Kiutahya and the Ruins of OEzani.
Entrance into Kiutahya--The New Khan--An Unpleasant
Discovery--Kiutahya--The Citadel--Panorama from the Walls--The Gorge of
the Mountains--Camp in a Meadow--The Valley of the
Rhyndacus--Chavdür--The Ruins of OEzani--The Acropolis and
Temple--The Theatre and Stadium--Ride down the Valley--Camp at Daghje
Köi
"There is a temple in ruin stands,
Fashioned by long-forgotten hands;
Two or three columns and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown!
Out upon Time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before!"
Daghje Köi, on the Rhyndacus, _July_ 6, 1852.
On entering Kiutahya, we passed the barracks, which were the residence of
Kossuth and his companions in exile. Beyond them, we came to a broad
street, down which flowed the vilest stream of filth of which even a
Turkish city could ever boast. The houses on either side were two stories
high, the upper part of wood, with hanging balconies, over which shot the
eaves of the tiled roofs. The welcome cannon had just sounded, announcing
the close of the day's fast. The coffee-shops were already crowded with
lean and hungry customers, the pipes were filled and lighted, and the
coffee smoked in the finjans. In half a minute such whiffs arose on all
sides as it would have cheered the heart of a genuine smoker to behold.
Out of these cheerful places we passed into other streets which were
entirely deserted, the inhabitants being at dinner. It had a weird,
uncomfortable effect to ride through streets where the clatter of our
horses' hoofs was the only sound of life. At last we reached the entrance
to a bazaar, and near it a khan--a new khan, very neatly built, and with a
spare room so much better than we expected, that we congratulated
ourselves heartily. We unpacked in a hurry, and François ran off to the
bazaar, from which he speedily returned with some roast kid, cucumbers,
and cherries. We lighted two lamps, I borrowed the oda-bashi's narghileh,
and François, learning that it was our national anniversary, procured us a
flask of Greek wine, that we might do it honor. The beverage, however,
resembled a mixture of vinegar and sealing-wax, and we contented ourselves
with drinking patriotic toasts, in two finjans of excellent coffee. But in
the midst of our enjoyment, happening to cast my eye on the walls, I saw a
sight that turned all our honey into gall. Scores on scores--nay, hundreds
on hundreds--of enormous bed-bugs swarmed on the plaster, and were already
descending to our beds and baggage. To sleep there was impossible, but we
succeeded in getting possession of one of the outside balconies, where we
made our beds, after searching them thoroughly.
In the evening a merchant, who spoke a little Arabic, came up to me and
asked: "Is not your Excellency's friend the _hakim pasha_" (chief
physician). I did not venture to assent, but replied: "No; he is a
_sowakh_" This was beyond his comprehension, and he went away with the
impression that Mr. H. was much greater than a _hakim pasha_. I slept
soundly on my out-doors bed, but was awakened towards morning by two
tremendous claps of thunder, echoing in the gorge, and the rattling of
rain on the roof of the khan.
I spent two or three hours next morning in taking a survey of Kiutahya.
The town is much larger than I had supposed: I should judge it to contain
from fifty to sixty thousand inhabitants. The situation is remarkable, and
gives a picturesque effect to the place when seen from above, which makes
one forget its internal filth. It is built in the mouth of a gorge, and
around the bases of the hills on either side. The lofty mountains which
rise behind it supply it with perpetual springs of pure water. At every
dozen steps you come upon a fountain, and every large street has a brook
in the centre. The houses are all two and many of them three stories high,
with hanging balconies, which remind me much of Switzerland. The bazaars
are very extensive, covering all the base of the hill on which stands the
ancient citadel. The goods displayed were mostly European cotton fabrics,
_quincaillerie_, boots and slippers, pipe-sticks and silks. In the parts
devoted to the produce of the country, I saw very fine cherries, cucumbers
and lettuce, and bundles of magnificent clover, three to four feet high.
We climbed a steep path to the citadel, which covers the summit of an
abrupt, isolated hill, connected by a shoulder with the great range. The
walls are nearly a mile in circuit, consisting almost wholly of immense
circular buttresses, placed so near each other that they almost touch. The
connecting walls are broken down on the northern side, so that from below
the buttresses have the appearance of enormous shattered columns. They are
built of rough stones, with regular layers of flat, burnt bricks. On the
highest part of the hill stands the fortress, or stronghold, a place which
must have been almost impregnable before the invention of cannon. The
structure probably dates from the ninth or tenth century, but is built on
the foundations of more ancient edifices. The old Greek city of Cotyaeum
(whence Kiutahya) probably stood upon this hill. Within the citadel is an
upper town, containing about a hundred houses, the residence, apparently
of poor families.
From the circuit of the walls, on every side, there are grand views over
the plain, the city, and the gorges of the mountains behind. The valley of
the Pursek, freshened by the last night's shower, spread out a sheet of
vivid green, to the pine-covered mountains which bounded it on all sides.
Around the city it was adorned with groves and gardens, and, in the
direction of Brousa, white roads went winding away to other gardens and
villages in the distance. The mountains of Phrygia, through which we had
passed, were the loftiest in the circle that inclosed the valley. The city
at our feet presented a thick array of red-tiled roofs, out of which rose
here and there the taper shaft of a minaret, or the dome of a mosque or
bath. From the southern side of the citadel, we looked down into the gorge
which supplies Kiutahya with water--a wild, desert landscape of white
crags and shattered peaks of gray rock, hanging over a narrow winding bed
of the greenest foliage.
Instead of taking the direct road to Brousa, we decided to make a detour
of two days, in order to visit the ruins of the old Greek city of
OEzani, which are thirty-six miles south of Kiutahya. Leaving at
noon, we ascended the gorge behind the city, by delightfully embowered
paths, at first under the eaves of superb walnut-trees, and then through
wild thickets of willow, hazel, privet, and other shrubs, tangled
together with the odorous white honeysuckle. Near the city, the
mountain-sides were bare white masses of gypsum and other rock, in many
places with the purest chrome-yellow hue; but as we advanced they were
clothed to the summit with copsewood. The streams that foamed down these
perennial heights were led into buried channels, to come to light again in
sparkling fountains, pouring into ever-full stone basins. The day was cool
and cloudy, and the heavy shadows which hung on the great sides of the
mountain gateway, heightened, by contrast, the glory of the sunlit plain
seen through them.
After passing the summit ridge, probably 5,000 feet above the sea, we came
upon a wooded, hilly region, stretching away in long misty lines to Murad
Dagh, whose head was spotted with snow. There were patches of wheat and
rye in the hollows, and the bells of distant herds tinkled occasionally
among the trees. There was no village on the road, and we were on the way
to one which we saw in the distance, when we came upon a meadow of good
grass, with a small stream running through it. Here we encamped, sending
Achmet, the katurgee, to the village for milk and eggs. The ewes had just
been milked for the suppers of their owners, but they went over the flock
again, stripping their udders, which greatly improved the quality of the
milk. The night was so cold that I could scarcely sleep during the morning
hours. There was a chill, heavy dew on the meadow; but when François awoke
me at sunrise, the sky was splendidly clear and pure, and the early beams
had a little warmth in them. Our coffee, before starting, made with
sheep's milk, was the richest I ever drank.
After riding for two hours across broad, wild ridges, covered with cedar,
we reached a height overlooking the valley of the Rhyndacus, or rather the
plain whence he draws his sources--a circular level, ten or twelve miles
in diameter, and contracting towards the west into a narrow dell, through
which his waters find outlet; several villages, each embowered in gardens,
were scattered along the bases of the hills that inclose it. We took the
wrong road, but were set aright by a herdsman, and after threading a lane
between thriving grain-fields, were cheered by the sight of the Temple of
OEzani, lifted on its acropolis above the orchards of Chavdür, and
standing out sharp and clear against the purple of the hills.
Our approach to the city was marked by the blocks of sculptured marble
that lined the way: elegant mouldings, cornices, and entablatures, thrown
together with common stone to make walls between the fields. The village
is built on both sides of the Rhyndacus; it is an ordinary Turkish hamlet,
with tiled roofs and chimneys, and exhibits very few of the remains of the
old city in its composition. This, I suspect, is owing to the great size
of the hewn blocks, especially of the pillars, cornices, and entablatures,
nearly all of which are from twelve to fifteen feet long. It is from the
size and number of these scattered blocks, rather than from the buildings
which still partially exist, that one obtains an idea of the size and
splendor of the ancient OEzani. The place is filled with fragments,
especially of columns, of which there are several hundred, nearly all
finely fluted. The Rhyndacus is still spanned by an ancient bridge of
three arches, and both banks are lined with piers of hewn stone. Tall
poplars and massy walnuts of the richest green shade the clear waters, and
there are many picturesque combinations of foliage and ruin--death and
life--which would charm a painter's eye. Near the bridge we stopped to
examine a pile of immense fragments which have been thrown together by the
Turks--pillars, cornices, altars, pieces of a frieze, with bulls' heads
bound together by hanging garlands, and a large square block, with a
legible tablet. It resembled an altar in form, and, from the word
"_Artemidoron_" appeared to have belonged to some temple to Diana.
Passing through the village we came to a grand artificial platform on its
western side, called the Acropolis. It is of solid masonry, five hundred
feet square, and averaging ten feet in height. On the eastern side it is
supported on rude though massive arches, resembling Etruscan workmanship.
On the top and around the edges of this platform lie great numbers of
fluted columns, and immense fragments of cornice and architrave. In the
centre, on a foundation platform about eight feet high, stands a beautiful
Ionic temple, one hundred feet in length. On approaching, it appeared
nearly perfect, except the roof, and so many of the columns remain
standing that its ruined condition scarcely injures the effect. There are
seventeen columns on the side and eight at the end, Ionic in style,
fluted, and fifty feet in height. About half the cella remains, with an
elegant frieze and cornice along the top, and a series of tablets, set in
panels of ornamental sculpture, running along the sides. The front of the
cella includes a small open peristyle, with two composite Corinthian
columns at the entrance, making, with those of the outer colonnade,
eighteen columns standing. The tablets contain Greek inscriptions,
perfectly legible, where the stone has not been shattered. Under the
temple there are large vaults, which we found filled up with young kids,
who had gone in there to escape the heat of the sun. The portico was
occupied by sheep, which at first refused to make room for us, and gave
strong olfactory evidence of their partiality for the temple as a
resting-place.
On the side of a hill, about three hundred yards to the north, are the
remains of a theatre. Crossing some patches of barley and lentils, we
entered a stadium, forming an extension of the theatre---that is, it took
the same breadth and direction, so that the two might be considered as one
grand work, more than one thousand feet long by nearly four hundred wide.
The walls of the stadium are hurled down, except an entrance of five
arches of massive masonry, on the western side. We rode up the artificial
valley, between high, grassy hills, completely covered with what at a
distance resembled loose boards, but which were actually the long marble
seats of the stadium. Urging our horses over piles of loose blocks, we
reached the base of the theatre, climbed the fragments that cumber the
main entrance, and looked on the spacious arena and galleries within.
Although greatly ruined, the materials of the whole structure remain, and
might be put together again. It is a grand wreck; the colossal fragments
which have tumbled from the arched proscenium fill the arena, and the rows
of seats, though broken and disjointed, still retain their original order.
It is somewhat more than a semicircle, the radius being about one hundred
and eighty feet. The original height was upwards of fifty feet, and there
were fifty rows of seats in all, each row capable of seating two hundred
persons, so that the number of spectators who could be accommodated was
eight thousand.
The fragments cumbering the arena were enormous, and highly interesting
from their character. There were rich blocks of cornice, ten feet long;
fluted and reeded pillars; great arcs of heavily-carved sculpture, which
appeared to have served as architraves from pillar to pillar, along the
face of the proscenium, where there was every trace of having been a
colonnade; and other blocks sculptured with figures of animals in
alto-relievo. There were generally two figures on each block, and among
those which could be recognized were the dog and the lion. Doors opened
from the proscenium into the retiring-rooms of the actors, under which
were the vaults where the beasts were kept. A young fox or jackal started
from his siesta as we entered the theatre, and took refuge under the loose
blocks. Looking backwards through the stadium from the seats of the
theatre, we had a lovely view of the temple, standing out clear and bright
in the midst of the summer plain, with the snow-streaked summits of Murad
Dagh in the distance. It was a picture which I shall long remember. The
desolation of the magnificent ruins was made all the more impressive by
the silent, solitary air of the region around them.
Leaving Chavdür in the afternoon, we struck northward, down the valley of
the Rhyndacus, over tracts of rolling land, interspersed with groves of
cedar and pine. There were so many branch roads and crossings that we
could not fail to go wrong; and after two or three hours found ourselves
in the midst of a forest, on the broad top of a mountain, without any road
at all. There were some herdsmen tending their flocks near at hand, but
they could give us no satisfactory direction. We thereupon, took our own
course, and soon brought up on the brink of a precipice, overhanging a
deep valley. Away to the eastward we caught a glimpse of the Rhyndacus,
and the wooden minaret of a little village on his banks. Following the
edge of the precipice, we came at last to a glen, down which ran a rough
footpath that finally conducted us, by a long road through the forests, to
the village of Daghje Köi, where we are now encamped.
The place seems to be devoted to the making of flints, and the streets are
filled with piles of the chipped fragments. Our tent is pitched on the
bank of the river, in a barren meadow. The people tell us that the whole
region round about has just been visited by a plague of grasshoppers,
which have destroyed their crops. Our beasts have wandered off to the
hills, in search for grass, and the disconsolate Hadji is hunting them.
Achmet, the katurgee, lies near the fire, sick; Mr. Harrison complains of
fever, and François moves about languidly, with a dismal countenance. So
here we are in the solitudes of Bithynia, but there is no God but God, and
that which is destined comes to pass.