of Contents
Cheerful Cemeteries—Burial-ground of Pera—Superiority of the Turkish Cemeteries—Cypresses—Singular Superstition—The Grand Champs—Greek Grave-yard—Sultan Selim’s Barrack—Village of St. Demetrius—European Burial-ground—Grave-stones—The Kiosk—Noble View—Legend of the Maiden’s Tower—Plague Hospital of the Turks—The Plague-Caïque—Armenian Cemetery—Curious Inscriptions—Turkish Burial-place—Distinctive Head-stones—Graves of the Janissaries—Wild Superstition—Cemetery of Scutari—Splendid Cypresses—Ancient Prophecy—Extent of Burial-ground—The Headless Dead—Exclusive Enclosures—Aspect of the Cemetery from the Summer Palace of Heybetoullah Sultane—Local Superstition—The Damnèd Souls.
I have alluded elsewhere to the apparent care with which the Turks select the most lovely spots for burying their dead, and how they have, by such means, divested death of its most gloomy attributes. Like the ancient Romans, they form grave-yards by the road-side; and, like them, they inscribe upon their tombs the most beautiful lessons of resignation and philosophy.
The Cemetery of Pera offers a singular spectacle; and the rather that the “Champ des Morts” is the promenade of the whole population, Turk, Frank, Greek, and Armenian; the lesser burial-place, or Petit Champs, is sacred to the Mussulmauns, and fringes with its dark cypresses the crest of the hill that dominates the port; it is hemmed in with houses—overlooked by a hundred casements—grazed by cattle—loud with greetings and gossipry—and commands an extensive view of the shipping in the harbour and the opposite shore. There are footpaths among the funereal trees; sunny glades gleaming out amid the dark shadows; head-stones clustered against the grassy slopes, and guard-houses, with their portals thronged with lounging soldiers, mocking the defencelessness of the dead. Nor must I forget to mention the small octagonal building, which, seated in the very depth of the valley, and generally remarkable from the dense volume of smoke exuding from its tall chimney, marks the spot where the last profane duties are paid to the dead; where the body is washed, the beard is shorn, the nails are cut, and the limbs are decently composed, ere what was so lately a True Believer is laid to rest in the narrow grave, to be aroused only by the sound of the last trumpet.
The superiority of the Turkish cemeteries over those of Europe may be accounted for in several ways. Their head-stones are more picturesque and various—their situation better chosen—and, above all things, the Mussulmaun never disturbs the ashes of the dead. There is no burying and re-burying on the same spot, as with us. The remains of the departed are sacred.
When a body is committed to the earth, the priest plants a cypress at the head, and another at the foot, of the grave; and hence those far-spreading forests, those bough o’er-canopied cities of the dead, which form so remarkable a feature in Turkish scenery. Should only one tree in six survive, enough still remain to form a dense and solemn grove; but the Turks have a singular superstition with regard to those that, instead of lancing their tall heads towards the sky, take a downward bend, as though they would fain return to the earth from whence they sprang; they hold that these imply the damnation of the soul whose mortal remains they overshadow; and as, from the closeness with which they are planted, and their consequent number, such accidents are by no means rare, it must be at best a most uncomfortable creed.
But it is to the “Grand Champs” that the stranger should direct his steps, if he would contemplate a scene to which the world probably can produce no parallel. Emerging from the all but interminable High Street, whose projecting upper stories form a canopy above your head for nearly its whole length, you have on your left hand the plague-hospital for the Franks, and on your right a stretch of higher land, which is the burial-ground of the Greeks. Here there is nothing to arrest your steps; it is ill-kept, and, were it not for the houses that surround it, would be dreary and desolate from its very disorder. The Greek is the creature of to-day—yesterday is blotted from his tablets.
Having passed the grave-yard, the road widens into an esplanade, in front of an extensive block of building, erected by Sultan Selim as a cavalry barrack. It is painted rose-colour, has a noble entrance, and possesses a look of order and regularity almost European. It is not until you descend the gentle declivity that slopes onward to the Grand Champs des Morts, that you discover the whole extent of the edifice, which is a quadrangle, having three fronts; its fourth side being devoted to a range of stabling.
The road to Therapia and the “Sweet Waters” skirts the burial-ground; and the little Greek village or colony of St. Demetrius covers an opposite height.
The first plot of ground, after passing the barrack, is the grave-yard of the Franks; and here you are greeted on all sides with inscriptions in Latin: injunctions to pray for the souls of the departed; flourishes of French sentiment; calembourgs graven into the everlasting stone, treating of roses and reine Marguerites; concise English records of births, deaths, ages, and diseases; Italian elaborations of regret and despair; and all the commonplaces of an ordinary burial-ground.
Along the edge of this piece of land, a wide road conducts you to a steep descent leading to the Sultan’s Palace of Dolma Batché; the crest of the hill commanding a noble view of the channel; while, on the verge of the descent, and almost touching the graves, stands a kiosk of wood, rudely put together, and serving as a coffee room; and immediately in front of it, a group of cypresses form a pleasant shade, beneath which parties of Turks, Greeks, and Armenians, seated on low stools, smoke their eternal chibouks, sip their sugarless coffee, and contemplate one of the loveliest views over which the eye of a painter ever lingered.
From this height, the hill slopes rapidly downward, clothed with fruit trees, and bright with vegetation. At its foot flows the blue Bosphorus, clear and sparkling as the sky, whose tint it rivals. Immediately across the channel stretches Scutari, the gem of the Asian shore, with its forest of cypresses, its belt of palaces, its hill-seated kiosks, and its sky-kissing minarets. Further in the distance are two pigmy islands, heaving up their dark sides from the bright wave, like aquatic monsters revelling in the sunshine; beyond is a stretch of sea—the Sea of Marmora—laughing in the light, as though no storms had ever rent its bosom—while, above all, on the extreme verge of the horizon, almost blending with the dark purple clouds that rest upon it, towers Mount Olympus, the dwelling of the gods, crowned with snows, and flinging its long shadows over the pleasant town and mulberry groves of Broussa. And here, a little to the right, (where Scutari, after advancing with a graceful curve, as though to do homage to her European sister, again recedes), upon a rock so small that its foundations cover the whole surface, stands the “Maiden’s Tower;” an object in itself so picturesque that it would arrest the eye though it possessed no legend to attract the sympathy—but such is far from being the case.
This Tower, so runs the tale, was erected by a former Sultan, as a residence for his only daughter, of whom it was foretold by the astrologers that she would, before the completion of her eighteenth year, be destroyed by a serpent. Every precaution was taken to overcome destiny; but it was not to be—an adder, accidentally concealed in a box of figs, fastened upon the hand of the princess, and she was found dead on her sofa.
The Maiden’s Tower is now the plague-hospital of the Turks: and his heart must be atrophised indeed who can look around on the bright and beautiful scene amid which it stands, and not feel how much the bitter pang of the plague-smitten must be enhanced by the contrast of all around them with their own probable fate—for, alas! the long gaze of the sickening victim is too frequently his last! The dying wretch should pass to his infected home by a road of gloom and shadow, where no image of gladness can mock him by its intrusive and harrowing presence—but to be swiftly borne along that blue sea, with those magnificent shores stretching away into the distance, far beyond his failing vision—to be carried to his narrow chamber, probably to die—cut off from his fellow-men—from all the glory and the majesty around him—surely no after-pang can be so keen as that which grapples at his heart during his brief voyage to the Maiden’s Tower!
Rapidly darts forward the slender caïque; it shoots from the shore like a wild bird—no sound of revelry, no shout of greeting, no pealing laughter, heralds its departure—the sturdy rowers bend to their oars; the resisting waters yield before the vigorous stroke—there is no pause—no interval—the