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