STEINBRÜCK—THE SÖMMERING—FIRST VIEW OF THE
ADRIATIC—TRIESTE—SHOCKS OF EARTHQUAKE AT BELLUNO—AUSTRIAN
IRONCLAD 'LISSA'—CAPTAIN R. BURTON—FLYING VISIT TO SAN
CANZIANO—SUBTERRANEAN COURSE OF A MOUNTAIN STREAM—THE KARST—WILD
SCENERY—A THUNDER-STORM—CHURCH OF SAN CANZIANO—STUD FARM.
That odious and useless mediæval institution, the quarantine, having
barred my passage into the Lower Provinces of the Danube, I determined
to go to Trieste, then proceed by sea to Constantinople, and thence to
the Caucasus, but it was written differently in the book of Fate!
The line to Trieste was full of interest; during the first portion of
the journey I passed quite close to Lake Balaton, celebrated for its
fish, and then after traversing some wonderfully rich plains, dotted
here and there with patches of forest, and covered with herds of cattle,
horses, and geese, which are kept here in vast numbers for the sake of
their feathers, arrived at Steinbrück at one P.M., where I dined.
Here, at the junction of the Saane and the Saave, the scenery became
truly magnificent; we had been for some time following the banks of the
Saane, and the mountains had been getting closer and higher with every
mile we made, till at last they actually came down to the river, allowing
a bare passage to the railway which followed its every bend.
Having finished our mid-day meal at Steinbrück—where the Pesth line joins
on to that miracle of engineering, the celebrated railway between Vienna
and Trieste—we resumed our journey, the scenery retaining its grand
features, till having topped the Sömmering, we came on to the desert
Karst and got our first peep of the salt water—the glorious Adriatic.
Nothing could exceed the wild grandeur of the country on both sides of the
railway, as the engines (for we had two of them) slowly panted up those
steep inclines, winding in and out through the gorges of the Sömmering,
now plunging into a tunnel to traverse the heart of a mountain, and now
crossing a viaduct between two cliffs, over a precipice hundreds of feet
in depth. Once at the top, our pace increased considerably, and by eight
o'clock I found myself comfortably installed at my hotel at Trieste, on
the evening of the 29th of June.
After a most refreshing night, I descended the next morning to the café
on the ground floor of the hotel, and then heard for the first time of
the severe shocks of earthquake at Belluno and its neighbourhood, which
had been felt even in Trieste. Several lives had been lost, and one
church nearly shaken to the ground.
After breakfast I went to pay my respects to our excellent consul, Captain
Burton, and then hearing that the Austrian ironclad "Lissa" was outside
the harbour, I took a boat and went to have a look at her. She is a fine
vessel with a long projecting prow, and looks well in the water. Having
sent up my card, I was received and shown over the ship by Lieutenant
Count Petruski, who was most kind in pointing out every thing of interest
connected with it. I think he said she mounted 12 rifled fifteen-ton guns
of our Woolwich Infant type, and was furnished with a galvanic apparatus,
by means of which the captain could fire a whole broadside at a time.
Although she was only in after a cruise, and consequently not in the
best of trim for exhibition, I was much gratified by all I saw. The men
were a very fine set of fellows, the state cabins and officers' cabins
particularly neat and nice, and should these lines ever fall beneath
the eye of Count Petruski or any of his brother officers on board the
"Lissa" I beg them all to receive my warm thanks for their kindness to
me that day. I spent a couple of very pleasant hours on board, and as
Count Petruski spoke excellent English, it made our interview all the
more agreeable.[1]
Trieste is anything but an interesting place; though a couple of days
may be spent pleasantly enough visiting the neighbourhood, especially
if one has the advantage of the acquaintance and company of our consul,
Captain R. Burton; the Burton of Harar, of Mecca, and of Medina; the
_facile princeps_ of modern travellers and pleasant companions.
Why is Captain Burton kept at Trieste? It is not a difficult post, nor
one requiring a man with exceptional qualifications; and it does seem
a misapplication if not a waste of _force_ to keep a man like Burton at
Trieste, when he could be of so much greater use elsewhere. The thorough
and intimate knowledge that he possesses of Oriental character, his
perfect mastery of Arabic, together with the knowledge he has of Persian
and scores of other languages, not to mention the experience he has
acquired of Oriental affairs, customs and idiosyncrasies, all go to point
him out emphatically as the right man in the wrong place at Trieste. I
spent some very pleasant hours in his company during my short stay in
that city, and shall never forget the kindness I experienced both from
him and la bella Contessa, his most charming and accomplished lady.
Thus far, my observations have been of a strictly selfish nature. I know
Captain Burton's capabilities, I feel that he is utterly thrown away
where he is, and I want a _quid pro quo_ for my money—consequently I want
to see him in some post where his talents and exceptional qualifications
may be of some profit to me. The reader will perceive that I am strictly
selfish and utilitarian, and that in writing as above I have not been
led away by sentimentality in any shape. Had I been in the opposite
vein, I could have said, I met at Trieste Captain R. T. Burton, who
undoubtedly is the greatest of _living_ travellers, and also second
to none in that great phalanx of explorers, who from time to time have
devoted their lives to carrying civilization to the most remote corners
of the earth. He opened up Eastern Africa, and most probably discovered
in Lake Tanganyika the mysterious sources of the Nile. He directly opened
up the path and led the way which was subsequently trodden by Speke,
Grant, Stanley, Cameron, and others; indirectly he pointed out the way
to Baker, Schweinfurth and Gordon. To Richard Burton then is due the
discovery of this _New Africa_, this great Lake Region, so fertile and
so rich in the centre of a continent which fifty years ago was believed
to be one vast uninhabitable desert. What has been his reward? He has
been made consul at Trieste. Here is an inducement to our ardent British
youth! I hear there is some talk of making him a K.C.B.; for myself, I
wouldn't give a roll of ginger-bread for the distinction; however, let
him have it by all means, but let us see him also removed to some more
useful sphere of action where his exceptional talents and his great
knowledge of Oriental languages may be of service to us. Let him be sent
to Africa again—to Morocco for instance—at the first vacancy.
Having still to wait a couple of days for the departure of the steamer
which was to take me on my trip down the coast of Dalmatia, I employed my
time in paving a flying visit to San Canziano, where a good-sized river,
after meandering down a deep ravine like any other Christian stream,
suddenly plunges into the bowels of the earth, and after a mysterious
course of many miles, reappears again at the surface under a different
name, previous to losing itself in the Adriatic.
The little hamlet of San Canziano is about twenty miles from Trieste, it
consists of a very small and meanly built church, with a good campanile
however, with two sweetly-toned bells—why is it that ours are always so
unmusical and woody?—a small wretched Presbytery, a roadside pot-house
where nothing could be got for love or money, and half a dozen dilapidated
houses. The drive however, was very pleasant, for the weather was warm
and at the same time cloudy, so that we were never inconvenienced by
the sun. The road, on leaving Trieste, goes by easy windings over a
mountain clothed with oak, so beautifully kept, that it gives the idea
of driving through some private park. On reaching the top we came into
the open, and had a glorious view of the Styrian mountains on the one
side, and the Adriatic on the other. After driving for a short time on
the level, we again commenced ascending and soon got into the "Karst,"
as it is called; a wild barren tract where little or nothing appears to
grow, and where rocks and stones seem to have rained down from heaven,
not unlike some other spots I visited subsequently in Dalmatia, and
notably in Montenegro. But this bleak and barren spot owes its absolute
desolation, not so much to the rocky nature of its soil, as to the Bora,
a north-east wind, which often sweeps across it with the force of a West
Indian hurricane.
In many places on the road, traverses of immensely thick stone walls
had been erected for protection against the fury of the wind, but
notwithstanding all, the Karst is sometimes impassable when the Bora
blows in real earnest, and heavy-laden waggons which have tried to cross
it at such times, have been turned over and over like "leaves in Autumn
weather." After travelling for some short time along this elevated
plateau, we again began to descend, and soon reached our destination,
where, having eaten the lunch I had brought with me, I started on foot,
under the guidance of a native who could speak nothing but Styrian, to
seek the mysterious river.
In less than half an hour's walk, I found myself on a grass-covered
plateau of some miles in extent, fringed in the distance by lofty hills,
dotted with clumps of fir trees, and after a few minutes more walking
in an easterly direction, I suddenly came on a perpendicular precipice,
upwards of five hundred feet in depth, which completely barred my further
progress. The cliff on which I stood rose in a narrow valley, or glen,
or cleft, as if the crust of the earth had cracked here for a few miles.
This cleft, nearly of uniform depth, was not of uniform width; in some
places it was so narrow that the smooth river which glided through it
completely filled it from side to side, while in other places a sufficient
strip of soil remained between the river and the cliff to admit of some
amount of cultivation, and here and there a cottage.
This strange cleft, or valley, or crack in the plateau through which the
river flows is of a most irregular outline, going zig-zag, in and out,
just like the cracks one sees in a dried up pond at the end of a hot
Summer in England. I was standing where this precipitous crack barred
the way, by running exactly at right angles across the path, and here
right under me at a depth of about five hundred feet, the river which
could be seen coursing from a considerable distance at the bottom of
the cleft, suddenly leapt into a cavern and disappeared beneath my feet.
Having made a rapid sketch of this extraordinary landscape—or, more
correctly speaking, having tried to convey on paper some faint idea of
what the place was like—I again followed the guide, who now, turning
his back on the precipice, led me in a westerly direction, and brought
me in a few minutes to the brink of a fearful-looking circular chasm,
about fifty yards in diameter, with precipitous rocky sides, and from
the bottom of which could be heard the distant roar of the river rushing
among the rocks. The guide threw some large stones down this yawning
gulph, disturbing some thousands of rock-pigeons who build their nests
in the nooks and crannies of the rocks, and having timed the fall of one
of these stones by listening for its splash in the subterranean river,
I noted about seven seconds as the time it took in falling.
I now accompanied the guide through the little hamlet of San Canziano,
and still going westward came just beyond the village on another chasm,
of oblong form, about six hundred yards one way, and three hundred and
fifty yards the other way, while in depth it was no more than about fifty
yards. It looked to me as if this opening had been made by the subsidence
or falling-in of the roof of some cavern, of which the limestone rock
of these mountains, as well in Styria as in Dalmatia is so full. The
sides of this depression were not precipitous except in some places, and
an easy descent led me to the bottom, across which stretched from side
to side a fantastic ridge of rock pierced by a natural arch about the
middle, and under which an opening in the rock gave entrance to another
cavern, through which anyone desirous of exploring it could without much
difficulty, but at the cost of some fatigue and the risk of some falls,
descend by a series of about six hundred high and slippery ledges of
rock to where again the river makes its appearance after its subterranean
course.
As the day was pretty well advanced, and as the weather, which had been
cloudy all the morning seemed now to be threatening rain, I thought it
wisest not to venture on going further, although the guide had provided
himself with candles for the descent. So I scrambled up the sides of
the chasm, and was making for the roadside inn where the carriage was
waiting for me, when the storm-clouds, which had been gathering thicker
and thicker for some time, broke out at last into such a deluge of rain,
accompanied by thunder and lightning, that I was glad to take refuge
under the archway of the belfry of San Canziano, and from thence into
the church itself, the door of which was opened for me by a queer little
old dried-up chip of a sexton.
I am sure he said to me, "Pray take shelter in here from the rain,"
though as he spoke Styrian I could not understand a word, but his looks
and gestures were as eloquent as words. Having walked into the little
church, first taking off my hat, the little sexton became quite eloquent,
and pointed out with evident satisfaction to every part of the chapel,
which was poor and desolate in the extreme. Four white-washed walls,
a wretched altar piece of wood painted in a few gaudy colours, and a
crimson damask baldachino in tatters, which, stowed away in a corner,
served to shelter the "Santissimo" when carried about in procession,
two or three benches, a confessional box, and a lighted lamp hanging in
front of the altar, constituted _toute la baraque_! but the poor little
old man seemed delighted with himself and everything around him, and
kept repeating in a shrill voice the only Italian word he apparently
possessed "_Bella_," "_Bella_," to which I responded as in duty bound,
"_molto bella_," and I trust I may be forgiven the cram; for I never
told a bigger one in all my life!
The floor of this little church was formed of large flag-stones, in some
of which iron rings were inserted, while in others there only remained
the marks of where rings had formerly been; some had inscriptions, and I
should have been interested in hearing something of the ancient tenants
of these graves, but here the sexton and I came completely to a dead
lock. "_Bella_" could serve my friend no longer, still he understood
perfectly what I required, so when he sat down on a bench, pointing to
me to do the same, I complied at once, and all the more willingly as
the rain was still coming down in torrents.
The old fellow then commenced, and, pointing with his skinny finger to
the central slab, entered at once into what, I presume, must have been a
full, true, and complete history of the tenants of that grave, descanting
probably on their virtues, and dealing gently with their faults; but
alas! I could not understand one word. At last, I suppose the same
thought must have struck "Old Mortality," for he suddenly stopped and
bursting into a shrill, unearthly, and most discordant laugh, pointed
to the sky which was now clearing, and held out his palsied hand, when
I discovered he knew another word, not Slave, nor Italian, but this time
German, "_Geschenk!_" I gave him the only bit of silver I possessed, an
English sixpence, and left him seemingly contented.
The clouds had all melted away, and the sun shone brilliantly when I left
the little roadside tavern of San Canziano to return to Trieste; but,
as I wanted to visit a stud-park which the Emperor of Austria keeps in
this part of his dominions, we took another route on my return journey.
The country we now drove through was prettier than what we had traversed
in the morning, and the road passed through some fine oak woods, which
constantly prompted one to look out for a mansion, the country appeared
so park-like—but in vain.
After a drive of an hour or so we came to the stud-farm, a collection
of large buildings, consisting of several dwelling-houses, a spacious
riding-house for exercising the horses in severe weather, three large
stables intended to accommodate three hundred mares, and one lofty vaulted
stable fitted with nice large loose boxes in which were kept the sires.
The mares were all out at grass together with their foals, so that I did
not see them, as I should have had to drive some miles in a different
direction, and turn my back on Trieste in order to visit them. The sires
I did see, but as they were not led out I could not form as accurate an
opinion of them as I should have wished. They seemed, however, small,
and not exactly the style of horse we would select in this country with
a view to supplying our cavalry. The loose-boxes were commodious and the
stable was well-ventilated; the weather being extremely hot the windows
were closed with _tatties_, which served the double purpose of keeping
away the flies, which always seek the light, and keeping the stable
cool. The stable was fairly clean, but the grooming did not come up to
our ideas. On the whole I was disappointed, and as for the produce, I
should think that nothing but the very lightest of light cavalry horses
could be expected from them.
We returned to Trieste by nine o'clock, coming by the old post-road from
Vienna, and passing by that wonderful quarry of limestone slabs, perhaps
the largest in the world.