DERBE. KARAMAN.
_June 11th._—A young Armenian offered to guide me to the site of an old
town, but as he admitted that there was nothing whatever to be seen but
merely the position of the walls, I preferred to go to some rock-tombs
farther up the valley of the stream which flowed past the village. It
proved to be a precipitous rock, perfectly honeycombed with tombs;
but only the lower chambers could be reached. A large, square shaft,
conducted from the entrance chamber to the upper ranges of tombs, but it
had been blocked up by a great stone, which prevented all access, and I
returned disappointed.
Left Devleh at 10.30 A.M., our course was along the valley of the
stream; there was here a little cultivation, but the hills around were
merely covered with sparse herbage, and not so much as a bush varied the
monotony of the landscape. This is the character of the whole district
for some eighteen to twenty miles round Devleh. It is a dreary region
of rounded hills of no great elevation, formed of conglomerate or white
marble, good perhaps for pasturage, but not pleasant to look upon. About
two hours after we had left Devleh, heavy thunderstorms began to break
in all directions around us. At intervals we passed through small plains
amidst the hills, and at last came to the edge of the great plain.
Finding here a beautifully grassy spot, we halted to allow the horses to
graze, and sheltered ourselves in the entrance of a cave hard by, for the
limestone and conglomerate of this district are full of caves. The great
level expanse, chequered with brilliant colours, stretched out before
us; it was full of fine pasture, but only a few camels and cattle, under
the charge of a barbaric-looking herdsman, were to be seen; they were
almost the only animals we had seen all day. The masses of flowers upon
the plain gave a rich glow of colour to its surface for miles upon miles
together. The principal tints were mauve and the brightest conceivable
yellow. Tired by the journey, I dozed, but awoke completely chilled. In
this beautiful but most treacherous climate precaution is very necessary;
one of our sourijis slept at the same time for about an hour, became
chilled, and awoke with a shivering fit of ague; fortunately a large
draught of hot tea, and a sudorific at night, prevented anything more
serious. The position of a sick man in this country, whether native or
stranger, is truly pitiable, for the commonest conveniencies of civilized
life are lacking, and what would perhaps be only an indisposition in
other more favoured countries, often has a fatal termination here.
We left our resting place at 3.50 P.M., and reached at sunset the
hamlet of Serpek, which I had been advised to visit, on account of a
fine ancient sarcophagus buried there. It rained heavily nearly all the
way, but the road was very easy; it lay through rounded hills of white
marble, whose contour was soft and flowing, very different to the rough
and jagged outlines of the limestone ranges, or the abrupt, precipitous
peaks of the volcanic chains.
The marble appeared in very large sheets on the surface of the soil, the
scenery resembled that around Devleh. There was not a tree, not even a
bush, for the whole distance, but abundance of fragrant and aromatic
herbs, and flowers of every colour in astonishing quantity; of grass
there seemed to be but little. It was over these wide-extended hills,
and over the plain, that the vast flocks of these poor people—their
only wealth—once used to feed. We descended into the plain by a steep,
rocky ravine; a deer, startled at our approach, quickly bounded up the
hill-side. Serpek lay below us, separated from the great plain by a
screen of low marble hills. It is a “tchiftlik” (farm or hamlet), eight
hours distant from Eregli, belonging to Devleh, situated opposite the
S.W. extremity of Karajah Dagh, and exactly opposite the larger of the
two extinct volcanic cones whose form is of such strange regularity. Part
of the village is on the plain, surrounded by very fertile land, part
on a small outlying hill. On the plain, about a quarter of a mile from
the hill, and surrounded by houses and cornfields, is the spot where the
famous sarcophagus lies buried. The villagers agreed to open part of
it for me to-morrow, as I carried an order from the Kaimakam of Eregli
directing them to give me every assistance “pără ylàn” (on payment), and
this was soon arranged, for I found them very reasonable. We were lodged
in the house of the mukhtar; the quarters were tolerably comfortable, but
the fleas, as usual, too numerous to be pleasant.
Of course, at evening the villagers collected to visit us and taste
our coffee. They seemed a very good set of fellows, but not much
information could be obtained from them; some of them were in tolerable
circumstances, but most had lost all their flocks. They said they
belonged to Devleh, but much preferred Serpek; unfortunately the water
supply here was precarious. They sometimes removed to Devleh in winter.
Their land was very fertile, only requiring rain; this year the harvest
would be excellent, while as for grass “there was enough of it for a
thousand horses,” and, as we saw next day, this was perfectly true. I
inquired about the water supply; they said it came from the cisterns
of the old city, which are very numerous and well made, being built of
hewn stone, and lined with dark red cement. From my own observations,
and their replies to my questions, I am convinced that this is the
site of Derbe (Acts of the Apostles); indeed, the present name is but
a corruption of the ancient name. “Derbe” would very often be called
“Derve” by the country people; this was probably the real pronunciation,
just as the modern Greeks give the sound of our letter “v” to the “β.”
The next step would be to reverse the “r” and “v,” this is extremely
common; we met with an instance two days later at the village of
“Sìdĕvrĕ,” which was quite as often called “Siderve.” The last step would
be to change the “r” into an “l,” and thus “Derbe” becomes “Devleh”!
Upon asking the mukhtar, “Who founded the village of Devleh?” “Oh!” he
said, “the people were obliged to remove from this place many years ago,
deh-h-h-h _ever_ so many years ago, from want of water.” I presume that
they explored the country all around in hope of finding a perennial
spring, but the only spring for a distance of eleven hours all round is
the perennial fountain at Devleh. Therefore they deserted the old site,
and removed to the new, but still preserved a corrupted form of the old
name. No doubt when the houses of the old city fell to ruin, a great part
of the water supply would be lost, as the rain-water could not enter the
cisterns to any great extent. The Devleh river depends upon snow and
rain; when it flows with a full stream (as this year) the villagers fill
some of the cisterns, and the water lasts for a long time, “a year or
two,” they said. But often the stream is scanty, or quite insufficient.
They said that Serpek was very healthy, and its air salubrious.
Although the pasturage was so rich, I did not expect to find the butter
of any better quality than usual in this country; but, to my surprise,
our host’s wife produced some which was equal in every way to the best
farmhouse butter in England. Our host explained their way of keeping
butter and corn. The earth is their storehouse; the butter is packed
in jars with salt, and buried in the corn-pits. These are round pits,
sometimes lined with stone, but more often only a layer of straw is
placed at the bottom, then layers of wheat and straw alternately; round
the sides, and on the top, a thick layer of straw is placed, and the
earth filled in over all. They said that wheat thus stored kept perfectly
well, and contracted no earthy taste, and certainly their bread was very
good.
The conversation turned upon wages; and I found that our cavass only
received 200 piastres per month (about 34_s._). The Government is
supposed to find arms and clothing for the zaptiehs (only the “old”
clothes are issued to the men as “new,” and the difference of course
embezzled by the provincial authorities). An allowance is also given
to feed the man’s horse, but the cavass must provide his own horse.
It is miserable pay for a man who probably has a family to keep, and,
naturally, the article which the Government gets for its 200 piastres a
month is not usually first-rate. But amongst the cavasses who at various
times escorted me, I met several whom I could not help admiring. Without
the shadow of what we should call education, perhaps at most merely
knowing how to read, they yet had the courteous and dignified bearing of
gentlemen; they were good-natured and obliging, sober and enduring, in
short, good specimens of a race which, in spite of its many faults, has
many admirable qualities.
From this hamlet of Serpek, and from Devleh, the Government, I was told,
raises about T. 2000_l._ every year.
Upon my inquiry as to the climate in winter, they said that it was
usually very severe, and cases of travellers perishing in the snow were
of constant occurrence. In winter too, the wild animals, especially the
wolves, were very dangerous. It was unsafe to go far from the villages
alone at that season, as the wolves were in packs of five or six, and
would attack a single person. They did great mischief to the flocks, in
spite of the ferocious and huge dogs, of which every household possesses
two or three. The villagers mentioned another animal, which seemed to
answer to the description of the hyena. The leopard is not found here,
he is a dweller in the mountains. Their account of the wild animals was
confirmed by the people at Karaman, Maden Shehir, and other places.
These people of course lost most of their animals, like all their
neighbours, but they saved more, and were not reduced to the same
appalling misery as the people of Devleh. In winter they can do no
out-door work; all that can be done is to look to their cattle and
flocks; so they store up a good stock of fuel and make themselves
comfortable, and, indeed, I can well imagine that before 1873-4 they were
most comfortably off. They would always have a _little_ milk and yaourt,
they had the cheese and butter made in the summer, or such of it as they
kept for home use. After the dîme had been paid, and seed set apart for
next year’s sowing, they kept an ample supply of grain for their own
use, and what they sold would supply the little money needed for coffee,
sugar, and tobacco (the latter is now becoming an expensive article for
them); the women, who do almost all the work, spun the wool of the sheep
and the hair of the goats, and wove excellent garments, and in almost
every house in better days excellent “killim” carpets, good “yorghans”
(quilted coverlets), plenty of copper dishes and casseroles might be
seen; in every way they were in a better position than the peasants
farther west, who were less pastoral, and depended almost entirely upon
agriculture; their hospitality, too, was famed; but now all this is over,
for this district, and indeed the whole interior, has received a blow
from which it will require many years to recover. I said that the women
do most of the work, indeed, if it were possible, the men would even
lay upon them the task of ploughing and cultivating the land. As I have
before observed, the men are, generally speaking, a lazy, _fainéant_ set;
give them their coffee and tobacco, and they will sit and gossip all day
long, and leave the care of everything to their wife or wives. I must,
however, admit that polygamy is not common amongst them.
_June 12th._—Rose soon after daybreak. It was a lovely, breezy day, and
the sun not too hot. Went out to examine the few inscriptions in the
village. The only two I could decipher were funereal. On a large stone
forming part of a gateway near our lodging, is the following, rudely
scratched:—
[Illustration:
ΚΕΒΟΗΘΙΙΩΑΝΝΟΥ
ΚΑΙΠΕΤΡΟΥϹΤΡΑΤΟΡΟϹ
ΚΑΙΤΑΡΑϹΙΟΥΗΨ * * * * ΑΥΤΟΙϹ
]
On a very large stone, now broken into two parts, and used as a partition
in one of the cottages, is this:—
[Illustration:
+ ΕΝΘΑΚΑΤΑΚΙΤΕ
ΜΑΡΙΑΗΛΑΜΠΡ·S >
ΚΟΜSΜΝΗΜΗϹ
ΧΑΡΙ
]
The only impression likely to be of interest, was a fragment of a long
inscription. It was built into a wall and difficult to reach. I took a
paper impression of it, but it was too much defaced to read.
Next I visited the site of the old city. It is on the sides and top of
a low, rounded, marble hill, and is separated from the great plain by a
screen of similar hills of somewhat greater elevation. The whole hill
is covered by a vast accumulation of blocks of white marble, hewn and
unhewn. The greater part of the town was built of these unhewn blocks,
fixed together with clay; no mortar seems to have been employed, for I
saw no wall or any remains of solid masonry, such as must have existed
had mortar been employed. There were no remains of theatre or stadium,
or aqueduct (for the latter there would be no spring within many miles’
distance); it is simply a great accumulation of large stones. Many lines
of rough foundation wall extend into the plain, principally towards
north and south. I saw no sculptured marble, no columns, no carving of
any kind, except a few insignificant pieces. There are a few rock tombs
in the hills about. A depression winding up the side and round the
crest of the hill marks the line of road which formed the ascent to the
acropolis. This was all that could be seen of ancient Derbe. I mounted to
the crest of the marble hill farthest to the north, in order to make an
outline of Karajah Dagh. The whole plain lay spread out before me like
a vast carpet, backed by the volcanic chain some thirty miles distant.
The lake Ak Göl, into which the river of Eregli flows, was visible about
twelve miles distant, on N.E. by E. Mekkeh Dagh, the extinct crater, was
at about the same distance. One of the villagers told me that it was
composed entirely of sand and fine earth (tufa dust). There being no rock
in it, its gradual degradation by the rains has given to it its present
curiously regular form; the smaller crater, which is more to the N.E.,
is almost as regularly shaped. Tschihatcheff thus describes the lake of
Eregli.
“The lake of Eregli, otherwise called Ak Göl or Bektik Göl, is at the
western extremity of the vast marshy plain, which is itself only a
side branch from the great plain of Koniah. The great marshes which
surround this lake, especially on the N.E., render it almost impossible
to determine its exact dimensions; for often its waters unite with the
marsh waters, and form only one narrow sheet, which in its ramifications
sometimes reaches the neighbourhood of Bor and Hissar, more than 15
leagues distant from the true basin of the lake. In its normal condition
the dimensions of the lake may be as follows:—Circumference, 7½ leagues;
greatest length, from east to west 3 leagues; greatest width, 2 leagues;
superficies, 4 square leagues. The lake is about 3000 to 3300 feet above
the sea; its waters are sweet, but in summer become warm and of a very
disagreeable taste.”
[Illustration: SITE OF DERBE
(on small central hill)
Karajah Dagh in the distance
_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]
The day was very lovely, a fine breeze from the N.W. tempered the fierce
rays of the sun, and the marble hills presented a surface so easy for
walking, that I soon found myself far away from the village and no living
creature within sight or hearing. The lonesomeness, and at the same time
the singular wildness and beauty of the country make a deep and abiding
impression on the mind.
After a long ramble I returned to the village, and proceeded to the site
of the sarcophagus; one end of it was uncovered. The villagers had dug
a trench alongside of it, about 5 feet deep and 2½ feet broad, and into
this I descended.
The sarcophagus was discovered about six years ago, by one of the
villagers who was sinking a pit for a corn-store. He came upon it about
two feet under the surface of the soil, and when the report of its
discovery had been sent to Koniah, and thence to Constantinople, the
Government commissioned an European (from the description the villagers
gave of him, an Austrian) to examine it. It is truly a fine monument,
though not of the purest style; but for size, and richness of ornament
it is very remarkable. It is _overloaded_ with elaborate ornamentation,
but there is some very good work in it, and many of the figures of men
and animals are of admirable design and execution. The lid and body are
each cut out of a single block of white marble, so pure and of such
good quality, that the grain of it is like the finest loaf sugar, and
where the villagers had accidentally chipped off a little piece with
their spades, it sparkled like the finest Carrara marble. Doubtless the
neighbouring hills contain quarries of marble of fine quality.
The sarcophagus lies nearly according to the cardinal points; its
dimensions are:—
ft. in.
Length of lid 11 6
Breadth of lid 6 3
The portion of sarcophagus laid bare was in height 4 6
But its base must be fully 3½ feet more below ground, and it must have a
solid concrete or masonry foundation.
The villagers said, that on the arrival of the European inspector and a
Turkish officer, three sides of the sarcophagus were laid bare to the
foundation, the remaining side was only opened a little way down, as it
seemed to be quite plain. They were unable to remove the lid, but they
found that an opening had been already broken through the south side,
large enough for a little boy to enter without his clothes.
He found many bones inside, and brought out the skull of one of the
persons who had been buried there. The European took one of the teeth,
and then replaced the skull. The boy brought out also two glass bottles
or jars, each about 1½ foot high. These they broke, but found only
something “like ashes” inside them, the remains, no doubt, of some one
whose body had been burnt. Drawings were made of the figures, after
which, the earth was filled in, and the villagers heard no more of the
matter.
I would gladly have caused the whole to be uncovered, but it would have
required much time, and a great deal of negotiation. I should have been
obliged to arrange for the cost of labour (which would have taken up
several hours), and I must have purchased the growing crops of corn, for
several square yards about (and this would also have occupied as much
time as would suffice to purchase 100,000 quarters of grain in an English
market!). Then, too, there was a heavy wall of large loose stones across
the west end of the sarcophagus, and the villagers were reluctant to move
this, nor did I press them, for fear of some accident. The cost of all
this would not have been ruinous, but I could not well spare the time;
and even if uncovered, the position of the monument in a deep narrow
excavation, would have prevented me from making a satisfactory drawing
of it. I decided therefore to remain content with the part already laid
bare, to make a drawing of it, so far at least as to give some idea
of this very remarkable monument, and to obtain from the villagers who
had seen the whole exposed, as full a description of it as I could. The
difficulty of drawing even the side now laid bare was very great. The
trench was as deep or deeper than the chin, but so narrow that there was
scarcely room to stoop, and I was obliged to guess at many details, by
feeling for them; as for proportion or perspective, it was impossible
to preserve them. Then, too, time passed quickly, and the curiosity of
the villagers was a great impediment; they crowded round the edge of the
trench, bringing down on me a quantity of loose earth, and every now
and then one would approach a spot where the excavators had piled up a
quantity of the large loose stones from the wall. One of these set in
motion, and falling into the trench, would have been sufficient to break
the bones, or fracture the skull of the unlucky archæologist labouring
below; and accordingly I charged my interpreter, as he valued my life, to
keep them off from that spot at least; he had great difficulty in doing
this; but an opportune shower of rain coming on, off they all went to my
great delight, and left the field clear.
On the lid of the sarcophagus and of one piece with it, are two colossal
figures, male and female; the male figure, half recumbent, is reclining
on the left elbow. Under the outspread left hand is a roll half opened;
the right hand and arm embrace the neck of the female, who is leaning on
the bosom of her husband, and resting on the left hip. Her right hand
is broken off, the left hand holds either a handkerchief, or something
resembling it; and the villagers said that below was the figure of a
little child stretching out a hand to grasp the handkerchief. The head of
either figure is broken off. The female wears the “stola,” with a broad
sash across the bosom, and one end hanging from the left shoulder. The
male figure is clad in a very voluminously wreathed “toga.”
At the corners on the south side of the lid are two erect figures, less
than life-size, represented to the middle of the thigh, one male, one
female, turned half round, as if regarding each other. The heads of both
had been destroyed. Only a portion of the lid could be uncovered for me,
in consequence of the heavy stone wall before mentioned, which ran across
the feet of these figures. The flat surface of the lid below the figures
has a deep projecting cornice; under it is a compartment about a foot in
depth, containing figures of men and animals in very high relief, indeed
almost detached from the surface of the marble. On the left side of the
compartment opened was the figure of a griffin, forming the corner; next,
a deer chased by dogs or wolves; one has seized his ear, another one of
the hind legs. Next comes a combat between a man armed with shield and
lance, and a leopard. The figure of the leopard is admirably rendered;
pierced by the lance, he is falling back wounded, but the fore-paw is
extended to seize its enemy, and the fierce head is vainly striving to
fasten upon the foe; next comes the other corner figure, a man with
shield extended, and uplifted arm, about to strike with some kind of
weapon. The human figures are inferior to the animal; there is nothing
like the beautiful design of the Xanthian marbles; the execution is
conventional, the figures resemble fat boys or stout cupids, rather
than men able to fight with wild animals. Below this compartment comes
a second, filled with very elaborate ornamentation. Below this second
compartment comes the plain bottom of the lid. If the ornamentation on
the lid be elaborate, tenfold more so is the ornamentation on the body
of the sarcophagus. Egg and acanthus, conch, teeth ornament, wreathed
vegetable forms, &c., are there in endless profusion. Yet further below
are two figures, male and female, about half life-size, standing one
on either side of a sculptured door; they are evidently intended as
portraits, but seemed unfinished, or as if the finishing touch had not
been given, for the surface of the marble was still somewhat rough. The
female wears the stola; she leans her head sadly and pensively against
the cornice of the door, and seems to be looking at her husband opposite;
her right hand rests upon a bunch of grapes, which is supported by
a wreathed column; her hair is very thick, and hangs on one side in
massy curls; on the other side a flap of her headdress hangs upon the
shoulder. The male figure is represented full face, the expression is
grave and serious; he wears no beard, but his thick curly hair is cut
short in the Roman style. His toga is wound round him in ample folds,
one arm is wrapped in it, the other rests upon the corner of the shelf
above the door; under this is a wreathed column. On the outside of this
figure, at the corner of the sarcophagus, is a larger wreathed column
with rich Corinthian capital, and above it a pilaster richly ornamented.
I think that the monument is of the time of the Antonines, but I saw no
inscription upon it, nor could the villagers say whether one existed or
not. It is of a declining age of art, being, as I have said, overloaded
with ornament, and in many parts of questionable taste. Still it is
remarkable, and it is a pity some European museum does not possess it,
rather than it should be lying in the moist earth of Lycaonia.
The villagers said that the south side contained six compartments, with
representations of combats, between men on horseback, and men with
animals; of hunting scenes, &c. There were figures of lions, leopards,
bears, elephants (?) (yet they did not seem to recognize the animal by
my description), deer, wild boars, dogs in plenty, and of two kinds,
greyhounds and common hunting dogs, hares, &c. There was also “a bird
like a camel,” said one of my informants. He had served in the Crimean
war, and had seen at Kertch the picture of one exactly like that on the
sarcophagus; this may be the ostrich. All the south side was filled up
with similar compartments.
Their account of the west side was more vague, but there too, they said,
there were similar scenes, and three bearded figures, busts, and not so
large as the figures on the side opened for me. The west side, which
had been only opened about half-way down, was plain, having merely the
cornice lines upon it.
I could not succeed in making a satisfactory drawing of the sarcophagus,
owing to the difficulty of its position, and was obliged to decide by
touch what was the form of a great part of it.
_June 13th._—Left Serpek at 7.50 A.M. The weather was like the finest
June weather in England. The air soft and balmy; heavy rain during the
night had refreshed everything, and the corn was literally full of the
most beautiful flowers.
Our route was along the base of the marble hills that skirt the southern
edge of the plain. Half an hour from Serpek we passed the village of
“Kalaat” (“the fort”), on the site of an old town.
The soil of the plain is very rich, and an abundance of huge purple
thistles grow all over it. Soon after 9 A.M. we crossed the Devleh river;
at the sides of the bridge are some fine slabs and pillars of limestone,
and blue marble, and a white marble pedestal, but no inscription. We
passed close to the little village of Kara Aghadj; two hours distant to
the right on the horizon was Aktcha Shehir, with its tall white minaret
conspicuous afar off. As on my journey to Ibreez, the colours of the
mountains were remarkably beautiful. One range of hills was of a light
red, another lake, almost crimson lake, another reddish grey; one chain
of mountains was of deep violet, another beyond indigo, while the distant
mountains were of a faint bluish grey.
Here we crossed a high ridge between two marble hills, and another very
extensive reach of the great plain opened before us, bounded on the south
by low hills, towards which the ground trended away in long undulations
of red, yellow, brown, green, and black, over which the shadows of
the clouds played, like so many great bands of coloured velvet. As we
advanced the vegetation became scanty, the flowers gradually ceased,
till there was nothing but a little withered herbage; for there is no
water whatever here, and even the heaviest rainfall disappears almost
immediately, leaving the chalky soil parched and dry as before.
Animal life was as scanty as vegetable. There was not a living creature,
except some beetles in the path, and a few vultures soaring high
overhead. Before us, and to all appearance quite close, was a green
spot marking the site of Sidevre; but in reality the village was nearly
four hours distant, and it looked as if rising from some wide lake, so
complete was the mirage. At midday we came to a solitary Turkish tomb,
the resting place of a certain Hadji Ahmed. It bore the date of the Hejra
1232 = A.D. 1815; a few lines of poetry followed the man’s name, but no
further record. As I halted I could not help speculating, “How did he
die, that his friends buried him in this lonely spot? Did he meet with
a violent death here?”—1815 was a troublous time all the world over—“or
did he end life’s pilgrimage peacefully?” There is nothing to tell; only
his name and the date are written; but his last resting place is quiet
enough, and not likely to be ever disturbed. A few yards beyond is a
large ancient sarcophagus, the plaster still adhering to the interior of
it. Both old and new proclaimed Death’s universal sway!
We had now reached the level portion of the plain; it extended in front
five or six hours more to Karaman, and nearly as far northwards to the
very foot of Kara Dagh, which rose from it abruptly, as some rocky
island from the sea. But between us and the mountain lay an immense and
impassable marsh, into which all the waters of the district drain; but
this could not be seen from the low ground on which we were, for the
whole plain is here level as a billiard table.
Looking back I saw the spot where we had crossed the marble ridge. It
seemed quite close, although we had been riding without a halt, and at a
fast pace, for nearly five hours. Far back beyond that, and now fading in
the distance, was the great snow range of Bulghar Dagh; yet so clear was
the atmosphere, that I could still distinguish the deep ravines in the
mountain side, in one of which was Ibreez.
As we approached Sidevre, cultivation gradually reappeared. Large herds
of cattle covered the plain; either the people had not suffered such
heavy losses as their neighbours, or they have replaced what they had
lost. We met two Armenian drovers with a herd of fine cattle, which they
had bought on speculation, for sale to the villages farther east, and
they told my interpreter they had been very successful, and had made a
good profit.
We reached Sidevre at about 2 P.M. It is a large village of mud-brick
houses, faced with a plaster of clay mixed with fine straw.
Many fine hewn stones and blocks of marble, with a few columns, were
lying in the streets, and I observed a few inscriptions, but all were
obliterated and illegible. The people did not seem inclined to be
hospitable. We needed a shelter from the blazing sun, and some grass
for our horses, but though many of the villagers passed us after we had
dismounted and were waiting in the street, no one invited us to enter a
house; and though payment was offered several times, it was long before
we could induce anyone to bring a few bundles of grass.
The mukhtar of the village was sent for, but refused to come; evidently
we were unwelcome visitors! Our cavass gave the villagers a bad
character; they were “all thieves, cattle-lifters, and horse-stealers,”
they were “fèna adam, keuteu,” &c. (“bad people, vicious,” &c.). But I
imagine that the real reason of their inhospitality was fear; seeing a
cavass with us, they fancied they would be obliged to feed men and horses
gratis. In this season of scarcity it is no slight thing to be obliged to
find food for a number of hungry men and horses, and even our repeated
offers of money failed to overcome their distrust.
We could not, however, remain out in the sun, and our cavass forced
open the door of the best empty house at hand, no very difficult thing
in Turkey. We entered, and began to eat some of our own bread and the
excellent Serpek butter we had brought. Presently a man came in, went
up to the fireplace, but scarcely looked at us, and said not a word of
welcome. Then he withdrew, and just as we were preparing to start, the
master of the house appeared, and “Khoosh geldinez,” “You are welcome!”
was at last uttered; to which I replied, “Khoosh boulămădìk effendim,”
“We have not found ourselves welcome, sir!” He pressed me to stay and
take coffee, but I declined his offer, and would not remain.
Certainly the faces of the men we saw were not prepossessing, but under
the circumstances I may not have been an impartial judge. We heard
at Karaman that in the good times before the famine this village was
very hospitable, but like all the villagers round, these people had
lost almost everything. I noticed one extremely fine fellow amongst
the bystanders. His complexion was of a deep rich coffee colour, his
eyes black as coals, his features remarkably handsome, but his whole
expression fierce and truculent. I think he was a Keurdt. He squatted on
the ground with his sheepskin mantle around him, the red leather lining
outside, and did not remove his eyes from me till I left. I confess that
I should not desire to meet him out on the plain, or in the mountain,
when alone!
Left Sidevre at 3 P.M. In half an hour passed the pretty hamlet of
Yemasoon. Just beyond Yemasoon a wolf started up before us, but speedily
trotted out of sight. The green gardens, citadel and hill of Karaman,
were now before us. The limestone hill outside the town is covered by a
vast cemetery, which looks strangely disproportionate to the place, but
this is a usual feature in Oriental towns. We passed over an extensive
marsh, and at 6.30, after having been eight hours and a half in the
saddle, entered the town, which looked very pretty, being full of
orchards and gardens, and surrounded by a district rich in splendid crops
of grain, now ready for the sickle.
While at Eregli we had been recommended to go to an Armenian khan, called
the Patawan khan, but it proved to be so wretched and out of the way,
that I would not stop there, and rode back to a khan I had observed
on the open piazza, which serves as the market-place of Karaman. Here
we found a clean and comfortable room. No sooner had we alighted than
we were visited by a merchant of the place, to whom our friend Mr.
Mavromati, the Greek merchant of Mersina, had recommended us. He was
an elderly man, with the placid and dignified air so often to be seen
amongst the natives of this country; a Muslim, but of Greek descent,
having been brought from the Morea when quite a little child by one of
the Osmanli soldiers. After a few minutes’ conversation he retired,
according to the etiquette of the country, and soon sent in some
mattresses and cushions, and fine “killim” carpets, to make our room
comfortable. A little later an excellent dinner was brought to us from
his house. It consisted of five dishes, light and palatable, but far more
than we required. The name of our kind friend is “Hadji Mohammed Chelebi
Effendi Morales,” but he is generally known as Chelebi Effendi.
_June 14th._—Rose at daybreak. Visited the kaimakam in company with
Chelebi Effendi. I am evidently an object of much curiosity and interest,
but everyone is perfectly polite. It seems that European travellers are
extremely rare. Some eight years ago two Europeans came to Karaman, but
they were only buyers of walnut wood; a real travelling Effendi is most
uncommon here.
The kaimakam received me with extreme courtesy; indeed I have everywhere
experienced the greatest courtesy and kindness from the Osmanli
officials. After a long conversation we retired, and he sent a cavass
to show me the objects of interest in the town. We started accordingly
at about 11 A.M. The sun was intensely hot, still the air was cool and
light, unlike the air of Egypt or Cilicia. Karaman contains about 1000
houses with a population of between 4000 and 5000, but this estimate is
altogether uncertain. There are only about 100 Christian houses, but many
Greek and Armenian traders, chiefly from Kaisariyeh, resort to it. Our
khan, the Yeni khan (half the khans in Turkey are called “yeni,” “new!”),
was full of them.
The “Roumlis,” or people of Kaisariyeh, have a miserably poor country,
and are therefore obliged to emigrate; they are found in every part of
Turkey, but they always leave their families at home, and the greater
part of the population of Kaisariyeh consists of the wives and families
of these men, who are seeking a livelihood away from their native place.
They are excessively parsimonious, manage to live on astonishingly
little, and are beyond measure shrewd and sharp in business; so that (as
I was told) “there are no Jews in Kaisariyeh,” they cannot compete with
the natives! I give this statement as it was made to me.
The town is upon a long low hill, rising on the edge of the great plain,
and the older portion clusters thickly around the citadel, which is
on the highest part of the hill. For the small number of inhabitants,
Karaman is extremely extensive, every part of it being full of gardens,
with abundance of trees, especially poplars, which here as at Eregli grow
luxuriantly, and form one of the chief features in the landscape; the
soil, a cream-coloured clay, is well watered by numerous branches from
the river.
Very few of the houses are of wood, and I saw none of stone, the material
almost universally employed being mud-brick, faced with a plaster of
clay and “saman” (chopped straw), and almost the only timber used is
poplar. The streets are paved with large rounded limestones, polished
smooth by long traffic; down the middle of each street runs the gutter.
Of course there is no drainage, and the general condition of the place is
filthy in the extreme. Every garden, and all the cornfields, &c., in the
neighbourhood of the town, are enclosed with walls of mud-brick; one may
walk for hours through dead walls of such bricks, but the gardens they
enclose are full of finely grown trees, and every now and then charming
bits of scenery occur. There are two beautiful ranges of mountains near
the city, Kara Dagh and Bozallah Dagh, besides other distant and less
lofty ranges. The plain, with its rich colouring and luxuriant crops, and
the grand old citadel, dismantled and ruinous, with its background of
mountains, all contribute to render Karaman one of the most picturesque
places I have seen. And I had the good fortune to visit it in the finest
season of the year.
The houses of the town are picturesque, and so are the people. The
market-place in front of our khan, with its motley groups of traffickers,
offered many a fine study of figures, though there is not perhaps such
a variety of dress, &c., as at Adana. In nearly every street there is a
fountain, often of very picturesque construction, and the water supply is
abundant.
The extensive bazaars are now half deserted. They consist of rows of
small shops built of mud-brick and poplar timber. But a large part of the
town, even close to the bazaar, is in ruin; the houses falling, their
roofs of timber, covered with straw and earth above it, falling in, or
the timber has been removed; a large part of the population either died
in 1873-4, or has emigrated to Koniah and Adana, for the suffering here
also was great, although less than in the district around Kaisariyeh.
The climate is certainly not healthy (in Chelebi Effendi’s judgment
it is “orta,” i.e. “middling”), but no doubt much of the insalubrity
of the place is due to the want of cleanliness. Karaman, however, is
less damp, and therefore less unhealthy than Eregli. Its position is
more favourable, being built on the declivities of the hill, and the
ample supply of good water is also in its favour. But in spite of these
advantages malarious fever is very common, owing to the great marshes
near the town. The hottest season is at the end of July; but even now,
although the sun is very powerful, the air is cool in the shade, and at
night even cold, and the water has a pleasant freshness. At all seasons,
sudden variations of temperature occur, and are most dangerous. In winter
the cold is excessive; the snow lies for a space of three to four months,
sometimes one, two, or even three feet deep; I wonder how the people
protect themselves against it. Their houses are wretched and comfortless,
their dress poor, their diet insufficient, yet they look strong and
healthy. At present there is a great amount of poverty, at every few
steps one is accosted by people begging, principally women and children.
I am told it used not to be so formerly, but these are the victims of
1873-4.
The former importance of Karaman is evident, from the number and beauty
of its mosques. Some of them are very interesting, although deserted
and fast falling to utter ruin. The cavass whom the kaimakam had sent
to me showed most of them, and I entered all that are now forsaken,
and such was the friendliness of the people, that I think no objection
would have been made had I wished to visit those still in use. The
first mosque I saw was the Valideh Tekkesi, a modern edifice, under
the charge of the dervishes of Beshiktash. Next we came to Hadji Bey
Oglou Jamasi; this is in complete ruin, but its arched entrance and the
carved wooden pillars in front of it are fine specimens of Seljouk art.
The next was the Khatouniat Jamasi, ruined and disused. In great part
this mosque was built of ancient remains, amongst them are several fine
antique columns, supporting side arches. The mosque had been vaulted,
but all has fallen in, excepting the end, which is used as a school for
the Turkish children of the neighbourhood. There are two fine doorways
in the interior, and the outer gateway is a perfect gem of art, so
beautiful are its arabesques and intricate carvings! About half of it
is of the finest white marble, the rest of hard limestone, but the
upper part is imperfect. Above the arch is a long and most elaborate
inscription; but my interpreter, though a learned Arabic scholar, could
only read the latter portion of it, the letters of which it is composed
being interlaced in the most perplexing way. The portion he succeeded in
deciphering runs thus:—
“Fy ayàm daẁlat el Emìr el kebỳr el mùàiyyed, el muzàffar—’àla
ed dy̆niă w’ ed dỳn—Khalìl ibn Màhmoud ibn Karaman—khàlad
Allah mùlkhu—Khatounìat Sultàn bint Mouràd (ibn Orkhan) ibn
Athmàn Khan.
“Fy̆ Sènāāt telàthat wă tămănĭeèn wă sàbaa màiàt.”
“In the days of the reign of the great Emir, the Aided (of
God), the Victorious—the Exalted in the World and in the
Faith—Khalil, son of Mahmoud, son of Karaman—may Allah
perpetuate his rule—the Imperial Princess Khatouniat—daughter
of Murad (son of Orkhan), son of Athman Khan (built this).
“In the year seven hundred and eighty three.”[20]
Equivalent to about A.D. 1382.
On two projecting tablets, one on each side above the gate, are the names
probably of the architects.
“Khowàja Ahmed Naaman” (Khoja is now the usual term).
“Ahmed Maroura.”
But these names form only a part of the inscriptions, which are
excessively obscure from their elaborate interlacing.
Next we visited the citadel. It is on the crest of the hill, about 300
feet above the plain, and is built of hewn blocks of red and yellow
limestone. It consists of a number of towers, round, square, and
polygonal, with connecting walls, and there are remains of an exterior
wall. The houses of the town, half of them now in ruin, cluster close
around the inner wall. On searching for inscriptions I found some in
Turkish, but none in Greek. From the citadel hill whole quarters of the
town are visible in a ruined state, indeed most of the houses in this
part of the town are deserted; for a large part of the population died
of hunger in 1874, or whilst endeavouring to escape to Koniah and Adana.
(Some even died of starvation in this spring of 1875—it is the same sad
tale everywhere!). When once a wall of mud-brick begins to give way, it
is very difficult to repair, and a house of this material if neglected
or untenanted speedily falls to decay. Then a few years reduce all to a
shapeless mass of earth.
The view over the plain extends to a great distance, up to the foot of
Kara Dagh on one side, and Bozallah Dagh on the other. The river is at
some distance, but many branches of it are brought into the town. As at
Eregli, this river also is lost in a great marsh, lying in the middle of
the plain, between Sidevre and Kara Dagh. In the winter and during heavy
rains this marsh is probably connected with Ak Göl and its series of
lakes, but we did not cross the plain sufficiently to the north to form
any definite opinion on this point.
Next we visited Emir Moussa Jamasi, another ruined mosque, now used only
as a place for pilgrimage. It is vaulted with stone, and had a stone
cupola, which has fallen in. Ten antique columns still support the arches
on which the cupola stood. I observed in the floor of the mosque a number
of tombstones with the cross still plainly visible upon them. It is
strange that the Muslim builders had not defaced the emblem. A tall round
minaret of yellow limestone, and encircled by fine arabesque ornaments,
is still erect, but in a very ruinous condition.
From this we went to the mosque and tomb of Karaman Oglou, situated in
a garden which is traversed by a branch of the stream, and embosomed in
fine trees. Its minaret is similar in style to the last, and besides
some very pretty arabesques, a number of painted tiles are inserted in
the masonry, having below them a chequer-work of black basalt blocks.
Around the “kibleh”[21] the wall is inlaid with fine porcelain tiles, in
blue, green, and gilding. I believe these are brought from Persia, but a
similar tile is still made at Kutayiah.
The finest portion of the mosque is, however, the great door, of
exquisite design and workmanship, and of this I took a careful paper
impression. It is a double door made of walnut wood. The height of the
carved portion is 9 feet ¾ inch. Breadth of each leaf of the door 3 feet
7¼ inches.
It is wrought in compartments, but the arabesques in each compartment
are varied, though similar to the corresponding compartment in the other
leaf. In the upper compartments are the following words; on the right
side, “Ya bina maftùhhà li man dàchala,” “O building, open to everyone
who entereth (it);” on the left, “Malina mubàhh li man àkala,” “Our
possessions are permitted (i.e. free) to everyone who eateth (of them).”
In a small compartment in the middle of the door is the following,
“Àamal el hadj Àmer ibn Elias ila el Karaman Hànem,” “The pilgrim Amer,
son of Elias, made (this) for the Lady of Karaman.” (The last word,
however, (Hànem) was much obliterated, and my interpreter was not certain
about it. But supposing his reading of it to be correct, this lady was
probably the foundress of the Khatouniat Jamasi.)
I was much pleased with this beautiful mosque, and with the courtesy of
the dervish who was in charge of it.
I was next taken to Bina Jamasi, a tekkieh or monastery of modern
construction, but already fast falling to ruin. There is nothing
remarkable in it. A large domed room is attached to it, once used as a
lecture room for the disciples of the chief moollah. In the middle of the
room is a raised wooden divan round a flowing fountain.
Next I saw Pasha Jamasi. It has a very elegant minaret of sixteen sides,
with stalactite ornaments under the muezzin’s gallery.
There were other mosques, but I had seen enough; the heat of the sun was
very great, and I therefore dismissed my cavass.
Of Laranda, the ancient city on the site of which Karaman stands, I saw
but few relics; a few pieces of broken columns, one or two sarcophagi,
the base of a column of white marble; such were all the antiquities that
fell under my observation. I neither saw nor heard of any inscriptions;
even the cemeteries do not show any antique remains. The old city has
been used up to supply materials for the many mosques, the citadel, and
the walls of the town, which still in great part remain. A great number
of antique coins and engraved gems were offered to me for sale, but few
were of the least value, and the price demanded was so high as to be even
amusing.
I retain very pleasing recollections of my stay in Eregli and Karaman.
Everyone was kind and courteous, from our friend Chelebi Effendi, who
did all in his power to make my stay agreeable, and every evening sent
us in an excellent supper from his own kitchen, to the khanji, Simeon,
who was most attentive, and moreover took admirable care of my horses.
Being a Greek of Kaisariyeh, it was but natural that his charge should be
somewhat extravagant, but in the end we came to an amicable arrangement.
I rambled alone about the town and its neighbourhood, and never
experienced the least rudeness or annoyance, nay, I never heard even a
rude word, and I must say that nothing could exceed the quiet, orderly
behaviour of the people. On the last day of my stay I was making a sketch
of the castle in an out-of-the-way lane. Every now and then one or two
boys or a man would stop and quietly look on, but never intrusively. Even
the stately old Turks who passed would bid me “Akhshàm” or “Sabàhh khair
olsoun,” “Good evening,” or “Good morning.” Several times I even received
the “Es salaam aleykoum,” “Peace be with you!” a salutation which in
Egypt or in Syria a Muslim never by any chance addresses to a Christian.
[Illustration: KARAMAN
Kara Dagh in the distance
_Stanford’s Geogˡ. Estabᵗ._]