forced us at last to land. Under the friendly lee of bushes growing in
the crevices of the masonry embankment we at last succeeded in checking
our too willing canoes, and drew them up reluctantly, and only after it
was evident that we had to choose between the ragged platform of the
dike and the sodden swamps which extended for miles away from the main
stream. It must be understood, by-the-way, that the embankments follow
the large curves of the main channel, not forming a continuous dike like
that along a canal or a polder, but leaving here and there an opening
where the stiller water from the artificial lagoons joins the flowing
stream. In these side branches or lagoons the water is frequently clear
and pellucid, and in them, indeed, we found the first and only “blue
Danube” we had seen from the start. Our visions of the sunny East had
been forgotten in the struggle with the violent squalls and at the
prospect of a night on the water, and as we hauled the canoes up on the
firm stone-work of the dike and explored the snail-infested morass
behind it, we accepted the unæsthetic situation on the well-drained
platform, and were even grateful to the engineers who had spoiled the
river for sketching, but had improved it, at this point at least, for
camping purposes. In the alder swamp behind our camp a great gushing
spring of clean Danube water, filtering through the dike, abundantly
supplied this the most desirable luxury of a bivouac. There is more than
one compensation, we thought, for this annoying desecration of the river
scenery.

[Illustration: LUMBER RAFT]

With the brilliant sunshine and drying air of the next morning returned
the eager anticipations of the day before. The river was full of life.
Great flat-boats and rafts, old friends from the river Traun, drifted
past us as we prepared to start. The raftsmen laboring at the great
sweeps gave us the morning greetings with a true ring of hearty and
honest good-will, and shouted “Auf baldiges Wiedersehen” as they swung
along down the reach. We had long since learned that the old adage that
the race is not always to the swift might be as well illustrated by the
active canoe and the cumbersome raft as by the hare and the tortoise,
and we knew that while we were giving our boats their morning toilet the
rafts would be surging along at the rate of three or four miles an hour,
and would reach their destination near Vienna long before we should.

Tulln, seldom visited by the traveller on account of the superior
attractions of Vienna, has more than one relic which repays careful
examination and study. Adjoining the much-restored church stands a small
decagonal Byzantine baptistery, with circular interior not over twenty
feet in diameter. An Early Gothic doorway grafted on the original
edifice, and a complete restoration of the whole as late as 1873, have
not essentially altered its general appearance, for the naïve
irregularity of its plan, the noble proportion of its sides, and the
purity of its characteristic ornamentation survive all the
eccentricities of ancient as well as modern tinkering. The great church
has been distorted by successive additions and rebuildings during
several centuries, and little remains of its original Byzantine dignity.
As for the little dull town itself, the name, familiar to us in poetry
as well as in the recorded events of history, is the chief proof to the
casual observer that it is one of the oldest, and was for a long time
one of the most important, towns on the Danube. Many of the houses are
probably built out of material quarried from the ancient palaces and
fine old mediæval churches which, ruined in the severe sieges and
conflagrations, had yielded up the treasures of stone and marble which
the wanton destruction of Roman temples had contributed to their
erection. Little of the spirit of that ancient architecture has survived
the change and destruction, for modern Tulln is as plain and meagre of
invention as stone and mortar can make it. Of all the great Roman
buildings which once stood here, a single broken altar, moss-grown and
neglected, in the shadow of the baptistery, remains as a monument to the
early splendor of this provincial town. By what chance it has escaped
the stone-mason’s hammer no one can tell. Perhaps the delicate lines of
its mouldings and the grace of its shattered figures may have secured it
a place among the paraphernalia of the Byzantine church, and thus it had
lost its identity as a relic of heathen worship. Would that the mute
eloquence of its pathetic beauty had the voice of a brazen trumpet to
denounce the modern restorer, whose touch is death to the charms of all
art!

The commonplace aspect of the river-front let us down gently to the
ugliness of the railway bridge, which stretches its rigid arm across the
fine reach of the river just below Tulln, and screens with its hideous
framework the beauties of the landscape below. The up-river navigation
became hideously mechanical as well. Puffing, crawling, wheelless
steamers groaned and clanked as they pulled their ugly black hulks
against the current by a long chain lying in the bed of the stream. Huge
iron barges, the most helpless of monsters without the partnership of a
tug, added their shapeless masses to the procession of mechanical freaks
that indicated the proximity of a large manufacturing city. Distracted
by these new dangers to our navigation, and by the vigorous opposition
of a strong head-wind, we had scarcely time to notice the great
vine-clad hill which crowds the river on the right bank, and shelters
under its towering declivity the extensive Augustinian abbey of
Klosterneuberg, before we found ourselves slipping along a high
stone-faced quay, and saw in the smoky distance the great rotunda on the
Prater in Vienna, and the straight lines of the numerous railway bridges
there. In the little village of Kahlenbergerdorf our waterman instincts
led us to a humble inn, where we found, to our delight, all the raftsmen
we had been meeting since the camp at the mouth of the Traun, assembled
for their mid-day meal, and for a final friendly glass before returning
up-river to start again on another downward voyage. We needed not to
know their names; they did not even ask us ours, nor desire to learn
about our customary occupation; the masonic bonds of kindred experiences
and similar trials and dangers of the long journey made us friends
without further introduction. They were old water-rats, they said, and
though we could claim to be but the tiniest mice of aquatic tastes, our
parting with them in the flickering shadows of the garden, surrounded by
brigades of beer-glasses, was tinged with a genuine regret that we
should no longer hear their cheery voices of a morning, nor see their
honest faces again.

CHAPTER VIII

Vienna offers an unsightly water-front to the Danube navigator. A
succession of huge passenger and railway bridges span the river, and but
for the constant busy traffic seen upon them would appear unnecessarily
numerous in full proportion to their ugliness. At one end they touch the
marshy, desolate shores of the great plain of the Marschfeld, which
stretches away to Hainburg and Theben at the Hungarian frontier, and at
the other their solid piers and embankments either stand isolated on
waste ground, or are supported by ragged and scattered settlements along
the bank, with here and there a huge manufactory. From the level of the
water a broad veil of smoke rising above the trees is the only visible
indication of the proximity of the great city, except it be the bridges
themselves and the numerous tow-boats and excursion steamers. The city
lies in a semicircular valley between the hills of the Wienerwald and
the Danube on both sides of the little river Wien, which drains the
hills to the west and empties its muddy flood into the Danube three or
four miles below the city. The northern angle of this little stream, in
the very heart of Vienna, is connected by a canal with the Danube at
some distance above the town, and the Wien has been canalized and
enlarged from its junction with the canal to its mouth, so that there is
a practicable waterway through the town. The large Danube passenger
boats cannot enter the canal, however, but are waited upon by small
steamers which connect with them at the mouth of the Wien. The great
park, the Prater, where the International Exhibition of 1873 was held,
and a broad flat of rough land adjoining, separate the city from the
broad Danube, which, with wonderfully rapid current, rushes off to the
east towards the distant hills which mark the Hungarian frontier.

[Illustration: A LITTLE GIRL OF HAINBURG]

Vienna was originally a Celtic settlement called Vindobona, which the
Romans seized in the second decade of this era and made into a military
post. From the end of the Roman occupation at the close of the sixth
century until the beginning of the eleventh century, the town
practically disappeared from history. During the Crusades, however, it
increased in size and wealth with great rapidity, and since that time
has frequently been the scene of important historical events, not only
in the wars with the Mahometans, but in more recent times. The
Marschfeld, close at hand, has been a favorite tilting ground for
hostile nations from earliest history down to the Napoleonic campaign,
when the battles of Aspern and Wagram were fought here. Vienna has its
share of stock sights--the beautiful Cathedral of St. Stephen, numerous
historical buildings, including the little house where Richard Cœur de
Lion was captured, seldom visited by travellers; extensive and
monumental public edifices; immense collections of historical relics;
superb galleries of works of art, ancient and modern, and places of
entertainment and amusement more numerous in proportion to its
population than in any other city in Europe. Its citizens comprise a
score of nationalities, most of whom represent distinct and important
elements in the composition of the empire.

The casual traveller will notice first in Vienna the great speed of the
cabs and the skill of the drivers, the wonderfully adorned dray-horses,
the prevalence of the kerchief as a head-covering among the women, the
shop signs in a dozen languages, the perfect system of tram-ways and
omnibuses, and the sudden contrast between the broad and spacious
thoroughfares outside the fine boulevards, the Ring Strasse, and the old
town within this limit. Even more than Paris, Vienna is essentially a
city of apartment-houses and restaurants. These have always been
distinct features of Viennese life, and the great rage for building
which culminated in the panic at the time of the International
Exhibition was induced by the popularity of new apartment-houses which
seemed to foretell a great demand for them during the exhibition and
later. In consequence of this fever for building, numberless immense
caravansaries of apartment-houses were erected in all the new quarters,
and the advantages of cheapness and comfort offered by these houses have
effectually stifled any tendency among the people of the middle class
towards separate residences. One peculiarity of the apartment system in
Vienna is the long-established custom of closing the main door at ten
o’clock in the evening. After that hour the concierge has the right to
collect ten kreutzers (5 cents) from every occupant or visitor who
enters the door. He seldom or never waives this privilege. How long this
relic of social life of the Middle Ages will last is a much discussed
question in Vienna itself.

[Illustration: PEASANT WAGON, HAINBURG]

Acquaintance with the common people in Vienna is made difficult by the
atrocious dialect of German they speak there. The popular resorts of the
artisan classes, with their musical and theatrical entertainments by
local performers of talent, are always amusing, but the wit and humor of
the programme is entirely lost to any one who is unfamiliar with the
patois. The prevalence of the harsh sound of the letter “X” is one of
the most noticeable features of this patois, and a story is told which
illustrates the use of this sound and also the manner in which the
adopted citizens of the town acquire the common speech. A Hungarian was
overheard giving a compatriot assistance in German, and in the course of
his lesson he said: “You’ll have to learn a new letter before you can
speak German as well as I do. For example, when you drink a glass of
beer in a party you must say ‘Xundheit! (Gesundheit) an die ganz’
‘Xellschaft! (Gesellschaft).’” The Viennese are famous for their keen
enjoyment and appreciation of humor, a reputation which is borne out by
the popular support given to numberless comic papers, profusely
illustrated, and all of them full of local hits. The life of the people
is best seen on a holiday in the Wurstel Prater, a sort of Viennese
Coney Island, or Crystal Palace, where all sorts of out-of-door
entertainments are in progress. Here may be studied the characteristic
costumes of many nationalities and of many districts, and a more
interesting collection of types cannot be found in Europe. The environs
of Vienna are particularly attractive. The great formal park and palace
of Schönbrunn and of Laxenburg, the rural beauties of Kahlenberg, and
the charms of the vine-growing district along the southern slopes of the
hills near the town, all attract crowds of merrymakers on every pleasant
holiday.

We did not attempt to enter the Danube canal with our canoes, but
paddled down to the boat-house of the Lia Ruder Verein near the third
great bridge over the main stream. Here we found a delegation of the
club to welcome us, for our probable arrival had been announced to them,
and the whole establishment was put at once at our disposal. Our canoes
found shelter and healing varnish for their wounds and were stored in
the company of forty-eight racing boats, from the eight-oar to the
single-scull, while we were carried off bodily by the members of the
club and comfortably installed in a hotel. The inexhaustible hospitality
and cheery companionship of the members of the Lia Ruder Verein would
never tire our muse were we to start the song agoing. This hospitality,
not only general, but particular and special, so gilded our stay in the
city that the bitterness of parting from Danube and canoes gave but a
flavor to the joys of congenial society. One perfect summer morning we
saw the last of the club-house as we shot the railway bridge and cast a
hasty glance past the bellying mizzen of the bounding canoe. No less
absorbing feeling than the glorious sense of freedom and
irresponsibility as we found ourselves again on the river would have
excused to our consciences the joy we felt at leaving Vienna. But the
memory of its kindness and courtesy has survived all ephemeral
sentiments.

[Illustration: A HUNGARIAN FERRY]

After a short half-day’s paddle down a tossing current, past scores of
floating mills and along miles of stone embankments, we came to the
point where the hills again close in from both sides and form a wall
along the eastern horizon. Though less imposing than some other mountain
ranges we had passed, and, indeed, very narrow where it touches the
river, this is the barrier where for many centuries constant and
successful resistance was kept up against the advance of the Mahometans.
Here for a long time was the extreme eastern bulwark of Christendom, the
advance outposts of the West; and here, after countless campaigns, the
hereditary enemy suffered the crushing defeats which, a little over a
century and a half ago, marked the beginning of the decline of his power
in Europe. This gateway to the great Carpathian plain, and the
political as well as geographical frontier of Hungary, is as perfect a
natural rampart as could be imagined. At the very river’s edge rise, on
either bank, high isolated hills, covered now with masses of ruins, but
formerly part of a complete system of fortifications perfectly
commanding the river from both sides. These fortifications enclosed, as
the ruins now plainly show, the little town of Hainburg, on the right
bank, and Theben, a few miles below on the other side of the river, the
highest Danube town in the Hungarian kingdom.

[Illustration: THE WIENERTHOR, HAINBURG]

The sentimental spirit generated in us on the occasion of the happy
visit to Dürrenstein, though veiled a little by the distractions of
Vienna, was now stimulated afresh as we landed in Hainburg. We had
accidentally chosen it as a place for a few days’ quiet work, and found
that we had stumbled unawares into a little walled town full of
archæological and historical interest. Through an ancient arched gateway
near the railway station, Blutgasse (blood lane) winds steeply up
between crowded whitewashed houses to a broad open square, where a
large church with intricately ugly copper-covered spire throws a shadow
over rows of peasant women squatting on the pavement beside their
baskets of market stuff, their blue dresses and bright kerchiefs adding
an agreeable note of color to the blond tones of the surrounding
architecture. Blutgasse! No stretch of the imagination is required to
picture the carnage when the Turks, hunting the inoffensive citizens
through the streets with fanatical ferocity, left only one alive to tell
the tale. This narrow lane, offering a possible escape to the river, was
piled high with headless corpses, and the blood ran in streams under the
oaken gate into the turbid river, which washed the foundations of the
town walls. Tradition says that the one survivor was a woman, who hid
herself, with a small store of provisions, in a disused chimney, where
for three days she listened to the horrid sounds of the massacre.

During the long centuries while history is silent this little town, with
the neighboring region, has been the theatre of many another thrilling
and dramatic episode now only faintly echoing in the murmur of
tradition. On the whole length of this great water highway there has
been no busier spot than this from the time when the goaded slaves first
towed the ponderous Roman galleys against the rushing stream up to its
docks until its complete destruction in the struggle against the Turks.
Indeed, the whole neighboring country bears abundant witness to the
importance of this point. Extensive Roman remains are scattered all over
the fertile plateau a short distance above Hainburg, near the village of
Deutsch-Altenburg and Petronell, where Carnuntum once stood. Military
engineers, since the earliest mediæval days, have burned the shattered
marbles for lime, and have built into hastily constructed defences tiles
and mouldings, capitals and cornices; and in times of peace the local
masons, with more deliberation and less excuse, have completed the work
of destruction. Recent archæological explorations have uncovered the
ruins of an amphitheatre, of villas and baths, and latterly a
commendable local interest has been taken in these relics, a proof of
which is the popularity of the little museum where are stored a
multitude of objects of Roman origin. The farmers now point with pride
to the crumbling ruins of the great triumphal arch, which they but
recently considered an unsightly excrescence on the fair surface of a
broad wheat-field, and speak of Carnuntum as familiarly as if its
glories were but of recent date.

[Illustration: THE TOWN WALL, HAINBURG]

Nearer Hainburg the hill-sides are scored with grassy mounds of ancient
earthworks, and on the high, isolated peak behind the town the extensive
ruin of a mediæval castle is a landmark visible for many miles both up
and down the river. Immense Government tobacco factories and a school
for military cadets have somewhat disturbed the mediæval aspect of the
streets, and a railway has ruthlessly cut through the walls, and trains
crunch and rumble high up on a row of ugly arches that disfigure the
quay. The old side walls, with frequent towers of irregular shape and at
various angles, converge from the water-front, and, narrowing the town
limits as they go, join by a solid cross wall at the foot of the hill,
and then clamber up the precipitous, rugged declivity to the angles of
the great château which covers every yard of the summit. The hill itself
is gay with numberless varieties of wild-flowers and shrubs--a
botanist’s paradise. In Alfred Parsons’ botanical note-book is the
following information concerning this region:

“The Schlossberg behind the town of Hainburg is very rich in plants--one
large rock garden. On it grow several kinds of sedum and campanula,
dwarf iris, coronilla, genista, two species of dianthus (one of which
has white fringed petals and a very strong scent), a yellow and a pink
allium, wall-rue, thalictrum, and many other plants and shrubs. In the
woods around the town are pyrola, hepatica, Turk’s-cap lily, and there I
also noticed a very handsome leaf of an umbelliferous plant. The
bladder-nut is a common shrub, and on the borders of the woods grows a
melampyrum with yellow flowers which turn orange when older, and have a
tuft of bright mauve leaves above them. Masses of this, with the slender
white spikes of the small St. Bruno’s lily (_Anthericum liliastrum_)
growing up through it, had a very beautiful effect. In the cornfields
grow poppies and daisy-like flowers, also a beautiful annual larkspur
with purple and blue flowers, and a pale, bluish-white nigella. On the
stony slopes at Theben I first saw an everlasting flower with
pinkish-mauve blossoms, which grows abundantly east of this point. The
commonest flowers on the sandy patches near the river are the yellow
snap-dragon (butter and eggs), pink ononis, and a pale-green eryngium,
very prickly. In the meadow at the mouth of the Raab I saw _Eryngium
amethystum_, and a herbaceous clematis, drooping flowers with blue
petals and a yellow centre.”

From the ruined walls, high above the quiet town and the glittering
expanse of the river, threading its intricate way through the flat and
fertile plain to the shadowy heights rising above the smoke of Vienna,
we could look far beyond the castle-crowned rocks of Theben and the
great hill of Pressburg, over the rich plain of Hungary checkered with
growing crops, stretching away to a mysterious horizon distant as the
sky itself. The wooded hills of the boundary range tempted us with their
shady paths and wealth of wild-flowers, and we found new beauties at
every turn, new delights in every glimpse of the fertile valleys, where
whitewashed villages shimmered in the sunlight among the yellow fields
of ripening corn. On rare occasions we met Hungarian peasant men with
queer hussar jackets and breeches, round hats with cockade of badger
hair, and wonderfully high-heeled boots, and sturdy peasant women with
stiff, outstanding short skirts, and high riding-boots like the
men--skirmishers of the host of novel types and costumes the Danube had
in store for us. Steep and narrow footways lead over the hills three
miles or so to the nearest village of Hundsheim, which, quite off the
highway, and therefore as yet unspoiled by the touch of the modern
architect, is so perfect a specimen of a rural hamlet, practically
unchanged since mediæval times, that we made it the goal of our evening
expeditions. Here, as in all the neighboring villages, it has been the
custom, dating from the early days of conflict with the Turk, to build
the houses each like a tiny castle, with court-yard and arched gateway,
with few and often no windows on the street, and solid high walls on all
sides. At Hundsheim two parallel irregular streets straggle down
opposite sides of a stony stream which serves as a public washing-place,
and furnishes abundant water for all purposes. Each house is like its
neighbor in main lines, differing only in unimportant details. All are
whitewashed with scrupulous care, and although the streets are little
more than rough gullies, there is a refreshing air of

[Illustration: HUNDSHEIM]

prosperity about the place. The inhabitants cultivate the rich fields
for miles around the village, pasture their countless sheep and cattle
on the adjacent mountain-sides, and at night gather live-stock and farm
wagons into the enclosure of each tiny castle and retire behind its
ponderous gates as if the Turk were still a threatening enemy.

One bright morning--the 27th of July, to be accurate--a crowd of
new-made friends assembled to see us pack the canoes and launch them in
the eddying stream. The hospitable miller, who had housed the delicate
craft for us in an empty shed, had not kept secret the hour of our
departure, and there were hundreds watching us as we hoisted sail to
cross the frontier with speed and in sporting style. A short half-hour,
past bold cliffs and picturesque ruins on one side and a wooded bank on
the other, brought us to the muddy March, pouring a sluggish, muddy
flood into the yellow Danube. In another moment we landed in Hungary,
under the overhanging ruins of the great Castle of Theben, which, with
its fellow at Hamburg, guarded the entrance to the wealthy kingdoms
along the great water highway. In the little whitewashed town, crowded
into a narrow valley behind the castle, the musical accent of the Magyar
tongue confirmed to our ears what our eyes had readily discovered--the
presence of another type of face, of figure, and of character. The
aspect of the village, too, was new to us, and suggested a warmer sun,
longer summer, and habitual out-of-door life. We saw little gardens
filled with bright flowers, tiny court-yards, with tables and benches
shaded by trellises of grape-vines and gourds, and met a cheery
hospitality at the rude inn, where Maria, the shy beauty of the village,
soon forgot her coyness in her delight at our enjoyment of the spicy
viands new to our palates. In kerchief and short petticoat, she had no
rival between the ruins of Petronell and the château of Pressburg; but

[Illustration: GOSSIPS, HUNDSHEIM]

when she hesitatingly yielded to our importunities for a sitting, and
appeared, after a brief absence, in black silk frock, booted and gloved,
and with parasol in hand, our pencils were too loyal to her peasant
charms to attempt the caricature. No visitors of our nationalities had
left any impressions on the minds of the simple folk here, but the
mention of England and America was, as it always is in Hungary, our best
introduction. The active sympathies of these two countries with the
people struggling for freedom in ’48 are still gratefully remembered by
the whole nation, and the traditions of that sympathy are handed down
loyally to the rising generation. At the post-office, where we went to
buy our first Hungarian stamps, the gossiping old postmaster and his
wife--characters not unfamiliar in the rural offices in other
countries--were so overwhelmed by the extent of our requirements and the
number of our letters that the wheels of official machinery refused to
work at all. After they had carefully read all the addresses, and had
marvelled long at the range of our correspondence, we succeeded in
communicating to their dazed senses the fact that we wanted to buy a
stock of stamps of various denominations.

[Illustration: THE WATCH-TOWER, THEBEN]

“What! so much money for stamps? Impossible!” protested the old man and
his echoing wife. “You are already sending away florins’ and florins’
worth on these letters!”

“But we want a stock of stamps to keep for our convenient use,” we
urged. “Yes, yes, you want to use them; but why don’t you buy them as
you need them?” was the reply, as he shut the drawer under his elbow,
apparently loath to part with any of its precious contents.

Arguments were useless, and we gave up the notion of securing a variety,
and tempered our demand to a humble request for a few ten-kreutzer
stamps for foreign postage.

“Ah, no!” he said. “I can’t let you have any ten-kreutzer stamps, for
the sheets haven’t been broken into yet, and it is near the end of the
month, when I make up my books, and I can’t have my accounts confused by
selling ten-kreutzer stamps to any one.”

We compromised on a double number of five-kreutzer stamps, the ones in
use for local postage, and ornamented our envelopes with effigies of
Franz Josef until they looked like the walls of a chromo-dealer’s shop.

CHAPTER IX

Sturdy girls, returning from market with veritable Eiffel towers of
empty tubs on their backs, strode up the steep banks from the landing as
we fled from the enervating luxuries of the inn at Theben and hastened
to paddle towards the busy little town of Pressburg, boasting a new
railway bridge, as ugly a château as man has ever devised, and as
pleasant parks and gardens as ever soldier and nursery-maid chose for
their public flirtations. It claims as its chief historical distinction
the honor of having crowned within its walls the Hungarian kings since
the dynasty was founded. It is a gay little place, with tastefully
decorated shop-windows, and signs everywhere in the Hungarian language.
In a brief two hours’ paddle we had passed beyond the limit of a
distorted dialect of German, and now heard only the soft music of the
Magyar speech. No phase of our journeying was more interesting than the
experience with this abrupt philological frontier.

Below Pressburg the Danube branches into three sinuous arms, cutting the
great low plain into two long irregular islands, little better than
swamps for the most part--at least, as far as our horizon extended. The
canalization of the river, which practically comes to an end in this
territory, makes the channel quite plain, and diverts the flow of water
from the tortuous branches where the villages cluster on the muddy
banks. On the first day after leaving Pressburg the

[Illustration: PEASANT GIRL, THEBEN]

active arguments of hunger persuaded us to explore one of these lagoons
in search of an inn, and after a while we came upon a straggling
collection of low shingled houses gathered into the semblance of a
village by low fences of wattled willow. With a microscopic vocabulary
of Hungarian words we succeeded in getting food to satisfy our colossal
appetites, and in holding the friendliest relations with the bronzed
peasants, who were fast courting oblivion through the medium of strong
wine in the Italian-like hostlery. Here we first made acquaintance with
Hungarian dust and Danube mud, an intimacy which ripened as we went on,
until at last no adjectives would fitly apply to the one or describe the
disgusting characteristics of the other. The willow, too, in this first
great flat stretch forced itself on our notice, and began to aggravate
us with its monotony, turning an otherwise agreeable landscape into a
series of object-lessons in simple perspective. But even the willow came
to an end here after a while, and for an agreeable change we welcomed

[Illustration: HUNGARIAN CATTLE]

an open country, with broken mud banks, where we heard the plaintive
music of shepherds’ pipes, saw stalwart swineherds against the sky, and
startled, as we drifted past, great droves of wild-looking cattle
cooling themselves in the shallows. The life on the bank became at
intervals more busy, and all sorts of domestic operations were carried
on in the open air along the muddy shores. Whole families splashed about
in the shallow water as little heedful of our presence as if we belonged
to them. The River Raab sneaks into the Danube in the guise of a lesser
side lagoon, and but for our delightful flower-carpeted camp in sight of
the group of barges at its mouth and within the sound of the tattoo of
many mills, we should scarcely remember it as a feature of our trip. A
brief pause at Komorn, regular and uninteresting architecturally as most
Hungarian towns are, did not increase our desire for exploration, and we
voted, since our time was limited, to land in the future only at places
which, smaller and less Germanized by the commerce of the river, would
probably be more characteristic and picturesque. But the great Cathedral
of Gran--Esztergom is the sonorous Hungarian name--rising above the
ruins of a great brick fortress on a prominent height among vineyard
slopes, made us accept a speedy amendment to this resolution, and under
the lee of its bridge of boats we drew up alongside of one of the great
arks which recall the naval architecture of the pre-deluge period. We
sampled the characteristic cookery of its famous restaurant, and passed
an hour or two of wild excitement over the wonderful colors in the
market-place, where shoulder-high heaps of scarlet paprika (big sweet
peppers) set the key for a combination of rich and varied tones that
would have exhausted the palette of an old Venetian painter; and when at
last an inviting breeze rippled the water, we forced ourselves away and
sailed down the beautiful reaches among grand hills, our eyes still full
of the kaleidoscopic sparkle of enchanting Esztergom.

Our frisky boats lost the breeze in the narrow, crooked defile below,
and we settled ourselves to a quiet drift under the great ruins of
Visegrád, where villas, bath-houses, and a level road, gay with ladies
and children, marked the little village as the first sybaritic outpost
of Budapest. Preoccupied with the beauties of the scenery, we did not at
first notice the frantic waving of the Union-jack in the hands of some
one on the shore, but we soon turned our bows in the direction of this
unmistakable invitation to land, and were welcomed on shore by an
English gentleman, a summer resident there, who explained that, having
read of our trip in a Vienna newspaper, he and his family had been on
the watch for us for many days. Such hearty hospitality as he offered us
could not be refused, although it was the Delilah to our Samson strength
of purpose, and we went ashore. A party of ladies and gentlemen was
speedily formed, and we made an excursion up the hill, through pleasant
groves and along shady paths, to the ruins of the old castle of the
Hungarian kings, who resided here as early as the eleventh century.
Matthew Corvinus enlarged and improved the castle, and it was long the
chief stronghold of this region. The royal

[Illustration: GRAN (ESZTERGOM)]

crown of Hungary was once concealed in a deep pit cut in the solid rock
under one of the towers, and there are various other notable historical
legends connected with the place. Another castle near the water’s edge,
although it is partially restored, had a sentimental interest for us
because we were informed that it had been intended for the summer
residence of the unfortunate Prince Leopold. The former
commander-in-chief of the Hungarian army in the revolution of 1848,
General Görgei, lives quietly in a pleasant villa high above the river.
Surrounded by his family and busying himself with all sorts of
mechanical operations, to which he is devoted, the old general appears
to have secured the greatest blessing known to man--contentment. The
weight of the forty odd years that have passed since he gave up his
sword has not bowed his straight figure, and his dark eyes still have
the fire of youth in them. At his own request we went to call on him,
and found him, like all the men of Kossuth’s time, enthusiastically fond
of America, and grateful for the sympathetic aid and comfort of the
whole English-speaking race. Lingering long in his company, the summer
twilight stole upon us before we knew it, and warned us to seek a camp.
The tempting offers of hospitality so heartily given, the fascinations
of the people and the place, and the unique charm of society which is
peculiar to Hungary alone, all these and many other delights made it
next to impossible for us to take our leave. But at last we hardened our
hearts, pushed off, waved a last farewell to the young ladies who
accompanied us a short distance in a wherry, and paddled out into the
glowing twilight.

The frequent villas that dot the shores below Visegrád we now looked
upon through glasses of different color. Only twenty-four hours before
we would have named them landscape-spoilers, and would have turned our
faces from them as we passed. But we had caught the infection of the
happy land; the microbe which, once in possession, never leaves the
willing victim, had begun to attack us, one and all, and we saw possible
friends in every pretty garden and in every luxurious pleasure-boat. At
this moment less than ever did a great city have any attraction for us,
and we wildly planned to cut Budapest altogether, and continue our
joyful cruise down into the great wild region beyond, where the river
life is active and varied, and where our days should be a succession of
pleasant experiences and surprises--where, indeed, we might learn to
know, with an intimacy that only such a free life makes possible, the
people in their unaffected, simple existence.

[Illustration: VISEGRÁD]

Just above Waitzen, a good-sized town with prison and manufactories and
busy quay, with barges and peasant market-boats, the river bends
gracefully around to the south, divides past a long flat island covered
with fertile farms, and then loses itself in the distance where the
grand old fortress on the summit of Blocksberg overhangs the suburb of
Ofen (Buda in Hungarian) on the right bank, and looks down upon the
imposing façades of Pest on the opposite shore. An accident, happy in
its result, but threatening for a moment a painful disaster, made a
pause at Budapest a necessity. Sudden summer thunder-storms swept

[Illustration: SWINEHERD]

over the river from the cloud-compelling summits in the west, and then
cleared away with a strong wind, which, blowing across the current, soon
stirred up what the ocean pilots would call a “nubbly” sea. The
temptation to hoist sail and triumphantly dash past the populous
waterfront of the great city was not long to be resisted, and soon the
sparkling river was enlivened by three pairs of snow-white sails.
Open-mouthed millers stared at us as we swept past their groaning
floats, throwing up spray like so many yachts. Suddenly a polished
rudder gleamed in the air, following the total eclipse of one of the
canoes, crew and all. A multitude of objects tossed on the waves and
bobbed away down-stream, while the humiliated canoist came up, shining
like a seal, and righted his water-logged craft. A landing was made, not
without difficulty, more soaked and ruined articles were recovered than
it would have been thought possible to stow under the mahogany hatches,
and we were glad to seek refuge, after the canoe was baled out, in the
hospitable boat-house of the Neptune Ruder Verein, a mile or two below
the scene of the accident, among the pleasant groves of the
Margarethen-Insel (Margitsziget).

We had often remarked that in our independent way of travelling constant
variety was the rule, and monotony of incident never possible. If we
could have had the choice, we certainly would not have introduced
ourselves to the rowing men of the Neptune Verein until our fleet could
have passed inspection with credit. But the unexpected event of a
capsize forced us to swallow our pride, and we accordingly bundled the
wet things out upon the float, and stowed the canoes away among the
slender racing craft in the boat-house. Not only had the accident taken
the bloom off our self-confidence, but it had upset many pet theories
which had from the start been quite undisputed. Our blind faith in the
value of india-rubber as a water-proof material had hitherto not been
disturbed, but on this the occasion of the first real test elaborate
rubber boat bags and air-tight hatches only seemed to aggravate the
disaster; for all these contrivances seemed not only to actually suck
the water in, but to hold it perfectly when it was inside. We hereafter
limited our belief in water-proof receptacles to the ordinary
well-corked glass bottle of commerce in which we kept our matches.

[Illustration: A FAMILY WASH]

What a medley of gypsy music, song, and csárdás, of beautiful women and
cheery, sympathetic men, of abundant

[Illustration: AN ARK-BOAT]

hospitality and general good-fellowship, Budapest now remains to us in
our memory! It wellnigh proved our Capua, for, being only human, we
could but yield to the enchantment. Who shall adequately describe the
fascination of the native gypsy music, with its throbbing, wailing
strains and its intoxicating rhythm? What writer’s pen or artist’s
pencil shall picture the csárdás, with its Oriental action and its
exhilarating intensity? It would be easier to convey by words or by
lines the sense of a strange perfume than to analyze and explain the
charms of the music or the attractions of the dance. Prosaically
described, the csárdás is a dance for one or for any number of couples,
and is performed in a great variety of ways, the partners sometimes
dancing apart and sometimes together. The common fashion we observed
during our brief experience, and the one we naturally indulged in as the
nearest allied to the dancing we were familiar with, is for the lady to
rest her hands on the gentleman’s shoulders, who, in his turn, places
his hands on her waist. A long-cherished admiration for the dance
forbids me to attempt to give any notion of the step or of the vibrating
action of the body, truly interpreting in motion the spirit of the
music, which, with sweet insinuating melodies, wild and ever wilder
bursts of mad chords, lends the contagion of its tireless vigor to the
dancers, and sways them like reeds by the power of its savage
harmonies.

CHAPTER X

There is the same indefinable charm about Budapest that there is in the
gypsy music. This charm is a spiritual one. The situation of the city is
delightful, the streets are clean, the architecture agreeable, and all
the comforts of life are at the traveller’s command. In these respects
the city is not unlike many others, but in its people it is unique and
always will be as long as the Magyar tongue exists, or a drop of the
rich Eastern blood remains in a descendant of the race. Our experience
in Vienna was but the prologue to the hospitalities at Budapest. Under
the guidance of a host of friends, chief of whom was Mr. Louis Gerster,
the resident Vice-consul of the United States, we saw the town in the
most agreeable manner possible. Visits to the museums of art and of
antiquity, with their stores of treasures; inspection of the famous
wine-cellars, with the miles of wine-butts and millions of bottles;
drives in the parks; an excursion up the river in a special steamer with
ladies and gentlemen, when we danced the csárdás for a day and a night
almost without intermission; a trip down-stream to eat the delicious
sterlet, fresh from the Danube and cooked with paprika, after the
fisherman’s taste--our stay was one round of jollity. But for the
frequent sight of the great river with its hurrying current which urged
us to depart, we might have prolonged our stay until snowfall, such were
the fascinations that encompassed us.

[Illustration: COUNTRY MARKET-BOAT, BUDAPEST]

The water-front of Budapest, with its masses of extensive buildings and
its populous quays, is the noblest spectacle of similar order in the
whole course of the Danube. Within the last few years the city has made
marvellous strides in the direction of enlargement and improvement.
Three bridges now cross the river between Pest on the left bank and Buda
on the right, the two principal sections of the town. The upper one is
of iron, on huge stone buttresses, the middle one a graceful
suspension-bridge, built about forty years ago, and the lower of iron,
and built to carry a railway and to serve for foot-passengers as well.
Large hotels have been built, a fine new park laid out, new
parliament-houses on the river-front almost completed, the squares and
public places adorned with fountains and statues, and entire new
quarters covered with fine buildings, all within the past fifteen years.
These improvements have worked the modernization of the people as well
as the town, and the native costumes once so common in the streets are
almost a rarity now. The sulphur springs at Buda and on
Margarethen-Insel, famous since Roman times, form one of the chief
attractions to visitors, and afford an uncommon luxury to the residents.
The bathing establishments are of unparalleled extent and great
splendor, particularly on the island, where the delights of the
beautiful park enhance the popularity of the baths. Up to within a few
years there was a large cheap public bath where people of both sexes and
all ages, after having been cupped by an attendant as many times as they
could afford to pay for, according to the old faith in the efficacy of
blood-letting, huddled together, often nearly if not quite naked, in a
large common plunge-basin of steaming sulphur-water, where they remained
for hours, looking like the lost souls in Dante’s “Inferno.” This
promiscuous bathing is now no longer permitted, for this with many other
old customs among the common people has disappeared before the advance
of civilization.

The sun was well down behind the hills before we launched the canoes on
the day we left Budapest. The strains of the csárdás still echoed in our
ears; our minds were confused by the succession of novel experiences we
had enjoyed during the past four days; the river seemed to rush on with
a giddier swirl than ever before, and a strong head-wind did its best to
discourage our progress. It was not until we had lost sight of the hills
near the city, late on the following day, that we realized we were now
at length fairly afloat in the heart of the vast open plain which
extends to the Carpathians. The corner of this plain which we had
crossed below Pressburg had given us a hint of what we might expect in
the way of monotonous scenery, but it had disclosed to us little of the
charm of the great river which now enchanted us. High bluffs of firm,
hard earth alternated with stretches of densely-wooded low banks.
Tree-embowered villages nestled long distances apart, under
vineyard-clad slopes, or among fields rich with maize and ripening
wheat. The river began to be the focus of rural activity. Wherever mills
were anchored in the strongest currents, the peasants camped on the
adjoining banks, with ox-carts full of freshly-winnowed corn, awaiting
their turn for the grinding. Women vigorously beating clothes with
wooden mallets enlivened the scene with their laughter and gossip, and
formed fascinating groups, with every combination of rich color.
Everywhere were sunshine and laughter and song. Cries of “Eljen!”
(hurrah!) and “Hova megy?” (where are you going?) greeted us constantly
as we passed, shouting in reply, “Fekete Tengerig” (to the Black Sea).
The cheery vivacity of the people, their unfailing courtesy and
agreeable manners, had won our affectionate admiration from the first,
and the more we came to know them, the more we found reason to honor our
earliest impressions of them.

The tyranny of limited space forbids lengthy description of more than
one of the many interesting villages we explored in the first day or two
below Budapest, and Duna Földvár of cheerful memory may be taken as a
type of all. The village itself is, like most Hungarian places, a
collection of low houses along broad streets, laid out in rectangular
plan, gullied and dusty, and shaded by rows of small acacia-trees. A
great barren market square forms the usual

[Illustration: WASHER-WOMEN]

prominent feature of the village, and from this arid waste straight,
wide thoroughfares lead out into the open country behind, and casually
end there, like the streets of the great shanty cities in the Far West.
The architectural examples found in Duna Földvár are not notable;
indeed, the inscription over the church door,
“Isten-Gondviselésnyujtottdiszújalakotrám,” was the only detail in
relation to architecture that fixed our attention. A few sleepy
market-women sat in the broad shadow of the ugly town-hall, and, except
for the constant coming and going of many graceful maidens bearing tubs
of Danube water on their heads, there was little or no movement on the
streets. All the life of the village concentrated itself under the sandy
bluff by the river-side. A procession of barefooted girls continually
passed along the shore. Peasant men stripped to the waist, with their
divided-skirt-like trousers rolled up into the narrowest compass, washed
their cattle and wagons in the shallow water, while a busy army of men
and women unloaded the barges and carried the heavy freight to the
warehouses. At every available point of the crowded river-front
washerwomen, with their petticoats wet to the waist, stood knee-deep in
the stream, and accompanied their lively chatter with the vigorous
tattoo of their active mallets. In the shadow of the houses near the
landing great piles of watermelons were the centres of groups of all
ages, every individual busy with the luscious, juicy fruit. On all sides
we saw flashing rich color, beautiful types, picturesque costumes,
graceful action, and the bustle of ceaseless activity. The sparkling
river, the brilliant colors glowing in the bright August sun, and the
multitude of figures tempting the pencil fairly dazed us at first, and
we could only rush enthusiastically from point to point, finding each
new group and each new incident more fascinating than the other.

While we were busy sketching on the river-front a young gentleman
approached, introduced himself, and said he had been sent as the
emissary of a party of ladies and gentlemen who were about to go on a
picnic excursion, and desired the honor of our company. They had heard
all about our cruise from the Budapest papers, he added, and were
anxious to show us some attention. We felt obliged to decline the
invitation, for the day was fast advancing, and the subjects before us
were both fascinating and numerous, and the young man, with proper
apologies for disturbing us, withdrew. Towards the end of the afternoon
we paddled off, much depressed by the necessity of leaving practically
untouched the wealth of picturesque material in the little river town,
and, indeed, very loath to seek a camp. Just after we rounded the point
below the town we heard the

[Illustration: DUNA FÜLDVÁR]

strains of gypsy music, and soon caught sight of a large boat filled
with ladies and gentlemen, apparently waiting for us in mid-stream. In a
few moments we were alongside, and were very much pleased to find that
it was the same picnic party which had begged for the honor of our
presence some hours before. Indeed, it came out that the polite emissary
had lingered about and watched our departure, and then had hurried on
horseback to warn the party of our approach. We suffered ourselves to be
piloted ashore, where, in a pleasant grove by the water’s edge we found
a large table spread, a dancing-floor arranged, and everything in order
for a genuine Hungarian festivity. A band of ten gypsies furnished the
music, a dozen young ladies, with as many young gentlemen, a few men of
middle age and a proper number of chaperons, made up the party, and it
comprised, as we soon found out, the professional men of the town--the
lawyers and doctors with their families and intimate friends. We lost no
time in becoming acquainted, for all formalities of introduction were
soon over, and then the feast began. Like every similar entertainment in
Hungary, speech-making was a great feature of the dinner. Every one had
to do his share of this, and when the last toast was drunk, a mixed
Hungarian-American sentiment, we all took partners, and the csárdás
began.

Hours passed like magic, and the fast-waning afternoon light warned us
to be off. We had scarcely shouted the last “good-bye” across the
shining water when a violent wind arose, drowning with its rushing sound
the tinkle of the music in the grove, and changing the placid stream
into a turbulent sea of dashing waves. Night settled down with unusual
haste, and in the increasing darkness we were tossed and buffeted along,
sometimes half swamped, unable to find a landing on the steep, high
banks, not daring to

[Illustration: WATER-CARRIERS, DUNA FÖLDVÁR]

venture out into the raging stream, nor yet to approach too near the
shore. The distorting gloom so changed the usual landmarks that we could
not distinguish trees from bushes, and could only judge of our distance
from the shore by the sound of the angry water beating against the bank.
On we went, driven by the wind, which seemed to increase with every
fresh gust. Wherever we tried to land, the breaking waves warned us that
unless we found a sheltered spot we should pound our canoes to pieces
before we got them ashore. The noise of the storm made it difficult for
us to hear each other shout, and it was only by constant piping on our
shrill whistles that we kept our little fleet together. The situation at
last became so serious that we were about to give up all attempt to
land, and were on the point of

[Illustration: FISHING-STATION]

scudding down in mid-stream until the storm should abate, preferring to
risk capsize there rather than to endanger the canoes by further trials
at landing on a lee shore. Just as we came to this decision, however, an
unusually heavy squall struck us, and at the same moment we heard the
unmistakable swash of the water among willow bushes close at hand. We
knew then that we should find temporary shelter and shallow water among
the willows, for the unusual height of the river had covered all low
places. We also knew we could manage to land from the shoal water on a
flooded meadow; so we pushed boldly on, and passing the yielding
barrier, which fortunately was but a rod or two wide, found ourselves in
a quiet shelter behind the screen of slender bushes, and at the edge of
a grove of large trees with solid turf underneath. By the light of our
lanterns we hauled up the canoes, arranged them so as best to shelter
our camp-fire from the blast, rigged our tents, and then cooked our
supper in comfort. The storm continued the greater part of the night,
and we slept to the howling of the wind in the trees and to the dull
roar of the Danube billows.

Now, as we advanced, the river rose higher and higher, flooding all the
swamps and low-lying woodlands, and spreading out into broad lakes over
the meadows. Once only, in a whole day’s paddle, did we find a
fishing-station, and this was kept by men from a village fifteen miles
inland, who take regular turns in visiting their homes during the long
months when fishing is profitable. Their great wigwam had bunks for a
dozen men, and miles of nets were drying in the sun. As we had been
accustomed to land at a village at least once a day to replenish our
larder with fresh meat, vegetables, fruit, and wine, we found our
cupboards rather empty after a day or two in the wilderness, and we
welcomed the sight of the fishing-camp, for we knew we could procure
there an abundance of sterlet, the best fish found in the Danube. Our
arrival was a great event in the camp, and, mutually interested in each
other’s boats and mode of life, we spent an hour there, and then
departed, with a generous supply of sterlet taken from the fish-car
which was anchored in the stream, and covered with the stings of
mosquitoes, which hovered in a cloud over the whole point.

The steady current and favorable winds did not long permit us to fancy
ourselves explorers in an undiscovered country, but carried us easily
on, at the rate of thirty or forty miles a day, out of the swamps and
forests to the region of vineyards and dry hills and villages. In a
measure, as we went along and the landscape varied, so did the costumes
change in character, the types differ, and new peoples hail our fleet
with cries in strange languages. Drifting along within a yard or two of
the shore, we entered into temporarily intimate relations with the
villagers at their customary occupations, and were always welcomed by
them with unobtrusive but hearty familiarity, which filled our days with
pleasant little episodes and delightful experiences. The long-populous
town of Mohács, with extensive and ugly coal-yards, did not at first
tempt us to land, but groups of beautiful children and young girls, who
assembled to watch us as we stayed our all too rapid course along the
shore at the very door-steps of the houses, suggested such possibilities
there that we had perforce to go ashore and see what the place was like.
At our accustomed refuge in all these villages--the public
bath-house--we found among the crowd of people gathered at the landing a
boy of about a dozen years of age, who, to our great astonishment,
addressed us in English, with an unmistakable American accent, and said
that his grandfather hoped we would call on him before we went away. A
few moments later we were

[Illustration: PEASANT GIRLS AT MOHÁCS]

toasting America, England, and Hungary in the purest of Tokay from the
original bottles, sealed in the memorable year of ’48. Our host, Colonel
Fornét, was a fine type of the Hungarian patriot, who, like so many
others, had returned to his native country, after years of exile, to end
his life among his kin. After the heroic struggle for independence in
’48 he fled to the United States, became a naturalized citizen, and,
after a year or so, went back to Paris to meet and marry the lady who
had been betrothed to him before the revolution broke out. On his return
to America he was unable to resist long the fascinations of the
adventurous life in the great West, and for a time he followed the
fortunes of General Fremont and other explorers of the wild regions.
When the rebellion offered a still more tempting field for his restless
ambition, he joined a New Jersey regiment, and served with distinction
as its colonel until he was disabled in the field and incapacitated for
active life in the future. Shortly after the close of the war he
returned to Hungary with his family, and for a quarter of a century has
kept his memory bright, his gratitude warm, and his loyalty to his
adopted country still as pure as when he won the silver eagle on his
shoulders in the trying days of ’61. His children and grandchildren
regard America with such reverence, and speak of it with such genuine
affection, that our poor patriotism was put quite to the blush. With
tears in his eyes, the noble old soldier modestly gave us a short
history of his life there, and lived over again for a brief moment the
scenes of his younger days, his blood still boiling at the memory of the
martyrs of Arad, his voice still keeping its martial ring as he spoke of
his comrades in the great rebellion in his adopted land. There are few
countries where the utterance of such intense sentiments would not sound
strained and dramatic, and the expression of such feeling appear a
little out of tune. But in Hungary patriotism is not considered
old-fashioned, nor do the dictates of society demand that studied
indifference and coolness which is characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon.
Our visit to the grand old patriot left an impression on us which
neither time nor distance can efface.

CHAPTER XI

A few miles below Mohács is the upper mouth of the Franzens Canal which
joins the Danube with the Theiss, giving an easy outlet for the produce
of the great fertile plain, facilitating the transportation of grain and
lumber from the interior to the chief water highway. The construction of
the canal dates from the last century, and, in all probability, it was
projected even as early as the Roman occupation. It is only within a few
years, however, that, by the aid of English capital, it has been
finished and put in active operation. The wonderfully rich farming
country through which it passes has attracted, since earliest times,
settlers from all surrounding regions, and of all the Hungarian kingdom
it has the most varied and heterogeneous population. Almost anywhere
within the narrow limits of the low horizon may be counted between the
Danube and the Theiss a dozen villages, sheltering representatives of as
many different races, and a more attractive field for the philologist or
for the artist cannot be found between the Black Sea and the Baltic. The
traveller who rushes down the Danube in a steamer, or yawns at the
monotonous plain from the window of a Pullman-car on the Orient Express,
gets no more idea of the people than if he saw them from a balloon. Even
studied intimately and at leisure, this unique mixture of races is
confusing and perplexing, and only those who have long been familiar
with them can thoroughly

[Illustration: FROM BUDAPEST TO BELGRADE]

understand the conditions of their existence. In all Hungary the Magyar,
or pure Hungarian, does not number over four out of the fifteen millions
of inhabitants. They are the dominant race intellectually and
physically, and, of course, the governing race. But frugal, industrious
immigrants have on all sides taken possession of the land, have
established manufactories and built up trade, and have often left to the
Magyar little beside that pride of race to which even the lowest among
them cling as their most precious birthright. It is this pride which has
bound the nation together all through the dark centuries of constant
warfare with an implacable enemy, and it is this pride which is the
Magyar’s best support in his present struggle for a place in the
foremost rank of civilized nations. There can be no question of his
intellectual superiority over the races who crowd him on the east, the
south, and the west. That he is not yet in the same plane of
civilization as the nations in the west of Europe is due to the fact
that while the west was civilizing, the Magyar was keeping the frontier
against advancing Mahometanism; and it is only now, after many centuries
of discouragement and oppression, that he is in a position to advance
along the road of peaceful development and culture. To such a nature as
his all is possible, and his marvellous progress during the past twenty
years is gratifying proof that he is making the best of his present
possibilities.

We had the great good-fortune to be personally conducted through this
interesting region by Mr. Louis Gerster, the vice-consul of the United
States at Budapest, who met us at the mouth of the canal and who, from
long acquaintance with the population, was able to steer our course
successfully among the manifold ethnological and philological shoals on
which we should certainly have been wrecked had we been travelling
alone. He placed a small propeller at our disposal, and we made the
journey as far as the Theiss, shooting the wild-fowl with which this
region abounds, visiting all the villages, and studying the natives,
their customs, costumes, and modes of life. The few days we spent in his
company along the Franzens Canal would make a volume in itself, and it
is only because we must not pause in the tale of our Danube voyage that
we are obliged to keep the log-book of this side trip closed. Russians,
Bulgarians, Saxons, Servians, Jews, Gypsies, Schokaczs, Bunyvaczs, and
other known and unknown races and tribes, each with distinctly different
dress, language, and customs practically unchanged by transplantation
into Hungarian soil, so bewitched us with the charms of constant variety
and novelty that our trip was one round of exhilarating and delightful
impressions. Thanks to the excellent management of our friend, we were
able to spend a Saturday afternoon and part of Sunday in the Schokacz
village of Monostorszég, situated on the banks of the Danube, but so
hidden away behind islands that it would not have attracted our
attention from the canoes, and even if we had seen it, we would

[Illustration: SCHOKACZ TYPES]

not have suspected the existence of the treasures it held for us. The
village itself is not unlike many others we visited, with broad streets
shaded by acacias and mulberries, low whitewashed houses, a large barren
church edifice, and a few unobtrusive shops. In the daytime,
particularly in the harvest season, the whole place is deserted except
by a few old people and children. With the peep of day the entire adult
population rattles away over the plain in springless wicker wagons to
the cornfields, often miles distant. As the sun gets low in the
afternoon the dusty streets are again lively with laden carts and wagons
full of chattering, singing girls as brown as Indians. The village
swineherd, who has watched his unsavory flock on the muddy shores of the
Danube through the heat of the day, now drives them to the village
again, and as they approach their homes they scamper away, each to his
own sty, adding the harsh notes of shrill squeals and grunts to the
chorus of general congratulation that the hot day is past and the
coolness of the night is at hand.

Like three Tartarins of Tarascon, we found everything at Monostorszég
arranged for our amusement and entertainment as if by a stock company.
In the court-yard of one of the well-to-do farmers’ houses, where we
stopped to examine the stock of home-made embroideries and fabrics for
which the housewife was justly renowned in the neighborhood, we soon saw
assemble quite a large party of youths and maidens, many of them in
holiday dress, and all ready for a dance. From somewhere, we never knew
how or whence, a group of strange-looking musicians and stranger
instruments appeared casually in the crowd, and the inspiriting tinkle
of native dances set every bare foot patting time on the smoothly
trampled earth. There were a bass-viol, a guitar, a medium-sized
mandolin, and one, the tamboura, no larger than a lady’s hand, all of
them strung with wire, and played with a bit of bone or horn. On the
last-named instrument, which had a neck out of all reasonable proportion
in length, a tall, brawny native picked the most intricate and
encouraging melodies, and the feet must indeed have been heavy which did
not rise to the rhythm of this music. Out of deference to the visitors
the csárdás was for some time the only dance, but as the excitement
increased, and the presence of strangers was forgotten, their own dance,
the kollo, took its place, and we all participated in this, with more
zeal than skill. The kollo, which is the common dance all through
Croatia, Slavonia, and Servia, is more solemn and stately than either
the Hungarian csárdás or the Roumanian hora, but, like these, comes to
an end only with the strength and endurance of the participants. A ring
is formed, usually of an equal number of dancers of both sexes. Each
maiden places her hands on the shoulder of a youth on either side of
her, giving both the strings of her girdle or the ends of a kerchief,
passed behind her back, to twist around their forefingers, thus binding
the circle firmly together. The dance consists in stepping one measure
by a rhythmic patter with the feet, and then the next measure by a
movement to the left, with now and then a few steps backward and
forward, as the caprice of any part of the circle may decide. In this
dance, as in the csárdás, the performers are swayed and directed by the
leader of the orchestra, who alternates a slow, almost mournful, strain,
with wild and passionate bursts of music, which, like shocks of
electricity, set every figure in spirited action.

The ordinary costume of both sexes at Monostorszég is simplicity itself.
The women wear a high-necked, ankle-long chemise of white homespun
linen, with full sleeves gathered at the elbow and richly embroidered,
usually with blue. Bands of narrow embroidery decorate the waist and the
skirt also. This chemise is girded to the body by a thick woollen belt,
binding tightly to the figure the upper edge of a narrow apron of
striped woollen homespun, very brilliant in color. A kerchief is usually
worn on the head, and the feet are habitually bare. On Sundays and
fête-days the girls exchange the coarse garments for others of choicer
texture, the chemise being fine and carefully plaited, and the apron of
mull or muslin delicately embroidered with white. Tall red morocco
boots, with yellow heels and soles and curious pointed toes, adorn, or
rather disfigure, the feet, and around the neck are hung many rows of
gaudy glass beads. The hair is elaborately braided in a broad band,
which is brought over to the forehead and then turned back again. This
is held in place by dozens of pins with ornamental heads; and all along
the edges of the braid behind is a thick row of bits of a fine green
aromatic herb, while in the hair itself at the back, as well as around
the face,

[Illustration: IN SUNDAY DRESS, MONOSTORSZÉG]

bright-colored geraniums, marigolds, and other flowers, are skilfully
arranged. On their wedding-day they cover their heads with a wonderful
square structure, more like a pastry-cook’s _pièce montée_ than a
bonnet, wear an ample white lace shoulder-cape, a brilliant scarlet
petticoat, with white lace apron and tall red boots. This dress is
preserved with jealous care, and is never produced except on Sundays and
holidays. The men’s costume consists of loose linen trousers, like a
divided skirt, a full tunic, a waistcoat with silver buttons, hussar
boots, and a small round hat. Both sexes have for an outer garment
either a sheepskin cloak or a great-coat of very thick, felt-like, white
woollen, with broad, square collar, and sleeves either sewed up at the
bottom, or else in short, rudimentary form. These coats, and also the
sheepskin cloaks, are often richly and gaudily embroidered.

When we came into the village bright and early Sunday morning everybody
was in holiday dress. The red petticoats of the matrons flashed along
the sidewalks, but half-shaded by the small trees; groups of gay
maidens, each with wild-flowers in hand, hurried along to church, where
companies of men in immaculate linen and stiff embroidered coats stood
in solemn rows like supernumeraries on a stage. The church was already
partly full when we entered, and there was a bustle of many people
settling themselves in their places, and a constant stream of
worshippers coming in at different doors. We sat there marvelling at the
strange dresses, enchanted by the brilliant colors, all the while unable
to realize that this was the customary weekly ceremony, not a dramatic
pageant arranged for our benefit. The sexes sat apart, and the married
and the single each had a portion of the pews reserved for them, and
each entered the church by a different door. Near the altar the
marriageable maidens came clumping in with their red boots, always in
parties of three or more, each with a little bright-colored rug, a
prayer-book, and a bunch of flowers. Spreading out their rugs on the
stone floor, they kneeled down in rows facing the altar, and, after
carefully arranging their plaited Sunday chemises so as to cover their
feet, remained a few moments in the attitude of prayer, and then rose
and took their seats. Of all that great congregation there was not one
who did not wear the costume, and, with the exception of some of the
ornaments and finer textiles, all the articles of dress were of home
production. Every thread of the linen and wool had been spun on the busy
distaff as the women went to and from the fields to their work, and
woven in the winter-time, when the clatter of the loom is heard in every
house.

[Illustration: HUNGARIAN GIRLS AT BEZDÁN]

During the sermon we hurried away to be present at the close of the
church-service in the neighboring village of Bezdán, inhabited by
Magyars. It was a few miles away, and we arrived only in time to see the
quiet streets enlivened with people totally different in type and dress
from those we had just left. In the flickering shadow of the trees,
under the noonday sun, the women strode off homeward with an

[Illustration: ERDÖD]

energy of action that made their stiff petticoats balloon out still
more. Near the church the men gathered in silence to listen to the
crier, who was announcing various articles for sale. The unmarried girls
of the village wear white linen dresses, with short sleeves and
embroidered waists, wreaths of flowers in their hair, bright red ribbons
down their backs, black stockings, and dainty red and yellow slippers.
The matrons wear colors, sometimes green or black, but usually red, and
the men are chiefly noticeable for their loose linen garments and
elaborate boots, often with a survival of the spur in the shape of a
brass ornament on the side of the heel. Even as we stood watching the
people the streets became quite deserted again; and so we hastened on to
another village, where, in the populous Servian quarter, we caught our
first glimpses of Oriental life in the groups of women sitting flat in
the road in the shadow of the houses, disdaining, like true Orientals,
all such luxuries as chairs and tables, and disturbed by no horror of
dirt. Our Sunday’s excursion also included a gypsy settlement--not a
common sight, for these people are seldom permitted to occupy houses. It
disagreeably contrasted in its squalor and filth with the perfection of
neatness and tidiness among the Schokaczs and Magyars, but gave us a
notion of the range of types easily studied in this one neighborhood.

When we left the mouth of the canal, one breezy morning after our
excursion, and shot down the turbid stream with all sail set, the
soothing regularity of the tree-covered banks, and the utter absence of
anything to study or to sketch, was not without a calming influence on
us, and but for this little respite we probably should not have had the
heart to land at the long straggling village of Apatin, which promised
new beauties and fresh interests. Almost the first person we saw was a
little old German woman spinning flax on a tiny wheel, looking exactly
as if she had been transported bodily from the Black Forest. Farther
along the street we met unmistakable Germans, and heard again the
familiar language of the upper river. At the nearest corner was a
brewery, with tables under the trees, and guzzling sluggards devouring
strong sausage and stronger cheese. Everything was of the most
commonplace German order, from the architecture of the houses to the
beer mugs. Our parachute had burst, and we came to earth with a heavy
thump.

About half-way between Apatin and the village of Erdöd, with course as
straight as a canal, the river Drave pours in a muddy flood, and far up
the shining stream the foot-hills of the Tyrolean Alps lie all faint in
the distance. Fertile hills now skirt the west bank, and their sunny
yellow slopes looked agreeably bright and warm after the heavy greens of
the forest and swamp. The river has washed away the hills into
perpendicular bluffs, which are of earth almost as hard as sandstone.
Rude steps cut along a cleft were lively with girls carrying jars of
Danube water to the village above; and once, under a vineyard, where the
vines trail over the very edge of the bank, we saw a rude cave dug in
the earth, where a long pole with a dangling bush projecting far

[Illustration: CURRENT MILLS]

beyond the rough bough shelter at the door of the cellar announced to
the river men that wine was for sale. Our old friends the current mills
still clustered at frequent intervals, where the stream ran the
swiftest. Since the first time we saw them--far up the river, above
Vienna--they had not changed their general shape or construction; but
the owners’ names, painted in large white letters on the sides, had
marked with accuracy the limits of the different nationalities we had
passed in our journey. Now, before the curious combinations of letters
on the mills near the Hungarian shore had ceased to puzzle us, Croatian
and Slavonian names in a new and unfamiliar alphabet stared at us from
the weather-stained sides of the mills along the opposite bank, and
something of the crudity of Oriental taste was seen in the unskilful
attempts to decorate the wood-work near the door and window. From the
right bank we heard hails in an unknown language, and by the water’s
edge saw peasants with fiercer mustaches than even the Magyar boasts,
and women of a heavy, unsympathetic type. The costume, too, had
undergone a decided change. Both men and women wore clumsy wrappings
around the ankles, and uncouth sandals and shoes. The loose trousers of
the men were strapped to the calf by the thongs which bound the thick
woollen cloths or coarse socks to the ankles, and red sashes took the
place of belts. Servia was beginning to show herself to us long before
we reached the political frontier.

CHAPTER XII

We had crossed the line of active melon consumption soon after leaving
Budapest; we had for days revelled in a superabundance of them, and,
indeed, had quite become accustomed to the sight of every human being,
old and young, either carrying a melon or preoccupied with eating it. We
had contributed our generous share to the flotsam of melon rinds which
bobbed down the current, and had sampled every unfamiliar variety of the
delicious fruit which had met our notice. It was chiefly, then, from the
unæsthetic motives of appetite that we proposed to land at Vukovár,
which had long been held up to us by melon-eaters as the one place on
the Danube where the fruit was found in perfection. As we came near the
town, remarkable mainly for a new synagogue of doubtful taste, we saw
piles of huge round objects ranged along in the shade of small trees on
the bank, like cannon-balls in an arsenal, and we needed no further
identification of this metropolis of the melon trade. Our approach
seemed to cause an unusual commotion at the landing, and we naturally
attributed this to the activity among the merchants, induced by the
arrival of possible purchasers of the abundant stock in hand. But we
learned from a German-speaking policeman who met us as we went ashore
that the market-women had taken our fleet for the torpedo-boats of which
they had heard, and were in a great fright, believing we were about to
attack the place. We begged him to assure them that we had no use for
the town, but only for some of the projectiles we saw piled up there
under the trees, and feminine terrors were slowly forgotten in the
excitement of trade. Whoever has seen the Southern negro busy with a
watermelon may be able to imagine our satisfaction at the quality of the
fruit we found, and any one familiar with the capacity of a canoe may
appreciate the size of the melons from the fact that we were unable to
take in the monsters. But Vukovár is not all watermelons and timid
market-women, as we found when we strolled up into the town, puzzled
over the signs in the Cyrillic alphabet, and marvelled at the
embroidered garments festooned at the shop doors, at the pretentious
cafés, and the Franco-Italian architecture--the most imposing we had
seen since leaving Budapest.

The heat was intense and the streets almost deserted as we paddled away
directly after mid-day, and floated down past great bluffs, with hot
gullies filled with herds of swine seeking to avoid the heat by frequent
baths, and scarcely distinguishable in color from the baked mud on which
they slept. Late in the day, having joined company with some lumber
rafts we had been passing and repassing for the last day or two, we drew
up the canoes on a pleasant park-like meadow, only a foot or two above
the water, with great trees and firmer turf than we had seen for a long
time. The rafts tied up to the shore just above us, and the smoke of our
several camp-fires soon curled up among the trees, and floated away in
the clear air of the perfect summer evening. Our first visitor was a
Croatian, who, having served in the Austrian army, had learned a little
German, and was only too anxious to air his knowledge. He prepared us
for the visit of a band of gypsies who were camping in the vicinity,
cautioned us to watch all our loose articles, and loudly sang the
praises of one of the gypsy women but lately married,

[Illustration: VUKOVÁR WATERMELONS]

who, he declared, was as beautiful as a queen--probably meaning the
Queen of Servia. To be sure, the next morning, shortly after dawn, a
motley crowd straggled up to our encampment, among them the gypsy belle,
with the bearing

[Illustration: A PIG-WALLOW]

and gait of a duchess. Tobacco stood in the place of a formal
introduction, and even the conscious beauty asked for a cigarette, and
puffed away like a veteran smoker. The keen-eyed old rascal who, by
virtue of advanced age or superior cunning, was recognized as the chief
of the party, took the liveliest interest in our attempts to sketch the
beauty, and when the sketch was done, calmly proposed to give us the
model to carry away with us. As the offer was made in Roumanian, a
language not then familiar to our ears, we did not at first comprehend
the generous nature of the gift.

“Take her with you,” he said. “You’ll go, won’t you?”

“Indeed I will,” replied the dusky beauty, “if they’ll take me to
Bucharest.”

“But if she goes away with us it will make a scandal, and the husband
will have something to say about it,” we timidly suggested.

“Not at all,” insisted the old heathen; “he’s away now, and if he finds
her gone when he comes back, he’ll easily get another wife.”

This morality of the Red Indian order so astonished us that we did not
readily offer the excuse that our boats could carry but one person
apiece, but we sweetened our refusal of the gift by an abundance of
tobacco and a few old clothes, hastily launched our canoes, and
retreated down the river.

The railway from Budapest to Belgrade crosses the Danube at
Peterwardein, little less than a day’s paddle from Vukovár, and the iron
bridge is the last one of the ugly series that disfigures the river at
intervals from its source. Peterwardein, the Gibraltar of the Danube, is
a great fortress, elaborately intricate in construction, towering high
above the stream, and overlooking the modern town of Neusatz opposite,
at the mouth of a branch of the Franzens Canal. A bridge of boats
connects the fortress with the town a short distance below the railway,
and is actually the last bridge over the Danube. The commercial life of
the river seemed to revive again at the mouth of the canal, and as we
sailed past the vine-covered hills of Carlowitz and the town of that
name, our old enemies the freight steamers puffed up-stream, leaving a
dangerous wake, and fouling the sweet air with noisome smoke.

On the perfect summer morning when we left our lovely camping-ground on
a meadow below Carlowitz, and drifted down into the silvery light of
morning which glorified the river, the hills, and the distant landscape,
we were in the mood to enjoy exactly what the Danube offered for our
entertainment. On one bank peasants gathered in large parties at every
convenient spot, and were engaged in various domestic operations, quite
as frank and unconscious in their actions as if they were in the shelter
of their own homes. From the villages at some distance back from the
river whole families migrate at frequent intervals to temporary camps by
the water’s edge, bringing with them their live-stock, cart-loads of
corn, and their accumulated washing. While the women are busy with soap
and mallet, the men winnow grain, and carry it to the current mills to
be ground, and the children watch the pigs and fowls, who are enjoying
in their way this brief outing. On the opposite shore may sometimes be
seen, on a level piece of public land, great collections of ricks of all
sizes and shapes, when the neighboring farmers assemble to thresh their
harvest in common, each according to his own means and methods. Some
beat it out with flails and pitchforks, others drive horses around on
it, and a few make use of the improved machinery of English manufacture.
Here it is readily loaded on lighters, to be towed up to Budapest or
Vienna, or perhaps to be floated down-stream to the English steamers on
the Black Sea. From one group to another, from one shore to the

[Illustration: A GYPSY GIRL]

other, we went as slowly as the resistless current would let us,
fascinated by the cheerful busy life, and always finding each new scene
more attractive than the last. Here the Servian women were beating their
coarse garments, and hanging them untidily to dry on the framework of
the carts. A few rods lower down, at a bivouac of Saxons, piles of
beautiful white linen and the freshest of blue garments contrasted
agreeably with the squalor of the neighboring camp. These peasants we
found polite but reserved; the Servians were usually noisy and
talkative, and the Magyars cheery, sympathetic, and communicative.

Far down the glassy reach beyond Ó Szlankamen to the east a long range
of flat hills now appeared, marking the course of the sluggish Theiss,
and on the opposite bank we saw great rocks, scarcely distinguishable
from the hard mud bluffs, but marking a distinct geological change in
the landscape. Here on the scorched hill-sides frequent villages were
baking in the hot sun, and copper-covered monstrosities of church-spires
flashed and glistened in the brilliant light. A ruined castle towered
high above the river where the hills crowd the stream out of its course,
and then the river broadened into a lake-like expanse, and stretched
away until the left bank, always flat and without a break, lost itself
entirely in the distance, and sky and water seemed to meet as at the sea
horizon. Far away to the south bold blue peaks, the sentinels of the
northern range of mountainous Servia, showed where Belgrade stands; and,
in pleasant perspective, high bluffs on the right bank, with here and
there a church spire, were reflected with all the glories of the
midsummer sky in the perfect mirror of the majestic stream. A wonderful
sunset glow colored all the landscape as we encamped under a high bluff,
in full sight of Semlin and the Servian capital beyond. We fancied we
could see in the glowing distance slender minarets behind the great
fortress which guards the frontier, and in the perfect quiet of the
lingering twilight imagined we could hear the hum of the busy towns. The
song of the shepherd on the opposite meadows echoed sweetly as we lay by
the camp-fire that

[Illustration: THRESHING WHEAT]

beautiful evening and enjoyed for the first time in our wanderings an
hour or two of delightful leisure in the open air.

[Illustration: A CROATIAN BIVOUAC]

It was now nearly eight weeks since we launched our fleet in the
head-waters of the Danube, and, with the exception of a few days spent
at Vienna, Hainburg, Budapest, and on the Franzens Canal, we had passed
the greater part of our time, day and night, in the canoes. On the upper
river, where we cooked over spirit-lamps because we were never able to
have a fire, we had no great inducement to sit up after dark, and
consequently sought our snug beds in the canoes very soon after dinner.
After we reached Hungary, however, we found it not only practicable but
more convenient to use wood for cooking, and from the frontier downward
we always had the proper and agreeable accompaniment of every
comfortable bivouac--a cheerful fire. But it also happened that all
through Hungary we found so much to interest us we could never manage to
stop for the night before dark; and since it always took us two hours or
more to make camp, cook and eat our dinner, and tidy up afterwards, we
were obliged to continue our custom of turning in (literally) as soon as
possible, in order to be able to rise at daybreak. The evening we camped
in sight of Belgrade, the dewless, balmy air of the river so soothed our
nerves, and the glowing landscape was such a pleasure to our eyes, that
we lay in the firelight and, regardless of the morrow, watched for a
long time the glittering constellations as they slowly came in sight;
and when at last we slept, we dreamed of Turks and sieges and the
turmoil of belligerent races, whose territory now lay within reach of a
few paddle strokes.

[Illustration: Ó SZLANKAMEN]

The happy chant of Servian girls marching down the steep paths in the
bluffs, laden with jugs for Danube water, was our accompaniment as we
paddled along in the early morning towards the steamer-landing at
Semlin, the last Hungarian town on the right bank of the Danube, a busy
little commercial place with all the fascinating characteristics of a
frontier town. A populous market-place, numerous cafés of the Turkish
order--the first we had seen--and a population largely Servian, with
more barbaric types, and wearing costumes plainly transitional between
the Hungarian and the Turkish, kept us interested longer than we
anticipated, and well repaid the delay.

[Illustration: SERVIAN WOMEN]

From Semlin to Belgrade is but a half-hour’s paddle down a bend behind
the Krieg’s Insel and across the clear, green stream of the Save. Above
the great fortress which occupies the whole area of a high promontory at
the junction

[Illustration: FORTRESS AT THE JUNCTION OF THE DANUBE AND THE
SAVE--BELGRADE]

of the rivers, where a church and other edifices are half hidden among
bastions and parapets, an immense cream-colored Government building
extends an imposing mass, and, as seen from the river, divides the town
into two parts. To the left is the old Turkish quarter on the Danube, in
recent years almost depopulated of Mahometans, and with only one
insignificant mosque still preserved; and to the right, Belgrade proper,
along the Save and the heights which extend back into the country.
Lumberyards and the usual motley collection of buildings hid the town
from us as we slowly paddled up the sluggish current of the Save to a
great bathing establishment, all gay with flowers, where a large
contingent of the youthful population of the city were disporting
themselves, naked, in canoes of simple construction and gaudy color. Our
arrival caused very little flutter on the shore. We saw one fez on a
small boy, and fancied that on landing we should find everything
suggesting the East, and fierce officials haughtily demanding our
passports. But we moored our canoes alongside the bath-house and went
ashore without a question, found everybody in European dress, and met a
polite soldier-policeman who volunteered to look out for our craft, and
immediately busied himself with boxing the ears of the inquisitive
youngsters who ventured too near the dainty vessels. We were not long,
however, in finding novelties of dress and architecture, for at a short
distance from our landing-place we entered the outskirts of the city,
and passed through a street quite as Eastern in aspect as any in the
heart of Stamboul. Wretched wooden hovels with shattered tiles and
crumbling plaster; dingy low cafés with pallid Turks inhaling with
indolent sighs the stupefying smoke of nargiléhs; open air
cooking-places where unsavory messes sizzled on gridirons; and general
squalor, mustiness, and filth everywhere. From this quarter, steep,
ill-paved streets mount to the higher part of the town, where the
hotels, theatres, and palaces are, and pleasant avenues lead out to the
luxurious residential suburb on the heights beyond. But all Belgrade, at
the date of our visit, was much like the normal condition of Broadway,
and New York in general. The streets were everywhere torn up for
water-pipes and sewers, sidewalks were being widened and levelled, and
there was every indication of a serious attempt to improve the city, or
some job in the control of the City Fathers. The heat was intense and
almost unbearable as we explored the streets and park and wandered
through the fortress. When the sun reached the zenith, all Belgrade was
as quiet as Pompeii, for the inhabitants withdrew in-doors, and left the
streets void of life and movement. Even the hissing of frying fat in the
numerous cook-shops seemed hushed for the time; the vender of kukurutz
(green corn on the ear) slept in a shadow; and

[Illustration: BULGARIAN BOZAJI, BELGRADE]

the Bulgarian bozaji, selling slightly fermented maize beer, alone broke
the drowsy silence with his mournful cries. There was absolutely nothing
to see, and therefore we also sought shelter, and sleepily waited for
the town to come to life again. In the middle of the afternoon a few
hurrying peasant women, their brilliant dresses quite out of harmony
with the commonplace aspect of the streets, flashed along in the
sunshine; one or two men with effeminate lace-trimmed tunics, plaited
like imitations of the Albanian fustinella, strode proudly past,
unconscious that hats of London make and elastic-sided boots made them
look extremely ridiculous; and so the streets gradually resumed their
normal activity as the afternoon coolness came on. We soon yielded to
the tempting invitation of a fresh breeze and sailed away into the
Danube again, escorted by a fleet of Servian canoes with naked crews.

We began to think that in crossing the frontier we had passed the limit
beyond which the modern invention of modesty has not yet been
universally accepted. It certainly seemed so, for the bronzed figures of
the naked youths excited no comment on the shore as we passed. Rounding
the water-battery and drifting along the old Turkish quarter, we came to
a large pleasant meadow, glowing in the rich light of the afternoon sun.
Here scores of men, as unclothed as the horses they bestrode, were
riding their animals out into the shallows, bathing with them in the
yellow stream. Like so many figures from the frieze of the Parthenon,
they sat their horses with perfect grace, saddleless and bridleless, and
now dashed along, throwing up clouds of spray, and again disappeared in
a golden cloud of dust on the meadow. A party of young men and boys,
equally in Spartan attire, were having an exciting foot-race along the
level turf, and this little spot was for the time a sculptors’ paradise.
We drifted slowly along, watching the athletic figures in the wonderful
light, all unconscious in our preoccupation that the current was
carrying us into a scene of still more surprising simplicity and
innocence. Our canoes, if left to themselves, would always turn round
and float down-stream stern foremost; and that afternoon, as on many
other occasions, we found the trick to be of advantage, for we could
longer watch the unusual spectacle on the meadow. When we could see no
more in the direction of the dazzling sun, we paddled the canoes around,
and found ourselves, to our surprise, quite near a number of Servian
families, who were taking a refreshing bath--old and young, men, women,
and children--in the sandy shallows. No bath-house had given them refuge
on the bank, nor had they considered it necessary to disfigure
themselves with drapery, except a few of the women, who wore an apology
for an apron tied around the waist.

[Illustration: FOUNTAIN IN THE SQUARE, BELGRADE]

It was a sudden change from the contemplation of figures of classical
grace to the unwitting interruption of the bath of a dozen unlovely
families, and it was a parallel plunge from the accustomed luxuries of
pleasant camp grounds above Belgrade to the mud flats on the river-side
below. We had drifted along the meadow so slowly that we found the
daylight already waning and a threatening storm close at hand before we
thought of camping. Then we hastened to the first spot where there was a
possible landing. Here we slept until the ring of scythes at the very
bows of our canoes brought us to consciousness again, and we opened the
tents to see a sunny meadow among the trees, all dotted over with the
white figures of peasants slashing at the ranks of coarse grass that
fringed the sun-baked shore.

CHAPTER XIII

From the heights of Belgrade we had seen the blue summits of mountains
far away to the south--the outlying spurs of the great Carpathian
range--and having threaded a tortuous way through the great Hungarian
plain, we now looked forward with exhilaration to the rugged scenery we
were soon to enjoy, and were eager to welcome a change in the horizon.
We saw on the map no town of importance between the Servian frontier and
Orsova, at the Iron Gates; and since we were not unwilling to have a
little quiet after so many days of excitement among novelties of type
and costume, we noticed with satisfaction as we went along that the flat
shore on the Hungarian side and the low hills opposite offered us no
temptation to land. To be sure, we were still in some doubt as to our
probable reception in a Servian village, for Belgrade was the only
Servian place we had visited, and we could not judge from our experience
at the capital what might happen if we went ashore in a remote town. We
had heard many tales of the difficulties of travelling in the remote
districts of Servia, and had provided ourselves with passports properly
viséd in many languages. As we had no occasion to show them in Belgrade,
we now began to have some curiosity about their usefulness, and we
contemplated going ashore at a Servian village for no better reason than
to test this question. But, before we found an attractive landing-place,
we saw far below us in the distance,

[Illustration: SEMENDRIA]

about noon on the day after leaving the frontier, what appeared to be a
curious row of buildings on the low Servian shore, stretching out into
the river like piers of a great railway bridge, or a line of grain
elevators.

At first we thought it was mirage, which had hitherto often deceived us
by its distortion of forms and exaggeration of heights, but as we
paddled on against the wind we soon saw it was a collection of solid
architectural forms. It was, however, only when we were within a mile or
so of the town that we recognized in what we had taken to be a modern
landmark the huge towers and walls of the great mediæval citadel of
Semendria (Smédérévo, in Servian), rising in all their ancient dignity
from the very waters of the Danube, and overtopping with their masses of
solid masonry the little town modestly nestling in the shadow of the
great fortress. Of recent years Semendria has become of commercial
importance as a shipping port for grain, and when we entered the town
its narrow streets were blocked by hundreds of laden ox-carts, all
patiently waiting their turn at the public scales, where the weight of
the grain is guaranteed by the town officers before it is delivered to
the lighters. Through a motley crowd of Servians in barbaric fur caps,
red sashes, rawhide sandals, and the coarsest of homespun garments, we
made our way to the fortress. The great walls enclose a triangular space
of ten or twelve acres, occupying the whole of a low point between the
River Jessava and the Danube. The apex of the triangle at the junction
of the rivers is a citadel of great strength, built in 1432 by the
despot George Brankovitch. It is still in wonderful preservation.
Indeed, the walls of the whole enclosure and the twenty-three great
square towers show remarkably few signs of decay, and, with the
exception of the destruction of the wooden platforms, are almost as
sound as the day they were built. Here and there an inscription, or a
fragment of a statue built into the walls, proves that the importance
of the town dates as far back as the Roman occupation, when this was
undoubtedly one of a series of strongholds along the river.

The barracks of the Servian garrison which stand in the great enclosure
appear like huts in comparison with the immense towers and high walls of
the mediæval structure, and a regiment of infantry may be quite lost
sight of among the tangled bushes and the thick foliage of the trees
which cover a large part of the ground. From the top of one of the great
towers we saw below and before us a panorama of varied beauty, extending
from the heights of Belgrade to the Carpathian range, faintly shadowed
in the distance beyond the glittering expanse of the Danube, which
spreads out into great broad reaches, with numerous islands, and, like
its smaller self among the mountains of Baden, pauses and gathers volume
and strength for the dash into the great gorge that cleaves the jagged
mass of mountains for fifty miles or more before again resuming its
quiet flow.

As we went away from Semendria the chief of police was among the party
assembled to see us off, and here, we thought, was the opportunity to
see whether our passports would be honored. We offered them to the
official, modestly at first, but he would not even look at the
envelopes.

“But they are our passports,” we urged. “They cost us a lot of money and
trouble, and if no official looks at them they will be wasted, for they
are only good for one year!”

But he resolutely declined to have anything to do with them, although we
increased the urgency of our request almost to the strength of a demand,
and we left, quite ready to believe the statement of a scoffing friend
in Budapest, who declared that any one could travel the whole length of
the Danube with no more of a passport than a restaurant bill of fare,
which would satisfy the officials as well as the best parchment with
signatures and seals.

[Illustration: RAMA]

At Bazias, on the Hungarian side of the river, the terminus of the
railway from Temesvár, and the point where the tourist usually takes a
steamer for the trip through the Kasan defile and the Iron Gates, there
is nothing on shore more interesting than a railway restaurant; but the
landscape is very grand and beautiful. The hills completely mask the
course of the river as the traveller approaches them from up-stream, and
the fine ruin of Castle Rama, on the Servian side, seems to stand on the
shore of a large lake with a southern boundary of great mountains. From
Rama the river sweeps majestically around to the south past Bazias, and
narrows somewhat as it winds among the first great foot-hills of the
mountain range, spreading out again after a few miles into another
lake-like reach, which in turn has on its southern horizon an apparently
impassable chain of mountains--this time the real Carpathians.

As we crossed the river from Rama towards the cluster of houses on the
water’s edge at Bazias, we observed that the little village, dwarfed to
insignificance by the towering hills above it, was all gay with flags.
On closer approach we distinguished near the landing the form of a low
gray vessel quite unlike any craft we had hitherto seen. This proved to
be an Austrian gunboat, and the occasion of the display of bunting was
the birthday of the Emperor Francis Joseph. As we drifted down towards
the man-of-war we hoisted all the flags we had, and, as we were passing
in review with all the dignity we could command, we were startled by the
loud report of a champagne cork pointed in our direction, and fired, as
it were, across our bows. We surrendered at once and unconditionally,
and exchanged cards with a group of officers celebrating the Emperor’s
birthday on the quarter-deck. We found our captivity so little irksome
that we willingly prolonged it until we were admonished by the position
of the sun in the heavens that we must be off if we would reach the
entrance to the Carpathian gorge before dark. Our haste was due to no
more cogent reason than ambition to begin the fight with the river at
the so-called cataracts. These obstructions had been described to us by
friends who had made the journey in a steamer as extremely dangerous,
and, as we neared the mountains, all the river-men we talked with warned
us of the perils of the stream below, and advised us on no account to
attempt the passage of the cataracts without a pilot. But we could not
forget the collapse of the Strudel and Wirbel bugbear in the upper
river, and could not bring ourselves to apprehend any great danger in
rapids where steamers are constantly passing up and down with loaded
lighters in tow. Even our new-found friends on the gunboat, who had just
made the trip, cautioned us not to attempt the passage in our frail
canoes, and took great pains to show us the dangerous points on their
charts. Of course, the more we heard of these terrors to navigation the
more eager we became to look upon them ourselves, and, while we did not
propose to spoil our trip by the loss of our canoes, we also did not
intend to take anybody’s testimony of the dangers, which were, after
all, only relative. The last words our naval advisers said to us, as we
regretfully left them, was to be sure to take a pilot at Drenkova, the
last steamboat-landing above the rapids.

[Illustration: GOLUBÁÇ]

From the broad reach just below Bazias the whole horizon to the south
and east appears to be a solid wall of rocky heights, and is without a
break visible to the eye. For about twenty miles the river winds gently
across a pleasant valley, divides around a large island, and then sweeps
straight down towards the huge barrier, which extends to the right and
left as far as the eye can see. As we paddled along in the quiet current
past the Servian town of Gradistje, and came nearer and nearer to the
mass of rugged peaks which cut sharply against the sky, we grew more and
more impatient to discover the course of the river through the chain,
and unconsciously increased the rapidity and the force of our stroke
until we sped along as if paddling a race. Suddenly, as we were passing
the end of the large island, the landscape opened to the eastward like
the shifting scenes on a stage, and the river, sweeping past a high
isolated rock in mid-stream, was seen to plunge with accelerated speed
directly into a narrow cleft between immense limestone cliffs, and to
disappear in the depths of the gorge. Guarding the entrance to this
defile, the ruin of the Castle of Golubáç, on the Servian shore, piles
its towers high on a spur which juts out boldly over the river, and
shades a pleasant little green meadow by the water-side. The foundations
of the castle are said to be Roman, and there is a tradition that Helen,
the Empress of Greece, was imprisoned here; but the ruins now visible
are those of the fortress built by Maria Térésa in the middle of last
century. Along the Hungarian bank the famous highway of Count Széchényi,
leading from the town of Moldova just above to Orsova, at the Roumanian
frontier, shows the straight line of its cuttings and embankments but a
few feet above the water. The smooth, perpendicular cliffs are
perforated by numerous caverns, one of which tradition has marked as the
place whence issue the swarms of vicious flies which persecute the
cattle in the summer-time. A local legend attributes the origin of these
flies to the body of the dragon killed by St. George.

The green meadow under Golubáç invited us to a pleasant camp, for night
was fast coming on as we finished our sketching, and we were loath to
leave the charming, romantic spot. But one of our party, unable to
resist the impulse to penetrate the gathering gloom of the defile, had
drifted on and was lost to sight. The whole sky was tinged with the
coppery red of sunset when we set out to overtake him. The river whirled
and rushed and wrestled with our paddles as we floated on into the
deepening twilight. Now and then a great boiling under our very keels
would throw us out of our course, and make the light canoes bound along
with an unfamiliar and disturbing motion. On and on we went, unable
longer to see a map, and with no means of determining where and when we
should come upon the dangerous rapids and whirlpools that lay somewhere
in our path. Frequent camp-fires sparkled at the water’s edge, and from
one to another we paddled, waking the echoes with the shrill notes of
our whistles, until at last, just as we had concluded to give up the
search, certain that we had passed our companion in the darkness, we
heard his welcome hail, and were soon in camp.

The plaintive song of a peasant girl, spinning from a distaff as she
walked through the rustling maize-field behind our camp, brought us to
our feet long before we had slept off the effects of our sixty miles’
paddle of the day before; and, eager to be at the rapids, we ate a hasty
breakfast and were off down the reach, very like the Hudson in scenery,
to the little coaling station of Drenkova, where we had been told to
take a pilot. We trimmed our canoes with unusual care, tested our
paddles, stowed away all loose articles, and put everything in fighting
trim. Although we did not propose to undergo the humiliation of
following a pilot through the rapids, we thought it best to take all
reasonable means to find the best channel, and we therefore landed at
Drenkova, and consulted the agent of the steamship company there. He
could give us but very few directions which were of any use, but offered
us a pilot, and advised us strongly not to attempt the passage alone.
But the sight of puffing steamers slowly dragging loaded barges up the
stream was to our minds satisfactory proof of the nature of the
obstructions, and, a little impatient at the delay, we pushed off,
followed by repeated cautions and confused directions. From our long
experience with the Danube, we had come to believe that it was a
thoroughly well-behaved and well-regulated river, whose mild tricks were
easily understood, and whose current would not endanger the veriest tub
that ever disgraced a navigable stream. We were only too anxious, then,
to see what the river could really do in the way of making navigation
difficult and dangerous; and, besides, never having tested our canoes
except in the choppy seas of the sudden wind-storms, we were ready to
risk a good deal to find out how they would act in the baffling currents
and waves of a real rapid.

[Illustration: ROUMANIAN PEASANT GIRL]

Just below Drenkova the Danube bends to the south, and makes its first
angry dash over the ledges of rock that stretch between the sheer cliffs
on the Servian side and the rocky, wooded heights opposite. The river
was about its average height on the day we went down, and no rocks
showed above the surface. A strong head-wind so disturbed the water that
we were unable to judge of the run of the currents, nor exactly tell
where the rapids really were until we were in the midst of them. To add
to our difficulties, several steamers were towing up-stream, and the
wash from their paddles, necessary to be avoided at all times, increased
the turmoil of the rushing waters. There was nothing to do, then, but to
take our own course far enough away to avoid the steamer wash, if
possible, and still near enough the main channel to escape the
whirlpools, which we had been told were the greatest dangers of the
passage. Between this Scylla and Charybdis the way was not easy, but we
paddled steadily forward, breasting the waves, throwing spray
mast-high, and plunging along with great speed. Suddenly, between two of
the canoes a great vortex appeared, and with giddy revolving motion
seemed to rush on viciously in chase of the foremost boat. Never were
paddles used with greater vigor or better skill, and the dainty crafts
swept gracefully around on the outer ring of the whirlpool, just out of
reach of the resistless clutch of the swirl, until the yawning vortex
gradually closed up again and its force was idly spent. The Danube had
given us a notion of what it might do if trifled with.

A second rapid followed the first, not far below it, at the end of a
broad reach surrounded by high mountains, and although we were not
conscious of any great increase in the speed of the current, we heard in
a few moments the roar of the Greben rapids--the longest and most
difficult of navigation above those at the Iron Gates. As we came near,
we saw a line of white water reaching across from shore to shore,
apparently without a break. We were speedily approaching this rank of
tossing waves, where jets of glittering spray flew high in the air, when
we fortunately saw a steamer passing up near the Servian shore, and
paddled rapidly across to find the channel, where we would be less
likely to meet the only enemy we feared--the whirlpools. Before we had
time to deliberate on the best passage among the rocks we were in the
midst of the tumbling, dashing waters, and almost before we caught our
breath again we were in a comparatively still pool under the immense
crag of Greben, which, pushing far out into the stream and narrowing the
channel, causes the current to flow with great swiftness over the jagged
ledges of rock that dam the river at this point. In our exhilarating
dashes through the waves we had not shipped a spoonful of water,
although our decks had been constantly awash, even to the very top of
the coamings. As we neared the last pitch of the river at this point,
we had acquired such confidence in our canoes that we dashed boldly into
the roughest of the leaping waves, fired with enthusiasm for the
unaccustomed sport, and filled with the excitement of our adventure. The
canoes fairly leaped from crest to crest of the billows, and we could
not see each other for the screen of dashing spray. A moment or two of
active dodging and very hard paddling and we came out breathless at the
landing of a temporary station where the international corps of
engineers are quartered while the great work of improving the navigation
is in progress.

CHAPTER XIV

The rocky shoulder of Greben is all scarred and torn by the cuttings
which are gradually eating off its rugged and dangerous spur. Farther
down-stream a breakwater is in course of construction, intended to
divert the current from a shallow; and at some distance below, the great
black masses of drilling machines, all chains and iron posts and
funnels, are seen anchored in mid-stream, where they are constantly at
work blasting out a great ledge of rock which causes the rapids of the
Jur.

The cheery engineers, who had watched our descent of the rapids with
great interest, welcomed us when we landed with offers of substantial
hospitality, and over a good dinner we discussed the one topic which had
for us a common interest--the moods and caprices of the great river.
When we left them, at two o’clock, we had still a paddle of some
twenty-five miles before we should reach Orsova, where we proposed to
pass the night, not thinking it would be possible to camp in the gorge.
There would be no shelter from the violent up-stream wind until we
reached the entrance of the defile, so there was need of haste. Below
Greben the river sweeps around in a great curve from the south to the
north-east, a mile or more in width, then suddenly narrows, and takes a
remarkably straight course through a deep cleft in the mountains, until
it bends sharply towards the south again at the Iron Gates. The gorge
through which it passes is called the Kasan defile, and is far and away
the most impressive and wonderful feature of the scenery along the whole
river. Sheer limestone precipices many hundred feet in height rise up in
grand simple masses on either side, and as we approached the gorge it
looked as if some great convulsion of nature had wrenched the solid
rocks asunder, leaving the deep and narrow chasm for the passage of the
river. Before Count Széchényi built his road along the Hungarian bank,
in 1840, there had been no practicable pathway through the defile since
the great road built by Trajan for his soldiers and his army trains
during his Dacian campaign. At the entrance, where the river is
constricted to a width of only 180 yards, the straight cutting of the
modern highway and the great score in the cliffs left by Trajan’s road
are both prominent features in the landscape. Here the river rushes
violently past a high rock in mid-stream, which causes a dangerous
whirlpool just below, then plunges into the narrow cleft with a volume
of water 200 feet or more in depth, and swirls and boils and throbs with
great pulsations all along its swelling flood. Narrower and narrower
becomes the gorge, higher and higher the cliffs, and strange currents
and ominous whirls break the surface of the dark torrent. In the depths
of the chasm there is almost twilight gloom, and in the impressive quiet
the murmur of the impatient river sounds dull and low, like the breakers
on a far-off sea-shore. Still closer and closer crowd the giant cliffs,
until they almost touch. At last they force the mighty river into the
narrow compass of 120 yards; and then, as if fatigued with the effort of
strangling the resistless flood, withdraw again, and little by little
the current gains its familiar breadth, and spreads out into a pleasant
reach with high wooded hills, enclosing on the north a fertile valley
with ripening cornfields, and piling high on the south their rugged
summits almost perpendicularly

[Illustration: THE KASAN DEFILE]

over the water’s edge. Here the Roman road is almost practicable in
parts, and under a great towering precipice, where a projecting rock
pushes out boldly into the deep channel, the great general caused, in
the year 103, a tablet to be carved in the solid rock, on which may
still be read the inscription:

                       IMP·CAESAR·DIVI·NERVAE·F·
                        NERVA·TRAIANVS·AVG·GERM
                       PONTIF·MAXMVS·TRIB·OT * *
                          ***** RIAE·CO *****

commemorating his victory over nature as well as over man. Nature has
not forgiven Trajan the desecration of this, one of her sublimest works,
and in the lapse of centuries she has gradually eaten away the hard rock
tablet, threatening it with utter destruction, in spite of the
projecting stone above it, until solid masonry supports have been
erected to hold the shattered inscription in its place. As we were
sketching the spot, with its interesting traces of the Roman road
showing where the posts were fastened to the rock to support the
platforms necessary to widen the path, two natives came paddling up
under the edge of the cliff in a dugout canoe, and moored their boat at
the corner, where, on the old Roman road-bed, they had a little fishing
camp. Canoe, implements, dress, were the same as in the days when their
remote ancestors piloted Trajan’s galleys through the dangerous eddies
of the defile. Dacia Felix is now only a name, and a shattered tablet
and crumbling traces of the first great highway along the Danube alone
remain to remind us of the great general’s conquests of this remote
region, and to suggest something of the civilization he founded there.
But the peasant is still unchanged in type and costume, speaks a
language closely allied to the old Roman dialect, tills the ground and
catches fish with the same rude implements that Trajan found in the
hands of the happy barbarians of Dacia Felix.

It was long after dark before we steered our canoes by the twinkling
lights of Orsova to the steamboat-landing there. The tinkle of gypsy
music in the garden restaurant by the river-bank echoed across the
silently-flowing stream, now silvered by the moon, which tardily rose
above the great mountains. We heard again the soft accents of the Magyar
tongue and the intoxicating strains of the csáardás. The wild gypsy
leader poured his music into our eager ears, drawing his nervous bow
under our very hat-brims, lest we should lose some quaver of the
stirring chords. Long into the night we sat there, captive to the music
and the beauty of the moonlit landscape, loath to lose one moment of the
few precious hours that remained to us in bewitching, beloved Hungary.

[Illustration: REMAINS OF TRAJAN’S ROAD NEAR ORSOVA]

Like all frontier towns, Orsova has a heterogeneous population, which
gives interest to an otherwise dull and unattractive place. Besides its
commercial importance on the river, and also on the through railway line
from Budapest to Bucharest, it is, in summer-time at least, the
halting-place for the great multitudes of Roumanians and Hungarians who
resort to the baths of Méhadia, or the Herkulesbad, as it is usually
called, from the old Roman name, Thermae Herculis, a most picturesque
and luxurious establishment of sulphur baths a few miles inland, in a
wonderful gorge of the Carpathians.

Among the motley collection of peasants seen in the streets, the Turk in
all his squalor is met here for the first time on the Danube. By the
Treaty of Berlin, the small fortified island of Ada Kaleh, three miles
below Orsova, was ceded to Austria, and the citadel was ordered to be
razed. But as the whole population consisted of Turks, and there seemed
to be no humane method of getting rid of them, they were allowed to
linger on, not acquiring rights of citizenship in Austria, nor yet
responsible to the Sultan in any way, paying no taxes to either
Austro-Hungary or Turkey. The wily Turk makes the most of his position,
and drives a thriving trade in all sorts of knick-knacks, picks up a
good income out of the crowd of tourists who visit the island for a
sight of a real Turk in his own home, and sells the best tobacco that
can be bought north of the Balkans, and at prices which argue against
his assurance that he has paid duty for it at the Austrian customs. Just
beyond this island the Danube bends sharply to the south-east, and three
or four miles below the Roumanian frontier tumbles its full, broad
current over a great ledge of rocks, which for a mile and a half in
width extend across the river, and leaving only a narrow and intricate
channel for steamers near the Roumanian shore, always dangerous to
navigation, and at low-water impassable except by boats of shallow
draught. In this mile and a half of rapids the river falls sixteen
feet, and the broad defile at this point is known as the Iron Gates.

[Illustration: FROM BELGRADE TO RUSTCHUK]

The Turks originally applied the name Iron Gates (Demir Kapou) to the
rapids just below Drenkova as well as to those near Orsova, calling them
respectively Upper and Lower Iron Gates. The name, which signified
obstructions to navigation rather than natural gateways in the
mountains, is now commonly applied to the lower rapids only, and the
traveller who has passed through the Kasan defile usually expects to
find a still more wonderful gorge at the Iron Gates below. He is sure to
be disappointed, for the Iron Gates are only a series of dangerous
rapids at the point where the river broadens out after leaving the
mountains, and the scenery there is, by comparison with that of the
Kasan defile, tame and uninteresting. With the Carpathian ends the
series of remarkable gorges and defiles which has marked the course of
the river at intervals from its source down, for the vast plain of
Roumania extends from the foot-hills here to the shores of the Black
Sea. The Iron Gates have been since earliest history of great military
and political importance, forming as they do a natural barrier on the
great water-way between the East and the West. According to Strabo, the
Danube ended here and the Ister began, for the lower river was known to
the Greeks as the Ιστρος. There is no record of any mention of the upper
Danube before the first century B.C., when it was discovered by the
Roman armies under Cæsar, who probably gave it the name Danubius. Max
Müller, in his study of the origin of the name of the Danube, says that
the Latin name is probably a translation of the Aryan word _danu_,
which, in the védas, means moist, or an adaptation of the old Persian
word of the same spelling which means a river. It is scarcely necessary
to add that the river has now a different name in several of the
countries through which it flows. The Germans call it the Donau, the
Hungarians the Duna, the Roumanians the Dunari, and the Servians,
Bulgarians, and Russians the Dunai.

The Iron Gates marks in the history of our trip the loss of the Admiral
of the fleet who, having exhausted all the time at his disposal, was
obliged to leave us here, to the regret of all of us and his own intense
disappointment.

The International Corps of Engineers, who are carrying out the
improvements of navigation on all the rapids of the Carpathian gorge,
have begun to cut a canal through the rocks at the Iron Gates along the
Servian bank. The work has been in progress since the autumn of 1890,
and will be completed in 1893. Trajan’s engineers actually completed
part of a similar canal a few rods farther inland, and the material of
the ancient enbankments is now employed in the construction of the
modern dikes. Like the conscientious travellers we were, we inspected
the works, and at the invitation of the engineers, spent a pleasant
half-day there. In common with so many other undertakings the world
over, the labor is mostly in the hands of the Italians, who look exactly
like so many workmen on the Croton Aqueduct. At noon they gathered at
the doorway of the ГОСТИОНИЦА НЕВ ЈОРК--GASTHAUS NEWY JORK--quite the
same as at the corner groceries of the One-hundred-and-something Street
above the Harlem River, and only left the spot during the hour of rest
to watch the futile rage of a flock of Servian and Roumanian geese at a
sleepy Hungarian eagle chained to a perch--an active symbol of a
possible political situation which appealed strongly to the ready
Italian wit.

We had our usual enemy, a violent head-wind, on the day we trusted our
fleet to the mercies of the Pregrada rapids at the Iron Gates, and we
had a busy quarter of an hour escaping the whirlpools and avoiding the
cross-seas. Unable from our low position to judge of the best channel in
the surging waves, we kept as straight a course as the angry and
baffling currents would permit, and came out safely in the comparatively
smooth waters below, where we had a moment to look at the landscape from
mid-stream, and to vote it disappointing after the grand scenery of the
Kasan defile. For a mile or two farther on we found we must steer with
care, for vicious swirls would suddenly appear and almost snatch the
paddles from our hands. Great sturgeon weirs near the Servian shore
marked the end of the violent currents, and after passing these we
floated tranquilly away down a reach dotted all over with gourds marking
the nets and sturgeon lines, which here are set on every side. A
pleasant open country was now before us, with hot yellow hills and a
town on either hand--Kladovo, with brick fortress and modern earthworks,
on the Servian shore, and Turnu Severin high up on a bluff across the
river just below. As we had not yet landed in Roumania, we decided to
coast along the left bank and see if the landing-place was more
interesting than the long straggling modern town which looked so
commonplace and unattractive. As we drifted down close to the groups of
quaint craft, studying

[Illustration: REMAINS OF TRAJAN’S BRIDGE, TURNU SEVERIN]

these novel vessels, the first we had seen with masts and sails, we
noticed, on the river-bank below, the ruined pier of Trajan’s bridge,
and thought we would land there and make a sketch of it. As we passed
the town we saw a soldier in a white linen uniform trying his best to
keep pace with us; but as he made no sign, we did not dream he had any
other motives than those of curiosity. Just above the ruins a party of
soldiers was bathing, a sentinel stood guard in front of a sentry-box,
and a few rods farther down men were washing horses, and women were
beating clothes on the rocks. We turned our bows towards the bank at the
ruined pier, when a sharp hail from the sentinel caused us to look up.
“Keep off!” he commanded in vigorous Roumanian. But we, seeing no
fortifications anywhere, and having no more sinister intentions than the
mild pursuit of art, knew no reason why we should not go ashore where
the natives were at work, and continued to paddle slowly towards the mud
bank. “Keep off! keep out in the stream!” he yelled again. “Is there a
war here?” we asked, with an attempt at humor. “No; but you sha’n’t
land! Keep off, or I’ll shoot!” “Shoot away; you can’t hit!” we
retorted, believing it to be the idle threat of a soldier only half in
earnest. But he grew more and more excited as we approached, and,