Through the Syrian Gates.
An Inauspicious Departure--The Ruined Church of St. Simon--The Plain of
Antioch--A Turcoman Encampment--Climbing Akma Dagh--The Syrian
Gates--Scanderoon--An American Captain--Revolt of the Koords--We take a
Guard--The Field of Issus--The Robber-Chief, Kutchuk Ali--A Deserted
Town--A Land of Gardens.
"Mountains, on whose barren breast
The lab'ring clouds do often rest."
Milton.
In Quarantine (Adana, Asia Minor), _Tuesday, June_ 15, 1852.
We left Aleppo on the morning of the 9th, under circumstances not the most
promising for the harmony of our journey. We had engaged horses and
baggage-mules from the _capidji_, or chief of the muleteers, and in order
to be certain of having animals that would not break down on the way, made
a particular selection from a number that were brought us. When about
leaving the city, however, we discovered that one of the horses had been
changed. Signor di Picciotto, who accompanied us past the Custom-House
barriers, immediately dispatched the delinquent muleteer to bring back the
true horse, and the latter made a farce of trying to find him, leading the
Consul and the capidji (who, I believe, was at the bottom of the cheat) a
wild-goose chase over the hills around Aleppo, where of course, the animal
was not to be seen. When, at length, we had waited three hours, and had
wandered about four miles from the city, we gave up the search, took leave
of the Consul and went on with the new horse. Our proper plan would have
been to pitch the tent and refuse to move till the matter was settled. The
animal, as we discovered during the first day's journey, was hopelessly
lame, and we only added to the difficulty by taking him.
We rode westward all day over barren and stony hills, meeting with
abundant traces of the power and prosperity of this region during the
times of the Greek Emperors. The nevastation wrought by earthquakes has
been terrible; there is scarcely a wall or arch standing, which does not
bear marks of having been violently shaken. The walls inclosing the
fig-orchards near the villages contain many stones with Greek
inscriptions, and fragments of cornices. We encamped the first night on
the plain at the foot of Mount St. Simon, and not far from the ruins of
the celebrated Church of the same name. The building stands in a stony
wilderness at the foot of the mountain. It is about a hundred feet long
and thirty in height, with two lofty square towers in front. The pavement
of the interior is entirely concealed by the masses of pillars, capitals,
and hewn blocks that lie heaped upon it. The windows, which are of the
tall, narrow, arched form, common in Byzantine Churches, have a common
moulding which falls like a mantle over and between them. The general
effect of the Church is very fine, though there is much inelegance in the
sculptured details. At the extremity is a half-dome of massive stone, over
the place of the altar, and just in front of this formerly stood the
pedestal whereon, according to tradition, St. Simeon Stylites commenced
his pillar-life. I found a recent excavation at the spot, but no
pedestal, which has probably been carried off by the Greek monks. Beside
the Church stands a large building, with an upper and lower balcony,
supported by square stone pillars, around three sides. There is also a
paved court-yard, a large cistern cut in the rock and numerous
out-buildings, all going to confirm the supposition of its having been a
monastery. The main building is three stories high, with pointed gables,
and bears a strong resemblance to an American summer hotel, with verandas.
Several ancient fig and walnut trees are growing among the ruins, and add
to their picturesque appearance.
The next day we crossed a broad chain of hills to the Plain of Antioch,
which we reached near its northern extremity. In one of the valleys
through which the road lay, we saw a number of hot sulphur springs, some
of them of a considerable volume of water. Not far from them was a
beautiful fountain of fresh and cold water gushing from the foot of a high
rock. Soon after reaching the plain, we crossed the stream of Kara Su,
which feeds the Lake of Antioch. This part of the plain is low and swampy,
and the streams are literally alive with fish. While passing over the
bridge I saw many hundreds, from one to two feet in length. We wandered
through the marshy meadows for two or three hours, and towards sunset
reached a Turcoman encampment, where the ground was dry enough to pitch
our tents. The rude tribe received us hospitably, and sent us milk and
cheese in abundance. I visited the tent of the Shekh, who was very
courteous, but as he knew no language but Turkish, our conversation was
restricted to signs. The tent was of camel's-hair cloth, spacious, and
open at the sides. A rug was spread for me, and the Shekh's wife brought
me a pipe of tolerable tobacco. The household were seated upon the
ground, chatting pleasantly with one another, and apparently not in the
least disturbed by my presence. One of the Shekh's sons, who was deaf and
dumb, came and sat before me, and described by very expressive signs the
character of the road to Scanderoon. He gave me to understand that there
were robbers in the mountains, with many grim gestures descriptive of
stabbing and firing muskets.
The mosquitoes were so thick during the night that we were obliged to fill
the tent with smoke in order to sleep. When morning came, we fancied there
would be a relief for us, but it only brought a worse pest, in the shape
of swarms of black gnats, similar to those which so tormented me in Nubia.
I know of no infliction so terrible as these gnats, which you cannot drive
away, and which assail ears, eyes, and nostrils in such quantities that
you become mad and desperate in your efforts to eject them. Through glens
filled with oleander, we ascended the first slopes of Akma Dagh, the
mountain range which divides the Gulf of Scanderoon from the Plain of
Antioch. Then, passing a natural terrace, covered with groves of oak, our
road took the mountain side, climbing upwards in the shadow of pine and
wild olive trees, and between banks of blooming lavender and myrtle. We
saw two or three companies of armed guards, stationed by the road-side,
for the mountain is infested with robbers, and a caravan had been
plundered only three days before. The view, looking backward, took in the
whole plain, with the Lake of Antioch glittering in the centre, the valley
of the Orontes in the south, and the lofty cone of Djebel-Okrab far to the
west. As we approached the summit, violent gusts of wind blew through the
pass with such force as almost to overturn our horses. Here the road from
Antioch joins that from Aleppo, and both for some distance retain the
ancient pavement.
From the western side we saw the sea once more, and went down through the
_Pylæ Syriæ_, or Syrian Gates, as this defile was called by the Romans. It
is very narrow and rugged, with an abrupt descent. In an hour from the
summit we came upon an aqueduct of a triple row of arches, crossing the
gorge. It is still used to carry water to the town of Beilan, which hangs
over the mouth of the pass, half a mile below. This is one of the most
picturesque spots in Syria. The houses cling to the sides and cluster on
the summits of precipitous crags, and every shelf of soil, every crevice
where a tree can thrust its roots, upholds a mass of brilliant vegetation.
Water is the life of the place. It gushes into the street from exhaustless
fountains; it trickles from the terraces in showers of misty drops; it
tumbles into the gorge in sparkling streams; and everywhere it nourishes a
life as bright and beautiful as its own. The fruit trees are of enormous
size, and the crags are curtained with a magnificent drapery of vines.
This green gateway opens suddenly upon another, cut through a glittering
mass of micaceous rock, whence one looks down on the town and Gulf of
Scanderoon, the coast of Karamania beyond, and the distant snows of the
Taurus. We descended through groves of pine and oak, and in three hours
more reached the shore.
Scanderoon is the most unhealthy place on the Syrian Coast, owing to the
malaria from a marsh behind it. The inhabitants are a wretched pallid set,
who are visited every year with devastating fevers. The marsh was partly
drained some forty years ago by the Turkish government, and a few
thousand dollars would be sufficient to remove it entirely, and make the
place--which is of some importance as the seaport of Aleppo--healthy and
habitable. At present, there are not five hundred inhabitants, and half of
these consist of the Turkish garrison and the persons attached to the
different Vice-Consulates. The streets are depositories of filth, and
pools of stagnant water, on all sides, exhale the most fetid odors. Near
the town are the ruins of a castle built by Godfrey of Bouillon. We
marched directly down to the sea-shore, and pitched our tent close beside
the waves, as the place most free from malaria. There were a dozen vessels
at anchor in the road, and one of them proved to be the American bark
Columbia, Capt. Taylor. We took a skiff and went on board, where we were
cordially welcomed by the mate. In the evening, the captain came to our
tent, quite surprised to find two wandering Americans in such a lonely
corner of the world. Soon afterwards, with true seaman-like generosity, he
returned, bringing a jar of fine Spanish olives and a large bottle of
pickles, which he insisted on adding to our supplies. The olives have the
choicest Andalusian flavor, and the pickles lose none of their relish from
having been put up in New York.
The road from Scanderoon to this place lies mostly along the shore of the
gulf, at the foot of Akma Dagh, and is reckoned dangerous on account of
the marauding bands of Koords who infest the mountains. These people, like
the Druses, have rebelled against the conscription, and will probably hold
their ground with equal success, though the Turks talk loudly of invading
their strongholds. Two weeks ago, the post was robbed, about ten miles
from Scanderoon, and a government vessel, now lying at anchor in the bay,
opened a cannonade on the plunderers, before they could be secured. In
consequence of the warnings of danger in everybody's mouth, we decided to
take an escort, and therefore waited upon the commander of the forces,
with the firman of the Pasha of Aleppo. A convoy of two soldiers was at
once promised us; and at sunrise, next morning, they took the lead of our
caravan.
In order to appear more formidable, in case we should meet with robbers,
we put on our Frank pantaloons, which had no other effect than to make the
heat more intolerable. But we formed rather a fierce cavalcade, six armed
men in all. Our road followed the shore of the bay, having a narrow,
uninhabited flat, covered with thickets of myrtle and mastic, between us
and the mountains. The two soldiers, more valiant than the guard of
Banias, rode in advance, and showed no signs of fear as we approached the
suspicious places. The morning was delightfully clear, and the
snow-crowned range of Taurus shone through the soft vapors hanging over
the gulf. In one place, we skirted the shore for some distance, under a
bank twenty feet in height, and so completely mantled with shrubbery, that
a small army might have hidden in it. There were gulleys at intervals,
opening suddenly on our path, and we looked up them, expecting every
moment to see the gleam of a Koordish gun-barrel, or a Turcoman spear,
above the tops of the myrtles.
Crossing a promontory which makes out from the mountains, we came upon the
renowned plain of Issus, where Darius lost his kingdom to Alexander. On a
low cliff overhanging the sea, there are the remains of a single tower of
gray stone. The people in Scanderoon call it "Jonah's Pillar," and say
that it marks the spot where the Ninevite was cast ashore by the whale.
[This makes three places on the Syrian coast where Jonah was vomited
forth.] The plain of Issus is from two to three miles long, but not more
than half a mile wide, It is traversed by a little river, supposed to be
the Pinarus, which comes down through a tremendous cleft in the Akma Dagh.
The ground seems too small for the battle-field of such armies as were
engaged on the occasion. It is bounded on the north by a low hill,
separating it from the plain of Baïas, and it is possible that Alexander
may have made choice of this position, leaving the unwieldy forces of
Darius to attack him from the plain. His advantage would be greater, on
account of the long, narrow form of the ground, which would prevent him
from being engaged with more than a small portion of the Persian army, at
one time. The plain is now roseate with blooming oleanders, but almost
entirely uncultivated. About midway there are the remains of an ancient
quay jutting into the sea.
Soon after leaving the field of Issus, we reached the town of Baïas, which
is pleasantly situated on the shore, at the mouth of a river whose course
through the plain is marked with rows of tall poplar trees. The walls of
the town, and the white dome and minaret of its mosque, rose dazzlingly
against the dark blue of the sea, and the purple stretch of the mountains
of Karamania. A single palm lifted its crest in the foreground. We
dismounted for breakfast under the shade of an old bridge which crosses
the river. It was a charming spot, the banks above and below being
overhung with oleander, white rose, honeysuckle and clematis. The two
guardsmen finished the remaining half of our Turcoman cheese, and almost
exhausted our supply of bread. I gave one of them a cigar, which he was at
a loss how to smoke, until our muleteer showed him.
Baïas was celebrated fifty years ago, as the residence of the robber
chief, Kutchuk Ali, who, for a long time, braved the authority of the
Porte itself. He was in the habit of levying a yearly tribute on the
caravan to Mecca, and the better to enforce his claims, often suspended
two or three of his captives at the gates of the town, a day or two before
the caravan arrived. Several expeditions were sent against him, but he
always succeeded in bribing the commanders, who, on their return to
Constantinople, made such representations that Kutchuk Ali, instead of
being punished, received one dignity after another, until finally he
attained the rank of a Pasha of two tails. This emboldened him to commit
enormities too great to be overlooked, and in 1812 Baïas was taken, and
the atrocious nest of land-pirates broken up.
I knew that the town had been sacked on this occasion, but was not
prepared to find such a complete picture of desolation. The place is
surrounded with a substantial wall, with two gateways, on the north and
south. A bazaar, covered with a lofty vaulted roof of stone, runs directly
through from gate to gate; and there was still a smell of spices in the
air, on entering. The massive shops on either hand, with their open doors,
invited possession, and might readily be made habitable again. The great
iron gates leading from the bazaar into the khans and courts, still swing
on their rusty hinges. We rode into the court of the mosque, which is
surrounded with a light and elegant corridor, supported by pillars. The
grass has as yet but partially invaded the marble pavement, and a stone
drinking-trough still stands in the centre. I urged my horse up the steps
and into the door of the mosque. It is in the form of a Greek cross, with
a dome in the centre, resting on four very elegant pointed arches. There
is an elaborately gilded and painted gallery of wood over the entrance,
and the pulpit opposite is as well preserved as if the _mollah_ had just
left it. Out of the mosque we passed into a second court, and then over a
narrow bridge into the fortress. The moat is perfect, and the walls as
complete as if just erected. Only the bottom is dry, and now covered with
a thicket of wild pomegranate trees. The heavy iron doors of the fortress
swung half open, as we entered unchallenged. The interior is almost
entire, and some of the cannon still lie buried in the springing grass.
The plan of the little town, which appears to have been all built at one
time, is most admirable. The walls of circuit, including the fortress,
cannot be more than 300 yards square, and yet none of the characteristics
of a large Oriental city are omitted.
Leaving Baïas, we travelled northward, over a waste, though fertile plain.
The mountains on our right made a grand appearance, with their feet
mantled in myrtle, and their tops plumed with pine. They rise from the sea
with a long, bold sweep, but each peak falls off in a precipice on the
opposite side, as if the chain were the barrier of the world and there was
nothing but space beyond. In the afternoon we left the plain for a belt of
glorious garden land, made by streams that came down from the mountains.
We entered a lane embowered in pomegranate, white rose, clematis, and
other flowering vines and shrubs, and overarched by superb plane, lime,
and beech trees, chained together with giant grape vines. On either side
were fields of ripe wheat and barley, mulberry orchards and groves of
fruit trees, under the shade of which the Turkish families sat or slept
during the hot hours of the day. Birds sang in the boughs, and the
gurgling of water made a cool undertone to their music. Out of fairyland
where shall I see again such lovely bowers? We were glad when the soldiers
announced that it was necessary to encamp there; as we should find no
other habitations for more than twenty miles.
Our tent was pitched under a grand sycamore, beside a swift mountain
stream which almost made the circuit of our camp. Beyond the tops of the
elm, beech, and fig groves, we saw the picturesque green summits of the
lower ranges of Giaour Dagh, in the north-east, while over the southern
meadows a golden gleam of sunshine lay upon the Gulf of Scanderoon. The
village near us was Chaya, where there is a military station. The guards
we had brought from Scanderoon here left us; but the commanding officer
advised us to take others on the morrow, as the road was still considered
unsafe.