that I could
converse a little with him, he would take me by the hand and squeeze it
affectionately. Anon he would order one of his children, or servants, to
bring out something for our honour or amusement, a plate of preserved
violets, Samsoun and Latakia tobacco, fresh narghilehs, a bag of antique
coins (very few of the least value, but I saw one good Demetrius Theos),
a Persian decoration—an order of some kind, but I forget how obtained—a
handsome rifle, which he said he had taken about eight years before in
the attack on Zeytin, a semi-independent Armenian village, where he had
served under Atesh Pasha. In the meantime his tongue ran on incessantly.
He told us about his land, his cattle, his business transactions, how at
times he drove down herds of his own cattle to Alexandretta for sale, and
only a short time back had been attacked by robbers on the road, whom
he had beaten off, but not before one of their shots had wounded his
horse in the breast. He had been to Constantinople, and showed us his
photograph taken at Sabah’s, with all his “accoutrements” on, and with
his captured rifle in his hand. Our interpreter said that Toros had an
income of about $4000 a year, a very large revenue for this country, but
the Government taxes absorb a considerable part of it. With the remainder
he lives a happy life enough, keeping open house, and exercising the
greatest hospitality. It is a pity the Government do not employ men like
this in the public service. This man I am sure would serve the State
well, and as an officer would lead his men valiantly. But they dare
not give power to men of this stamp. If they did so to any extent, the
present miserable system of misrule would soon come to an end.
Supper was at length announced, and our host took my hand, led me into
an adjoining room, and placed me near the great copper tray on which
the dishes were arranged. Small pieces of calico were given to us as
napkins. Raki and home-made wine were served, the latter very palatable.
It is invidious to criticise the _cuisine_ of an hospitable host,
but the result after three hours’ preparation was but poor. The only
really good things were the bread and the yaourt.[9] The rice pilaff
was gritty, the meat so tough that one could not eat it, and one dish
so strongly flavoured with garlic that I did not venture upon a second
taste of it. By way of grace before meat, a young Armenian, who acts as
schoolmaster to the village, and as a kind of extra servant to Toros—no
very pleasant berth, by the way—chanted the Lord’s Prayer in Turkish;
the children accompanied him, and I noticed that they turned the palms
of their hands upwards all the time (“manus supinas”). Then, while we
were eating, they stood in front of us and chanted hymns in Turkish,
with those peculiarly loud and nasal intonations which are only to be
heard amongst the Eastern Christians. The master of the house kept time
during the intervals of eating by gently waving his spoon, and when the
hymn languished he would rap the dish sharply, and utter a loud “ha!”
with a few words of command, which acted like an electric shock on the
performers, and set them off again vigorously. I did not eat as much as
I could have eaten, in pity for the chorus, and so rose hungry but warm.
The attendants quickly finished the remains of our supper. We returned
to the “salaamlik,”[10] smoked a narghileh, and at midnight lay down to
sleep.
_April 30th._—Rose at 6 A.M.
Toros Chakrian’s house is of two stories, the upper used as the lodging
of the family. The projecting roof, supported by great pine trunks, forms
a covered gallery extending along the front of the house, and into this
the various rooms open. The house is stone built, and one of the best I
saw in the country. In front of it rise mountains thickly covered with
forest, and with a great quantity of snow only a few hundred feet above
us. Our host was sitting in a summer-house, near which lay a number
of pretty white marble capitals, which he told us he had brought from
Anazarba, and meant to use some day in building a church.
The morning was bright and sunny, but the wind was piercing, and we
waited so long for breakfast that we all became miserably cold, but, _en
revanche_, Toros supplied raki and cigarettes in abundance. Breakfast
consisted of rice soup, some milk, and another garlic-flavoured dish,
so that I only took bread and milk. The same prayer and hymn as the
evening before accompanied our meal. After breakfast our host brought
his children to show us. They were one boy and two girls, the eldest a
fine girl of thirteen to fourteen years, with handsome, strongly marked
features, and dark, rich complexion. She wore a thick necklace of gold
coins, and made haste to escape when the inspection was over. When we
left, Toros escorted us a little distance, and I noticed that the wound
in his horse’s breast was even yet not thoroughly healed.
We descended through hills, partially cleared and sown with grain, the
direction of the pass being still N.E., but after mounting a ridge the
road turned S.E., and we began to descend. Before us in the plain was
a lower mountain, which our guide called Giaour Dagh, and a lake of
considerable size, which we were told abounds with splendid fish, but few
are ever brought to market, as the Turks do not like fish; they think
it produces fever. The fish of the Jeyhoun and Sarus are of very poor
quality.
The road gradually descended into a valley full of oak, and of hawthorn
in full bloom, and with a beautiful little river, the Imalu Sou, flowing
towards the lake. The extensive plain that runs up to Marash was so
inundated that we had great difficulty even in skirting the edge of it
owing to the marshes. The number of brooks and streams is very great;
besides the Imalu, we passed two large brooks, and soon after I observed
another large and rapid stream running parallel with the road. Our
cavass, whose pronunciation was very imperfect, called it the “Keulpoir
Sou” (i.e. “Keulpongar Sou” = the Ash Springs River), and said that it
burst all at once out of the ground. Soon after, we passed the villages
of El Oglou Tajirlis and Tchakallu and came to the “Ak Sou” (which our
cavass called the “Āās̄i”), a rapid, eddying torrent, turbid and muddy,
spanned by a bridge of six arches, none of them even or alike. It is
of the same style as the bridge of Messis, and is doubtless a work of
Justinian, but repaired at various ages since. Marash was visible a long
way off on the hill side across the plain, but we were obliged to make a
long détour to avoid the marshes along the Ak Sou. We reached the town at
4.30 P.M., wet, tired, hungry, and shivering from the cold north wind,
which swept down from the mountains.
Our choice of a khan was unfortunate, our room very bad, the khanji’s
_cuisine_ detestable, and the people, especially the Armenians,
impertinent and inquisitive. I was obliged literally to close the door in
their faces, but I slept soundly, for I was exhausted by cold, hunger,
and fatigue.
_May 1st._—The khanji inclined to be troublesome, but he changed his tone
considerably, when he found I could talk with him in his own language.
We have made a most unlucky choice of lodgings. The bazaars are
close beneath, and all night long the “bekjis” (watchmen) keep up an
intermittent sound of howls, fifes, and whistles. Our door is exactly
opposite the staircase, up which people came to stare at us. They
would calmly take a bench or chair, and watch us for half an hour at
a time. Then, too, an inspection of the weights and measures of the
town was being held, and this khan had been chosen as the place in
which the examination should take place, so that all the tradesmen of
the town were obliged to bring their weights and endazeh (measure) to
have the Government stamp fixed upon them, and loud and long were the
protestations, reproofs, abuse! All these people could look directly into
our room as they came up the stairs, and it was laughable to see their
surprise and curiosity. The “endazeh” measured exactly 2 feet 3 inches,
but it may be a local measure.
Marash is the chief seat of a most flourishing American Protestant
mission (United Presbyterian), with branches at Killis, Aintab, and
throughout the whole district as far to the west as Nigdeh. The number
of Armenians in Cilicia is estimated at 153,000 souls, and nearly 14,000
of these are Protestant, with twenty-six churches and chapels, many of
them having schools attached. In Marash alone there are four chapels and
eleven schools (large and small), with an attendance of 450 children for
five days in the week. In each chapel divine service is held twice on
Sundays and twice during week days.
I called upon the Rev. Mr. Montgomery, who is in charge here. He was
absent, but I was most kindly received by Mrs. Montgomery, from whom,
and from some of the principal members of the congregation, I gathered
much information about this town. Marash contains from about 25,000
to 30,000 people (this is a probable estimate). Of these 7000 to 8000
are Christians, principally Orthodox Armenians and Protestants—the
Protestants being about 2700 in number.
Of Greeks, there are scarcely any, and only a few Roman Catholics,
although there is a Jesuit mission here, which expends much money, and
has a large and finely built college, situated on a hill in the middle
of the town. On the other hand, the success of the Protestant mission
is surprising. I was told that even many Muslims would join if they
did not fear the persecution that would assuredly result. Much depends
on the case of a Muslim named Mustafa, who had become a Protestant
Christian, but had suffered severe persecution. Indeed, his life had only
been spared at the strong instance (so at least I understood) of the
American and British ambassadors—this probably was an exaggeration on my
informants part—but he had been exiled to Smyrna.
The American mission lives on good terms with the Orthodox Armenians,
but, with few exceptions, the leading Muslims, and indeed all classes of
Muslims, are hostile. Sometimes the governors are favourably disposed,
but dare not display their good will to any great extent, lest the
influence of the rich and powerful Beys should be used against them
at Constantinople; and a fear was openly expressed, that should any
disturbance or war of Europeans against Turks take place, the native
Christians would be the victims. The bitterness of the Osmanlis had much
increased of late. Above all, the influential Turks are opposed to the
opening of schools.[11] Yet Mrs. Montgomery spoke highly of some of the
Turks, and said that very often men of high probity and honour were found
amongst them. The condition of the poorer Christians is very pitiable,
and they suffer extremely at times, more so than the poorer Muslims, the
latter being here greatly assisted by their own people, who are better
able to afford help. The bedeliyeh, or exemption tax from military
service, presses heavily upon the poorer Christians, although its amount
is trifling, and cases of Christians becoming Muslim were not uncommon;
sometimes an Armenian would apostatize in order to spite and vex his
relations.
Except during a part of the summer, the town is healthy. This is chiefly
due to the fine supply of water, which descends from a group of springs
in the mountain above the town, and flows in many channels down the
declivity on which the town stands, thus also the place is kept tolerably
clean. A surprising quantity of water bursts out from these springs,
which give to the river its name “Kirk-geuz-pongar Sou,” “the river of
the Forty-eyes Springs.”
The people suffer much from ophthalmia, doubtless caused by damp and the
sudden changes of temperature, but they attribute it in great measure
to the violent winds which prevail at certain seasons. These winds are
almost entirely local, for at the summer station of the mission, a place
called Kara Khan, two hours up in the mountains, they are never felt,
and seldom far beyond the town; Kara Khan is situated in a gorge of the
mountains, and whenever there is a thunderstorm in the high ranges of
Taurus, a violent gust of wind sweeps down through it upon the plain.
The local wind is doubtless caused by some peculiar formation of the
mountains round the town. The people look robust, but all the weakly die
out before they are three years of age, and the loss of a child is very
little thought of.
The height of the town above the sea is about 2500 feet; the heat in
summer is great, and changes of temperature are very sudden. Living is
extremely cheap. Meat in winter costs 3 T. piastres per oke (equivalent
to about 7_d._ per 2¾ English lbs.), in summer, 1½ piastres per oke.
Milk, in summer, 30 paras per oke, in winter, 40 to 50 paras (equivalent
to about 2_d._ per 2¾ lbs.). Eggs very cheap; peaches 5½ piastres per
batman of 2½ okes; apples not of good quality, about the same price;
grapes are amazingly cheap, viz. 30 paras per batman. But in the town
the fruit sold is not of good quality, owing to the mutesarrif, who,
with the best intentions, and with a view to benefit the poor, has fixed
an arbitrary price on all fruit brought to market, in consequence of
which law the cultivators send only their worst fruit into the town, and
consume the best at home. All octroi duties are now removed.
At present the trade of Marash, as also that of Adana, is suffering in
consequence of the famine in the interior. The chief trade of Marash
is the manufacture of woollen fabrics used for clothing. Some of these
are very beautiful, being embroidered or interwoven with gold and silk,
and all are wonderfully cheap, so great is the lack of money in the
country. The leather work of all kinds is excellent, and we saw some fine
specimens of saddlery inlaid with gold. The boots are very good, being
strong and well made, but the waste of leather in them is strange. In
the goldsmiths’ bazaar I saw some jewellery, principally bracelets and
brooches; it was strong but not elegant.
Marash contains about twenty mosques, some with very graceful minarets in
the style usual in Cilicia. In one mosque, which bore some resemblance to
the beautiful Olou Jamaa of Adana, was a fine Norman zigzag arch. There
are twelve Christian churches, but some of these are rather houses used
as churches.
The old fort stands upon a conical hill to the west of the town; it is
Saracenic, but built, I think, on earlier foundations. The arches of the
gateways are made of stones, mortised in the style so common in Cairo,
but less elaborately. The stones, which are cubes of limestone, yellow
and brown, cause the whole building to appear, at a distance, of a deep
orange colour. On the wall near the great gate are the statues of a
lion and a panther, exactly like the lions of the Alhambra. The fort is
dismantled and ruinous, but the thick iron ribs with which its ponderous
gate is covered, pitted and dented all over with balls, testify to many
a desperate combat for its possession. The sentry at first refused us
permission to enter, but through the kindness of the second surgeon of
the Military Hospital, an Italian, we were allowed to visit the interior.
The hospital is very clean, and well kept, and the diet and treatment of
the sick soldiers good, but the dispensary seemed poorly furnished.
The site of Germanicia is a little to the east of Marash, but absolutely
no remains, except a few lines of foundation wall, are to be seen; nor
did I notice any antiquities in Marash, save one or two sarcophagi, used
now as water troughs. At the mission house, however, a curious bronze
statuette was shown to me. It was the figure of a woman wearing a tall,
conical cap, and mounted on a bull or ox, hunched like the Brahminy
cattle. It had been washed up by the rain, in a ravine upon the mountain
behind the town. I bought a similar figure of an ox only at Karaman, the
figure mounted on it had been lost.
_May 2nd._—Went at 8 A.M. to visit the churches of the Protestant
community. The first church, a plain but very spacious building,
contained a congregation of 380 to 400 people, the men together on one
side, the women on the other, all seated on the ground, and listening
to the reader, who was reading a Psalm. The order, the cleanliness,
the devout attention of these poor people was truly admirable. At
the conclusion of divine service they formed into little circles of
fifteen to twenty each, with the instructor of each class addressing
them from a book, either a Catechism, or some portion of Scripture.
The quiet, unassuming attention of all was in strong contrast with the
noisy confusion usually prevailing in a Greek or Armenian church. In an
adjoining building was a school of about 150 children.
From this I went to another and larger church, where a congregation of at
least 450 were present. The spectacle was exactly the same, and a school
of not less than 200 children was attached to this church. All the books
used are in Turkish, but printed in the Armenian character. Lastly I
visited the Theological School. The instruction is from a translation of
the United Presbyterian Theological Catechism. A small class of little
children was here also, and the pupils were being catechized on “duty to
parents.”
These people are all served by their own native pastors, and the churches
are self-supporting, the American clergymen simply directing and
superintending; the only support sent from America is for the Theological
School. A piece of land had been bought for the purpose of building a
Theological College, but permission to build had not yet been obtained.
The land is “wakf” (mortmain), and the Muslims of Marash object to
buildings being erected on it, as they say “no fruit can then be grown
from it,” their real reason probably being their dislike of education for
the rayahs. At the same time it is only just to say that in Alexandria I
have known most advantageous offers of purchase for “wakf” lands refused
for the same reason alleged by the Muslims of Marash. Mr. Montgomery was
then at Aleppo, endeavouring to obtain the Wali’s permission to go on
with the building.
The students, after graduating, are sent out as preachers to the various
villages throughout the district. Their farthest station on the west is
Nigdeh, on the east Aintab; at Killis and at Kashab (on Mount Cassius)
are flourishing little Protestant communities, but at Aleppo very little
is effected.
The ladies of the mission used to take part in the work, but from
ill-health and other causes had ceased to do so.
It was truly a touching sight to see this zealous little community of
Christians. Many of the women had brought their little children with
them, some quite infants, and there were many lovely children’s faces to
be seen. A great number of elderly men and women, too, were present. The
whole congregation was most attentive, and though in large part poorly
dressed, of exemplary cleanliness.
After the inspection I paid a visit to the mission house, which is on the
hill above the town, and commands a most extensive view of the plain of
Marash and the mountains round it. Looking south, one sees on the extreme
right two peaks of Karajah Dagh. This mountain is visible from Adana.
Next, Dourbin Dagh (Telescope Mountain); lower than this, and between it
and Marash, is Seur̀r̀ Dagh; next Giaour Dagh, sweeping off towards the
S.W.; then the long line of Kapujan Dagh, across the extremity of the
plain; lower than it, and between it and Marash, the smaller Giaour Dagh
and its lake before mentioned; almost due south, and faintly visible,
is what is called in Mr. Montgomery’s manuscript map of the country
“Saddleback Mountain”; one of the Armenians called it “Keurdt Dagh.”
The higher ridge of Achyr Dagh, the mountain behind Marash, cannot be
seen from the town; only its nearer and lower ranges are visible. Its
continuation (Nadjar, Sakar, and Kanlu Daghler) stretches far away to the
N.E., and forms a long wall of snowy heights.
I sketched out a conjectural map of our route through the Devrishli and
Billali passes, and was told that we had taken a long and difficult
road, that the easiest way of coming to Marash is from Osmanieh, to a
place called Tejli Ova, which is five hours from Baghtche, on the side
towards Adana. Then from Tejli Ova to Baghtche. From Baghtche four hours
through the mountains to a place called Kazan Ali, which is on the edge
of the plain, six hours farther from Marash than the spot at which we
came down upon the plain. The reason why muleteers preferred the route
we took was that the descent to Kazan Ali was very abrupt, and did not
suit their loaded animals. This route, moreover, was very interesting,
because the pass between these two places had been closed up by an
ancient fortification, of which considerable remains yet exist. About one
hour and a half from Baghtche, on the side towards Kazan Ali, was a deep
gorge, through which the road passed; on the left or north side of this
the mountain ended in a vast, precipitous cliff, and a wall of great hewn
stones had been built at an angle with this precipice so as completely to
block the passage. This wall had been pulled down, and through the breach
Mrs. Montgomery had once travelled with her husband; but a piece of the
wall some thirty to forty feet high was still standing, and on it were
several Greek inscriptions. Mr. Montgomery and another of the American
missionaries had examined the whole line of the mountains, and thought
that this must be the true Pylæ Amanides, which are usually placed much
farther south. I afterwards asked our muleteer about these passes, and he
confirmed what I had heard from Mrs. Montgomery, only he declared there
was no other pass from Osmanieh to Baghtche except the Devrishli Bel by
which we had come.
There is a bed of extremely fine slate on the table-land at the top of
the pass between Baghtche and Kazan Ali.
[Illustration: MARASH
Giaour Dagh in the distance
_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]
I took leave of my kind hostess with regret and a feeling of high
esteem. She is a good, zealous woman, very sympathetic, and full of sound
good sense. Unfortunately her health is not strong, perhaps from the
malaria of the climate. Her two sons were fine, healthy little fellows,
speaking Turkish better than English, and often employing Turkish idioms
when speaking English, which had the oddest effect.
There is a direct road from Marash to Alexandretta (36 hours) through
a place called Islahiyeh, marked in Mr. Montgomery’s manuscript map.
This is one of the villages formed by the forcible settlement of the
mountaineers removed from the Giaour Dagh after the government troops
had subdued them. It was a very marshy and unhealthy place, and _corvée_
labourers, masons, and carpenters, had been sent from Marash to build
houses for the forced immigrants. The health of the place had, however,
now much improved. The country is so level (until the road reaches the
pass of Beylan above Alexandretta) that very little would be needed to
make a good carriage road, and there are fine oak forests along the
route. But the unhealthiness of the country would be a great obstacle to
colonization.