Jouchi-Daghi, or Giant’s Mountain, (the spot selected by the artist,)
is the grandest _coup-d’œil_ on the Bosphorus. As the line of shore
terminates on either hand, the picturesque and jagged rocks suddenly
yield to a low and sandy stretch of coast; and beyond are visible the
“Blue Symplegades,” heaving up their dark and irregular masses from the
encircling waters of the Sea of Storms, which, stretching far away on all
sides, is ultimately blent with the horizon.
The ruins of two Genoese Castles crown the abrupt peaks of a portion
of the mountain-chain of which the Jouchi-Daghi is the monarch. One of
them, whose mouldering walls descend nearly to the lip of the channel,
has its beautiful legend of womanly high-heartedness; for a tale is there
recorded of a young fair girl, scarcely yet arrived at the first years
of womanhood, the daughter of the Governor, who defended the fortress
for three entire days after the death of her father, who fell mortally
wounded by a poisoned arrow, as he was gallantly meeting the enemy; and
with a diminished and despairing garrison, boldly held the castle until
she was herself killed in its defence. Fable has now peopled the gray
old pile with supernatural visitants; but if the spirit of that high and
heroic girl still presides within the walls, their contact can scarcely
be dreaded.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE BLACK SEA. (From the Giant’s Grave.)
_ENTRÉE DE LA MER NOIRE, VUE DU TOMBEAU DU GÉANT._ _SCENERIE DES
SCHWARZEN MEERES VON DER RIESENGRUFT HER._
W. H. Bartlett. S. Bradshaw.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1838.]
[Illustration: THE BOSPHORUS. (Opposite the Genoese Castle)
_LE BOSPHORE VU DU COTÉ OPPOSÉ AU CHATEAU GÉNOIS._ _DER BOSPHORUS,
GEGENÜBER DEM GENUESISCHEN SCHLOSS._
W. H. Bartlett. E. Benjamin.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
It is impossible to write of the Bosphorus without enthusiasm, for both
its historical and fabulous associations serve to deepen its actual
beauty; while the endless variety of its perspective keeps the eye and
the mind continually on the stretch, never cheating either the one or the
other of the anticipated feast. Could it be contemplated in its entire
length, and swept from sea to sea by one long gaze, much of its charm
would necessarily be lost with its novelty; but as it winds in graceful
curves between its enchanting shores, it is like a chain of cunningly
wrought gold, of which, as it uncoils, every link appears more beautiful
than the last. The caïque of the traveller is one moment overshadowed by
the tall trees of the “Hill of the Thousand Nightingales,” and in the
next instant it is darting past a brightly-painted palace; now it is with
some difficulty urged forward against the eddying Sheitan Akindissi, or
Devil’s Current, where the mad waves leap to its high and pointed prow;
and now, as by some sudden spell, it is again gliding over a surface
blue, and clear, and almost rippleless. Valleys, gay in their eternal
greenery, are succeeded by steep and wooded hills; villages fringe the
little bays, and villas crown the picturesque and fantastic heights; a
double line of fortresses stud the shores from the castle of Mahomet
to the entrance of the Black Sea; cemeteries, contrasting their white
head-stones with the dark foliage of the cypresses by which they are
overshadowed, lean on the hill-side, and stretch to the very edge of
the channel; and between and among these objects, pass, in perpetual
movement, the gilded galleys of the Sultan, the splendid barges of the
ministers, the graceful caïques of the veiled beauties of the city, ships
of war, Arab barks, quaint in their form and covering, merchant-brigs,
and every description of small craft; now seeming, in the distance, to be
plying among the trees by which the channel is overhung, and anon shaking
out their white sails to meet the shifting wind, and bounding into the
centre of the stream.
From the European side of the strait, immediately opposite the old
Genoese Castle, the _coup-d’œil_ is, perhaps, even more beautiful than
on that of Asia, for the traveller commands from thence a scene of
unparalleled variety, as he looks towards Constantinople. Far away, on
the extreme right, cluster the domes and minarets of the hill-seated
city, while the distant line is continued by the shores of Asia Minor,
dominated by Mount Olympus, and sweeping the horizon until the eye is
unable to follow them. At their base lies the sea of Marmora, looking
calm and sunny like some inland lake; while the foreground of the
picture is formed by the undulating banks and glorious channel of the
Bosphorus—castled rocks, laughing valleys, bays, where the busy caïques
come and go like aquatic birds over the ripple—and gay green woods,
which change both in form and in colour as the fresh breeze sweeps
through their leafy depths. Nor is it the least curious feature of the
scene, that, as the boat of the wanderer dances upon the channel-wave,
his ear catches the gay sounds of laughter, or the voices of his
fellow-men, from both sides of the stream—alike from the shores of Europe
and of Asia—and he feels himself to be, for the moment, a connecting link
between two distinct portions of the earth!
From the time-worn ruins of the old Genoese Castle, the opposite shore
is full of scenic interest. A succession of small fortresses, niched
into the _débouches_ of several of the low valleys at the base of the
rocky chain, gleam out gay and white against the dark background of the
mountains, and pretty villages, and overhanging groves, are mirrored in
the blue waters of the channel.
Therapia and Buyukdèrè, (or the Great Bay,) however, deserve more
especial mention, being the favourite summer residences of the European
Ambassadors, and, consequently, the occasional focus of the Frank
aristocracy. Both are beautifully situated: Buyukdèrè stands boldly near
the very junction of the two seas, while Therapia is less exposed to the
tempest-blasts of the “storm-vexed Euxine,” by occupying a station higher
up the channel. It is backed by a richly-wooded hill, on which the houses
of the upper town have, however, considerably and very picturesquely
encroached. And here the English and French embassies, since the great
fire of Pera, when the ambassadorial residences were destroyed, have
entirely established themselves, only occasionally visiting the city;
and hence the commerce of the place has become very respectable, and
the appearance of its inhabitants acquired no slight tinge of the
restlessness and business-like manner of their Frank visitors.
The lower town occupies the edge of a small bay, the point of land by
which it is terminated standing out abruptly into the channel, as if for
the mere purpose of effect, and a long terrace stretching away from its
opposite face. On this terrace stand the two ambassadorial residences;
the “Palace” of the English Legation being a small, half-ruinous,
irregularly-gabled wooden building, without “mark or likelihood,” and
that of France, by comparison, a handsome and spacious edifice, with a
noble garden.
[Illustration: THERAPIA AND THE GIANT’S GRAVE.
_THÉRAPIA ET LE TOMBEAU DES GÉANS._ _THERAPIA UND DIE RIESENGRUFT._
W. H. Bartlett. R. Wallis.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
At Therapia the Sultan has both a summer-palace and a kiosque, each
touching upon the channel. The former is a plain unpretending pile,
looking extremely like a manufactory, scantily furnished, and but rarely
visited by its Imperial owner; but the grounds attached to it are most
magnificent, and extend over three leagues of land, the whole of which
is enclosed by high walls. The ornamental timber is of the rarest and
finest description, and the entire face of the height behind the palace
is thickly and richly wooded, while fountains, kiosques, and terraces,
abound. These gardens are generally visited on horseback, in consequence
of their great extent; and nothing can be more delicious on a sultry
day, when the mountain-tops are steaming under the hot sunshine, than
to loiter among the groves, or along the majestic avenues of these
lordly grounds, with the leaves quivering above your head, and the long
shadows lying dark and cool upon your path. The kiosque is an octagonal,
brightly-painted, many-windowed retreat, commanding views on all sides
of the Bosphorus and its shores, and overshadowed by a couple of very
fine maple-trees. Buyukdèrè is altogether on a grander scale; backed by
a noble meadow, gay and green, at whose extremity is seen the stately
aqueduct of Baghtchè-Keuï, it extends gracefully along the lip of the
shore at the base of a sloping ridge, (the terminus of one of the
branches of Mount Hæmus,) rich with vineyards and gardens. Its houses are
light and handsome, fringing the channel for a considerable distance, and
only parted from it by a stately terrace of immense length and breadth,
the favourite promenade of the inhabitants.
Nothing can be more beautiful than the view from Buyukdèrè on a summer
night, when the intense blue of the sky is reflected by the waves of the
“ocean-stream,” which take a fringe of pearl as they heave themselves
gently against the terrace, and then break away in light; while the moon,
clear, and polished like a silver shield, floods earth and sea with
lustre, and the stars tremble brightly about her, as though they were too
glad for rest.
But the sublimity of a tempest from the same spot, as it rolls onward
from the Euxine to the Bosphorus, mocks at description. Fold upon fold,
shade upon shade, the dense vapour rolls along, wrapping itself about
the hills, and draping them in darkness; the distance becomes blotted
out—space is no longer a feature of the scene—and as the awe-inspiring
storm-cloud spreads itself over every object, the hoarse voice of the
blast sweeps onward with it, deepening its terrors; while, through the
impenetrable gloom, in every lapse of the wind, the ear is deafened by
the wild dash of the angry billows, as they chafe against the rocky
barriers of the coast!
The nerves must be strong indeed which would not be shaken in such an
hour, when standing on the Jouchi-Daghi, amid three storm-tossed seas,
and under a sky freighted with terrors; a sail, perchance, labouring in
the distance, tempest-shattered, but toiling on for life, revealed only
at intervals as the fierce but transient lightning cuts like a fiery
scymetar through the thick vapour, and lost at last, none can tell how
nor where, amid the shrill requiem of the sea-birds.
Nor must the Giant’s Mountain itself be passed over in silence, claiming,
as it does, the notice of the traveller, not more by its stateliness of
outline, than by its romantic legend; both the one and the other being
occasionally so enveloped in clouds, that it is difficult to determine
the exact features of either.
This noble height is, during the summer months, a favourite resort of the
Franks, who, fanned by the cool breezes from the Black Sea, and regaled
by one of the finest views in nature, give pic-nic parties and dances
under the shade of the trees, or in the neat wooden tenement appropriated
to visitors, near the Tekiè, or Convent, which occupies its summit. The
Dervishes who inhabit this mountain-hermitage derive no inconsiderable
portion of their revenue from the presents tendered by their guests, and
willingly show to the stranger their small but well-kept chapel, and the
grave of their gigantic hero, who has given his name to the spot; and
with the most devout and solemn simplicity, the narrow oblong enclosure,
thickly planted with rose and jasmine-trees, called the “Giant’s Grave,”
is then pointed out by the simple recluses. It is about fifty feet in
length, guarded with the most religious care, lighted by a lamp which is
constantly kept burning in one of the alcoves, and rich in propitiatory
offerings of strips of cloth, and rags of every tint and texture.
The Musselmauns affirm that the “illustrious dead” was a Dervish, whose
sanctity equalled his stature; a belief which does him infinite honour,
as he is said to have seated himself on the summit of the mountain, while
he bathed his feet in the cool waters of Buyukdèrè. His mode of interment
must, consequently, have been similar to the planting of a flag-staff,
as the grave is not too long to admit the breadth of his shoulders; and
this perpendicular burial can alone account for its comparatively pigmy
dimensions—unless, indeed, the mountain is hallowed only by containing
a mere fragment of his remains. His history, and the epoch in which he
flourished, are alike unknown; but as his sanctity is undoubted, they are
minor facts, unworthy of analysis.
[Illustration: BUYUKDÈRÈ. (From the Giant’s Grave.)
_BUYUKDÈRÈ, VU DU TOMBEAU DU GÉANT._ _BUYUKDÈRÈ VOM RIESENGRABE HER._
W. H. Bartlett. S. Bradshaw.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
Such is the Mahommedan tradition; that of the Christians, if quite as
apocryphal, is at least much more poetical.
Their legend saith, that the grave of the Jouchi-Daghi contains the bones
of a huge and ferocious giant, to whom the Symplegades were thralled
vassals; and who, from his station on the mountain-crest, watched the
approach of every vessel that ventured to brave the billows of the
Euxine. It was at his beck that the subject-islands wandered over the
waters, and crushed between their rocky sides all those unwary barks
which, tempted by the vision of a new El Dorado beyond the channel,
sought to force the passage of the Bosphorus. It was he also, who,
fearful lest any daring vessel might escape through the rocky barrier
during his transient and infrequent slumber, created that swift and
dangerous reaction of the tide midway of the channel, well known as the
“Devil’s Current;” while he is likewise accused of devouring drowning
mariners, conjuring up tempests, and of having tinged the waters of the
Black Sea by performing his ablutions in its polluted bosom!
Such is the legend of the Jouchi-Daghi, and such the glorious scene
spread out beneath it.
THE PALACE OF BELISARIUS.
“To what base uses may we come at last!”
SHAKSPEARE.
The ruin known by the name of the Palace of Belisarius, is situated at an
angle of the city walls; and, according to the authority of the learned
Constantius, Archbishop of Senaï, and Ex-Patriarch of Constantinople,
(still in exile for his work on the Antiquities of Byzantium,) it was
one of the Imperial residences of the first Constantine; and he asserts,
that it owes its present designation to the fact of its being placed in
a quarter of the city called Balata, a corruption of Balati, or the Gate
of the Palace, which has gradually grown, from the hasty and undigested
impressions of Frank travellers, into the Palace of Belisarius. There
are the remains of a lofty and handsome gate-way, and the disposition of
the masonry is highly extolled by architects; but to the mere tourist,
the ruined Palace of Constantine, reft of its old-world associations, is
possessed of little interest; and that little is absolutely negatived by
the price which he is compelled to pay for a visit to its neighbourhood.
To all oriental travellers it will be sufficient to state that the
building has been given up to the Jews as a pauper-hospital, for them
to understand at once that it is almost unapproachable, being the
head-quarters of filth, and the hotbed of pestilence, where every sense
is pained by scents and sights calculated to inspire dread and disgust.
[Illustration: PALACE OF BELISARIUS.
_PALAIS DE BÉLISAIRE._ _DER PALLAST DES BELISARIUS._
W. H. Bartlett. F. W. Topham.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
Masses of the fallen masonry cumber the foundations of the ruin, and
every niche is alive with its noisome tenant; here it is a sallow and
fleshless crone, whose lean and shrivelled hands can with difficulty
disengage themselves from the filthy rags which are wrapped about her,
in order to stretch themselves supplicatingly towards the stranger;
while her cracked voice screams out in doggrel Spanish a petition for
relief, as servile as it is eager; there it is a reckless child, with
the marked features of its race, rolling naked under the hot sunshine,
and gambolling with the wretched and half-starved dogs of the miserable
colony. On one side the visitor is jostled by disease, and on the other
persecuted by importunity; while a number of wretched houses have grown
up about the ruin, whose dilapidated roofs, shattered lattices, and
windows stuffed with rags and grass to exclude the weather, are in
melancholy keeping with their inhabitants.
Under these circumstances it will readily be believed that a visit to the
desecrated palace of Constantine requires a painful effort on the part
of an European traveller, whose eyes are taxed with the contemplation
and contact of the most nauseous objects; and whose sympathies cannot
fail to be excited by a congregated misery which he must feel his utter
incapacity to relieve. Nor can the most determined antiquary hope to
discover any relic of old to repay him for even an hour’s sojourn within
the ruin, when he remembers that it is thickly tenanted by a horde of
necessitous and keen-witted Hebrews, who are familiar with every recess
of the dilapidated edifice.
From afar off the crumbling pile is a noble and majestic object, but,
like many and more familiar things, it will not bear a nearer contact
without losing all its best attributes. Close beside it the common sewers
of the city empty themselves into the port; and, altogether, it may well
be said, in the words of Shakspeare—
“It is unsavoury, and smacks not with our humour.”
THE SERAGLIO POINT.
“_Claudius_:—Look forth—What see you?
“_Benedict_:—Every thing, and nothing!
Bright skies, clear waters, sunshine, snow, and flowers;
Islands, that seem as if in sport they laved
Their bosoms in the tide; and shores that smile
At their own beauty, mirrored in the glass
Of a blue, waveless sea; dwellings that rise
Upon the eye like party-coloured flowers;
And a warm sunshine, wantoning in sport
With the white veil of winter, cast about
A foot-defying mountain, round whose brow
The amorous clouds cling like a bridal garland.
And ever and anon there flits a sail
Over the surface of the waters, swift,
And graceful as the passage of a spirit,
Bound on some pure behest.”
OLD PLAY.
The Seraglio Point has been so often described in this volume, that
it is merely necessary to introduce the present beautiful sketch, by
explaining that it is taken from a height, and, consequently, compresses
and embraces a greater number of objects than have yet been introduced
into one view of this celebrated spot. The Seraï Bournou is more fully
revealed, with its clustering domes and kiosques; St. Sophia lords it
more majestically over the Seven Hills; and the glimpse of the harbour is
shut in by a portion of one of the quaintly-fashioned houses so peculiar
to the locality. In the distance rises Mount Olympus, pale with its
eternal snows; with one fantastic rock looming out of the blue waters
immediately beneath it, like a huge marine monster sleeping under the
still sunshine. To the left, still stretching along the same line of
coast, cluster the nest of islets, once known as the “Demon Islands,”
and said to have been haunted by a foul spirit; who, however, it may be
presumed—
“Visits no more the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous;”
as three holy houses have been erected within their limits, and a royal
lady sheltered there safely for many days to elude a hated and infidel
suitor; whence these pleasant retreats have since been more invitingly
christened the “Princess’ Islands;” and they are now a place of great
resort with the holiday-loving Greeks, during the summer months. On the
extreme left lies Scutari, with its noble and palace-like barrack and
mosque, over which the rock-seated Guz-couli, rising up amid the waters,
seems to be standing sentinel; while the narrow stretch of land, running
in a direct line into the sea, is occupied by the poor dingy little
Greek town of Cadi Küi, which is built upon the site of the ancient
Chalcedon—called, in derision, the “City of the Blind,” in contempt
for the wretched taste and narrow policy of the Greeks, who founded
it several years before they took possession of the superior position
occupied by the present capital.
[Illustration: THE SERAGLIO POINT.
_POINTE DU SERAIL._ _DAS ENDE DER SERAGLIO STRASSE._
W. H. Bartlett. R. Wallis.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1838.]
Add to these several and enduring features of the scene, the constant
passage of hundreds of swift and arrow-like caïques, of fleets of
merchantmen of all lands, of the high-prowed and classical Arabian barks,
and, occasionally, the stately ships of war, with their blood-red flag
glittering with a silver crescent, gracefully making their way to their
moorings off the palace of Beshik-Tash—and the artist will readily be
forgiven, though he should have multiplied his memories of so glorious a
spectacle.
YENIKEUIJ.
“Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
Some tricks of desperation: all
Plung’d in the foaming brine—cry’d
Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here!”
SHAKSPEARE.
There are few prettier villages on the Bosphorus than Yenikeuij, which is
situated on the European shore, within two miles of Therapia. The houses,
in numerous instances, overhang the sea; and the beating of the waves
against the narrow terraces, as the rapid current forces them onward,
keeps up a constant murmur, which, in the hot months, is extremely
refreshing. The heights above the hamlet are profusely wooded; and many
wealthy Armenian Sarafs and Greek merchants have their _maisons de
plaisance_ among them.
[Illustration: YENIKEUIJ ON THE BOSPHORUS.
_YENIKEUIJ SUR LE BOSPHORE._ _YENIKEUIJ AM BOSPHORUS._
W. H. Bartlett. J. J. Hinchliffe.
London. Published for the Proprietors, by Geo: Virtue, 26, Ivy Lane,
1839.]
The largest mansion in the village was built by the celebrated and
unfortunate Dooz Oglou, the great banker and diplomatist, and one of the
most talented, as well as the wealthiest Armenian in Turkey. When high
in favour with the Sultan, he purchased a small kiosque at Yenikeuï, and
formed so great an attachment to the locality, that he determined on
erecting there a residence worthy of his princely fortunes. This spacious
palace—for, although, as is common in the country, the building is almost
entirely composed of wood, it cannot be consistently called by any
other name—presents a comparatively insignificant façade to the water;
but occupies the whole line from thence to the foot of the height, and
traverses the public street of the village by a covered bridge, which is
occupied by a wide gallery leading to the dining saloon.