FROM VIENNA DOWN THE DANUBE TO CONSTANTINOPLE.
A Black Night on the Black Sea—A Doleful Dirge—Two Thousand
Miles—Vienna—Its Architecture—Its Palace—Its Art Galleries and
Museums—Through Hungary, Servia, Slavonia, and Bulgaria—Cities
and Scenery along the Danube—Products of the Countries—Entering
the Bosphorus amid a War of the Elements—Between Two
Continents—Constantinople—Difficulty with a Turkish Official—A
Babel of Tongues—The Sultan at Prayer—Twenty Thousand Soldiers on
Guard—Multiplicity of Wives—Man-Slayer.
I AM now far out on the Black Sea. Night has settled down on the face
of the deep, and darkness broods over the wide, wide world. This is,
however, far from being a “still and pulseless world” at present. We
are not having a storm, but the wind is blowing a perfect gale. I have
just been pacing the deck and watching the heaving bosom of the ocean.
I love the ocean; I love its vastness; I love its doleful music; I love
its foam-crested waves and white-capped billows. But I had to leave
the deck to-night; it is too cold and rough and dark to remain out any
longer. Hence I came to the saloon; and, as there are a few thoughts
floating through my mind, I take up my pen. I am tired, and would wait
until morning; but memory is a treacherous creature, and the only way
I can secure these thoughts is to fasten them in words, and chain them
in writing. The thoughts I propose to manacle pertain to places I have
visited and objects I have seen since leaving Geneva, Switzerland.
During this time, I have traveled more than two thousand miles,
sometimes on foot, sometimes on trains, and sometimes on the Danube
river.
[Illustration: THE BELVIDERE, VIENNA.]
Vienna, the proud capital of haughty Austria, has more than a million
inhabitants, is splendidly situated, and is one of the prettiest cities
in Europe. The city abounds in monuments and statues, in large parks,
lovely flower gardens, and playing fountains. But Vienna’s crowning
glory is her superb architecture. The Emperor’s Mansion, the Palace
of Justice, and the Houses of Parliament, are especially fine. They
are immense structures, and are elaborately sculptured not only from
the ground to the roof, but the roof itself is covered with sculptured
work. For instance, there are standing on the House of Parliament
alone, eighty life-size marble statues. In addition to these, there
are, on the same roof eight large gilded chariots, each drawn by four
flying horses, and driven by a winged goddess. As one approaches these
buildings, they present a most striking appearance.
I went through the Palace, and saw the Emperor and the crown jewels of
Austria; through the royal riding-school, where the imperial family are
daily instructed in the art of horsemanship; through the art galleries
and Museum, which contain too many fine pictures and objects of
interest to be mentioned here.
Since leaving Vienna, I have traveled through Hungary, Servia,
Slavonia, and Bulgaria, stopping at Buda-Pesth, Belgrade, Rustchuk, and
Varna. For two days and nights I was on the majestic Danube. Most of
the time the river was broad, and the country level and uninteresting.
But this was by no means uniform; occasionally the river would burst
through a rocky mountain ridge, and I remember I opened my umbrella and
stood on deck in the cold wind and rain for three hours, rather than go
down to the saloon, where I could only half see the rugged cliffs and
peaks overhanging the river. Do you say, “That was expensive pleasure?”
Well, be it so. But I love nature. Besides, it has been said, and
truly, I believe, that we enjoy everything in proportion to what it
costs us. I am going to make a strong statement, and yet one that is as
true as strong. I know that it will sound like blasphemy to some, but I
believe in the old proverb, “Honor to whom honor is due;” hence I now
declare that the scenery along some parts of the Danube is finer than
anything on the Rhine.
The principal productions of Servia, Slavonia, Roumelia, and Bulgaria,
seem to me to be ignorance, turnips, soldiers, poodle dogs, and an
annual crop of semi-royal, throne-seeking dudes. I would rather own a
thousand acres of black land in Texas, or be a well-to-do farmer in
Blue Grass, Kentucky, than to have ten such thrones as all these petty
kingdoms combined could offer. I settled the Bulgarian trouble, and
left the country. (I close for the night).
[Illustration: THE DANUBE.]
I fell asleep last night little dreaming what the morning held in
store for me. About 7 o’clock, A.M., though I was up long before that
time, we entered the Bosphorus. We were sailing directly towards the
rising sun. Along the eastern horizon great banks of purple clouds lay
piled one upon another like Pelion upon Ossa. The clouds rise higher
and higher, as now and then the sun climbs up to peep over, like an
imprisoned giant from behind the frowning battlements.
We were apparently between the two arms of a great horseshoe, and were
gliding slowly on into its curve, with the land on all sides sloping up
gently from the water’s edge. We were between two continents—Europe on
the right, and Asia on the left. Our narrow passage was lined on either
side with great torpedo boats, and ironclad men-of-war, trembling for
service. These, in turn, were flanked by two lines of impregnable
forts, planted with grim and frowning cannon. As we pass the batteries
and enter the bay, we behold the great city of Constantinople, crowning
the heights that sweep around the curve of the horseshoe. We see its
palaces, mosques, towers, and spires, all outlined against a dark
background of cloud. Just at this moment, the sun rifts the purple
clouds, and pours a flood of golden glory over the whole scene.
[Illustration: CASTLE ON THE DANUBE.]
By this time the “Urano” casts anchor, and we are soon surrounded by
two or three hundred row-boats that have come to take the passengers
ashore. Just as I am about to step on shore an armed soldier cries
out: “Halt, stand!” I do not know what the reader would have done, but
I—well, I obey the gruff voice. I am informed that no man is allowed
to set foot on Ottoman soil without legal papers from his native
country. Whereupon, I draw from my pocket a passport. The officer
admires the American eagle, but has some difficulty in reading the
document. When he comes to “_E pluribus Unum_” he stalls; and, turning
to me, he asks: “What does this mean?” I reply: “That simply indicates
my high rank and official position at home. It says I am _one among
many_.” The Turk now uncovers his head, shows his teeth, and bows.
I can say to-day, more truly than ever before, “I am a stranger in
a strange land.” I have just been out in the city. The streets are
crowded. I saw Turks, Greeks, Jews, Americans, Russians, Bulgarians,
and Slavonians, all speaking strange languages, all wearing different,
strange, and grotesque costumes, all looking and staring at me as
though I was some wild animal in Barnum’s show. Nothing can be
more strangely hideous than a tall, stoop-shouldered, long-haired,
black-eyed, copper-colored Ottoman in his native dress, if dress it may
be called. The women go with their faces veiled, their eyes being “too
pure” to look upon “Christian dogs,” as they call us.
[Illustration: CONSTANTINOPLE.]
It is Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath, so I went at noon to-day to the
“Imperial Mosque” to see the Sultan as he entered to say his prayers.
And I saw the Sultan, the man who is the husband of 500 wives, the
political ruler of the Turkish Empire, and the spiritual head of the
Mohammedan world. The ceremonies attending the Sultan’s parade to
the Mosque were conducted with an Oriental splendor that was simply
dazzling to human sight. Twenty thousand armed soldiers—horse and
foot—lined the way and surrounded the Mosque. The soldiers all wore
red caps, and they looked like a veritable sea of blood, on which
were floating thousands of gleaming bayonets and glistening sabres.
The Sultan’s approach was announced by blowing bugles, playing bands,
beating drums, and booming cannons. As the Sultan—I had almost said
as the Satan—passed, the heathen people shouted: “Kalif, Humkiar,”
“Zil-Ulla,” “Alem Penah,” which being interpreted means, “The successor
of the Prophet,” “Vicar of God, shadow of God,” “Refuge of the
world.” When I saw and heard these things, I said to myself: “I would
rather be an ass—crazy, crippled, blind, and dumb—doomed to serve
in a tread-mill for a thousand years, than to be a two-legged mass
of putrefaction, and yet adored as a god by an ignorant and corrupt
heathen people.”