Coming out of the Belle Vue, we found ourselves in the midst of the
Grand Champs des Morts, where the dead of every faith except the
Jewish are buried in distinct cemeteries. It is a vast, thick wood of
cypress, sycamore, and acacia trees, in whose shadow are thousands
of white tombstones, having the appearance, at a little distance, of
the ruins of some great building. In between the trunks of the trees
distant views are caught of the Bosphorus and the Asiatic coast. Broad
paths wind in and out among the graves, along which groups of Greeks
and Armenians may be seen passing to and fro. On some of the tombs
Turks are seated cross-legged, gazing fixedly at the Bosphorus. One
experiences the same delicious sense of refreshment and peace and rest,
as on entering a vast, dim cathedral on some hot summer’s day.
We paused in the Armenian cemetery. The stones here are all large,
flat, and covered with inscriptions cut in the regular and elegant
characters of the Armenian language, and on almost every one there
is some figure to indicate the trade or occupation of the deceased.
There are hammers, chairs, pens, coffers, and necklaces; the banker is
represented by a pair of weights and scales, the priest by a mitre,
the barber has his basin, the surgeon a lancet. On one stone we saw a
head detached from the body, which was streaming with blood: it was
the grave of either a murdered man or else one who had been executed.
Alongside it was stretched an Armenian, sound asleep, with his head
thrown back.
We passed on next to the Mussulman cemetery. Here were to be seen the
same multitude of little columns, either in rows or standing about in
irregular groups, some of them painted and gilded on top, those of the
women culminating in ornamental bunches of flowers carved in relief,
many of them surrounded with shrubs and flowering plants. As we stood
looking at one of them, two Turks, leading a child by the hand, passed
down the path to a tomb some little distance off, on reaching which
they paused, and, having spread out the contents of a package one of
them carried under his arm, they seated themselves on the tombstone
and began to eat. I stood watching them. When the meal was ended the
elder of the two wrapped what appeared to be a fish and a piece of
bread in a scrap of paper, and with a gesture of respect placed it in
a hole beside the grave. This having been done, they both lit their
pipes and fell to smoking tranquilly, while the child ran up and down
and played among the trees. It was explained to me later that the fish
and bread were that portion of their repast which Turks leave as a
sign of affection for relatives probably not long dead; the hole was
the small opening made in the ground near the head of every Mussulman
grave in order that the departed may hear the sobs and lamentations of
their dear ones left on earth, and occasionally receive a few drops of
rose-water or enjoy the scent of the flowers. Their mortuary smoke
concluded, the two pious Turks arose, and, taking the child once more
by the hand, disappeared among the cypress trees.