The body, in its usual clothes, was
carried on a board covered by a sheet. When they reached the grave the
women shrieked, wept and kissed the face of the dead man: then his
clothes were taken off, the body wrapped in the sheet and laid in the
grave, which was only two feet deep. The priest broke a bottle of wine
over the head, the earth was loosely thrown in, and the party went away.
There is no more melancholy spot to me than a Turkish cemetery. The
graves are squeezed tightly together, and the headstones, generally in a
tumble-down state, are shaped like a coffin standing on end, or like a
round hitching-post with a fez cap carved on the top. Weeds and rank
wild-flowers cover the ground, and over all sway the dark, stiff
cypresses.
A little way down the street is a Turkish pastry-shop. Lecturers and
writers have from time to time held forth on the enormities of
pie-eating, and given the American people "particular fits" for their
addiction to it. Now, while I fully endorse all I ever heard said on the
subject, I beg leave to remark that the Americans are not the _worst_
offenders in this way. If you want to see pastry, come to
Constantinople: _seeing_ will satisfy you--you won't risk a taste.
Mutton is largely eaten, and the mutton fat is used with flour to make
the crust, which is so rich that the grease fairly oozes out and
"smells to Heaven." Meat-pies are in great demand. The crust is baked
alone in a round flat piece, and laid out on a counter, which is soon
very greasy, ready to be filled.
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