River Steaming.--Arrival at Widdin--Jew.--Comfortless Khan.--Wretched
appearance of Widdin.--Hussein Pasha.--M. Petronievitch.--Steam
Balloon.
River steaming is, according to my notions, the best of all sorts of
locomotion. Steam at sea makes you sick, and the voyage is generally
over before you have gained your sea legs and your land appetite. In
mail or stage you have no sickness and see the country, but you are
squeezed sideways by helpless corpulence, and in front cooped into
uneasiness by two pairs of egotistical knees and toes. As for
locomotives, tunnels, cuts, and viaducts--this is not travelling to
see the country, but arrival without seeing it. This eighth wonder of
the world, so admirably adapted for business, is the despair of
picturesque tourists, as well as post-horse, chaise, and gig letters.
Our cathedral towns, instead of being distinguished from afar by their
cloud-capt towers, are only recognizable at their respective stations
by the pyramids of gooseberry tarts and ham sandwiches being at one
place at the lower, and at another at the upper, end of an apartment
marked "refreshment room." Now in river steaming you walk the deck, if
the weather and the scenery be good; if the reverse, you lounge below;
read, write, or play; and then the meals are arranged with Germanic
ingenuity for killing time and the digestive organs.
On the second day the boat arrived at Widdin, and the agent of the
steam packet company, an old Jew, came on board. I stepped across the
plank and accompanied him to a large white house opposite the
landing-place. On entering, I saw a group of Israel's children in the
midst of a deadly combat of sale and purchase, bawling at the top of
their voices in most villainous Castilian; all were filthy and
shabbily dressed. The agent having mentioned who I was to the group, a
broad-lipped young man with a German _mutze_ surmounting his oriental
costume, stepped forward with a confident air, and in a thick guttural
voice addressed me in an unknown tongue. I looked about for an answer,
when the agent told me in Turkish that he spoke English.
_Jew_. "You English gentleman, sir, and not know English."
_Author_. "I have to apologize for not recognizing the accents of my
native country."
_Jew_. "Bring goods wid you, sir?"
_Author_. "No, I am not a merchant. Pray can you get me a lodging?"
_Jew_. "Get you as mush room you like, sir."
_Author_. "Have you been in England?"
_Jew_. "Been in London, Amsterdam, and Hamburgh."
We now arrived at the wide folding gates of the khan, which to be sure
had abundance of space for travellers, but the misery and filth of
every apartment disgusted me. One had broken windows, another a
broken floor, a third was covered with half an inch of dust, and the
weather outside was cold and rainy; so I shrugged up my shoulders and
asked to be conducted to another khan. There I was somewhat better
off, for I got into a new room leading out of a cafe where the
charcoal burned freely and warmed the apartment. When the room was
washed out I thought myself fortunate, so dreary and deserted had the
other khan appeared to me.
I now took a walk through the bazaars, but found the place altogether
miserable, being somewhat less village-like than Roustchouk. Lying so
nicely on the bank of the Danube, which here makes such beautiful
curves, and marked on the map with capital letters, it ought (such was
my notion) to be a place having at least one well-built and
well-stocked bazaar, a handsome seraglio, and some good-looking
mosques. Nothing of the sort. The Konak or palace of the Pasha is an
old barrack. The seraglio of the famous Passavan Oglou is in ruins,
and the only decent looking house in the place is the new office of
the Steam Navigation Company, which is on the Danube.
Being Ramadan, I could not see the pasha during the day; but in the
evening, M. Petronievitch, the exiled leader of the Servian National
party, introduced me to Hussein Pasha, the once terrible destroyer of
the Janissaries. This celebrated character appeared to be verging on
eighty, and, afflicted with gout, was sitting in the corner of the
divan at his ease, in the old Turkish ample costume. The white beard,
the dress of the pasha, the rich but faded carpet which covered the
floor, the roof of elaborate but dingy wooden arabesque, were all in
perfect keeping, and the dubious light of two thick wax candles rising
two or three feet from the floor, but seemed to bring out the picture,
which carried me back, a generation at least, to the pashas of the old
school. Hussein smoked a narghile of dark red Bohemian cut crystal. M.
Petronievitch and myself were supplied with pipes which were more
profusely mounted with diamonds, than any I had ever before smoked;
for Hussein Pasha is beyond all comparison the wealthiest man in the
Ottoman empire.
After talking over the last news from Constantinople, he asked me what
I thought of the projected steam balloon, which, from its being of a
marvellous nature, appears to have caused a great deal of talk among
the Turks. I expressed little faith in its success; on which he
ordered an attendant to bring him a drawing of a locomotive balloon
steered by flags and all sorts of fancies. "Will not this
revolutionize the globe?" said the pasha; to which I replied, "C'est
le premier pas qui coute; there is no doubt of an aërial voyage to
India if they get over the first quarter of a mile."[1]
I returned to sup with M. Petronievitch at his house, and we had a
great deal of conversation relative to the history, laws, manners,
customs, and politics of Servia; but as I subsequently obtained
accurate notions of that country by personal observation, it is not
necessary on the present occasion to return to our conversation.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Hussein Pasha has since retired from Widdin, where he
made the greater part of his fortune, for he was engaged in immense
agricultural and commercial speculations; he was succeeded by Mustapha
Nourri Pasha, formerly private secretary to Sultan Mahommud, who has
also made a large fortune, as merchant and ship-owner.]