CHAPTER XIV

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 jutsout 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.

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 thewaves, 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 thispoint, 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.

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 itpasses 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

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·GERMPONTIF·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 oldRoman 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.

REMAINS OF TRAJAN’S ROAD NEAR ORSOVA

Like all frontier towns, Orsova has a heterogeneous population, which gives interest to an otherwise dull and unattractiveplace. 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.

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 endedhere 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 centuryB.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 worddanu, 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 theГОСТИОНИЦА 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

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, drawing a cartridge from his pouch, showed it to us, and pushed it into his rifle. Just at this moment the soldier whom we had seen running along the shore came up breathless, and took command of the military force, promptly ordering the sentry to cover us with his rifle, until the bathing soldiers might seize our canoes. We held off for a few moments, just out of reach, and then, thinking the farce had gone far enough, went ashore and surrendered ourselves to the corporal, the sentry, and the dozen half-naked soldiers. Armed with two expensive and hitherto useless passports, we followed the corporal a long distance into the town to the headquarters, showed our papers to the officer of the day, who immediately gave us our liberty, with polite apologies for the annoyance his men had caused us. When we reached the canoes again, we distributed cigarettes to the bathing party who had guarded our fleet, and sent a few up the bank to the belligerent sentinel, who did not scorn the gift from his recent enemy. A little Jew boy standing near, not having received his share of the cigarettes, remarked, with some feeling and unconscious humor, “If the sentinel had fired at you, I suppose you’d have given him cigars!”

Floating down a great loop of the river in a dry and yellow landscape, we recovered from the excitement of our first adventure with the military, and, as we went along, watched the chattering Servians harvesting on one shore, and the Roumanian women, in the simple costume of white linen chemise, and long woollen fringe hanging behind from the girdle which binds a brilliantly colored apron to the waist, drawing water in classic-shaped jars, or spinning

ROUMANIAN PEASANTS

from the distaff as they walked. Now and then groups of men so resembling the old Dacians, with loose tunic and trousers, sandals, broad belt, and sheepskin cap, that they almost looked like masqueraders, wandered over the arid slopes, spots of brilliant white on a background of sunny yellow. Even the soldiers we saw at the little huts which now stood on the bank at frequent intervals, were as barbaric in appearance as the peasant, and could only be recognized as military by the accoutrements they carried. Along one placid reach we came upon a great fleet of dugout canoes, each with two Servians, floating down with the current, dragging clumsy nets as they went. Landing below the little village, whose red-tiled roofs peeped out from among thick foliage, they drew in their nets, towed their boats up against the stream, and, chattering all the while with incessant vigor, drifted down again as before. Almost the only houses to be seen on the Roumanian shore werethe huts of the pickets, which occupied every point, and guarded every possible landing-place. We realized the fact but slowly, and only after some experience, that we were now under the eye of military supervision, from which we were not to escape until we should paddle out into the Black Sea.

SERVIAN FISHING-CANOES

AT noon of the day following our introduction to the system of keeping the frontier in Roumania, we heard the sound of rifle-firing and the beating of drums in the Servian village of Brza Palanka, and, on landing there, found the place in the liveliest commotion. Scores of men and women were filling gourds at the wells, and hurrying away up the hill-side back of the town. Besides the burden of water, most of the women and a great crowd of children were carrying baskets of bread and cooked food, and kerchiefs full of grapes. The hot and dusty streets were alive with peasants, mostly in white linen garments, with brilliant red sashes on the men, and richly colored aprons on the women. Both sexes wore very clumsy sandals and heavy woollen socks, or leg-wrappings, bound to the ankle by thongs. While we were wondering at the extraordinary activity of the village, we heard the beat of a drum coming nearer and nearer, and soon a militia company of the wildest-looking men who ever carried a rifle came marching up at quick pace, and wheeling into a narrow lane, tramped along in a cloud of dust, and disappeared over the brow of the hill. Another and then another company, each more savage-looking than the last, went through the same manœuvres, and the whole population followed them, we among the rest. When we came out on the hill-top we saw before us the strangest and most barbaric encampment imaginable. The broad, arid plateauwas covered with shelters or great huts made of oak-boughs, ranged around in a sort of quadrangle, enclosing a level space of twenty-five or thirty acres. In the shadows of these rude shelters were seated hundreds of men eating their mid-day meal, which was brought to them by the women and children, who, after the men were served, squatted on the dry turf a little distance away, and ate their own frugal dinner. Across the great parade-ground were two long heaps of straw in parallel lines, which were evidently the beds of the men at night. We understood, of course, that we were in the annual camp of the Servian militia, and were not surprised that our appearance caused some little interest and curiosity, as we were the only ones in European dress anywhere in sight. Besides, our costume would doubtless have excited comment anywhere, for Danube mud had so changed its tone, and hard usage had so distorted its shape, that it was now decidedly unique in general appearance. The camp guard halted us, and inquired our business, which we, for want of a better answer, stated to be a visit to the captain, trusting to the probability of there being a number of officers of this rank. The guard seemed perfectly satisfied with our reply, and did not even ask which captain we wanted to see, but let us pass at once. We made the same explanation to various inquisitive militiamen, who seemed to resent our sketching, and we slowly made our way into the enclosure. We had eaten nothing since sunrise, and had paddled twenty miles or more, therefore, after our first curiosity was satisfied, we thought we had better return to the village for luncheon, and come back again to see the afternoon drill. But the moment we began to move away, the suspicions of the whole camp were aroused at once, and from all sides came a chorus of shouts and cries in what seemed to us very violent and angry tones. In another instant we were the centre of an excited

CARRYING WATER FOR THE CAMP, BRZA PLANKA

throng of fierce-looking rascals all armed with knives, and several of them with rifles and bayonets. Explanations were now futile, and, indeed, quite impossible, for our small stock of Servian words was soon exhausted, and, after making several attempts to push past the men who blocked our path, we finally yielded, and were marched off to the hut which was apparently the headquarters. Here we found two officers of the regular army, a captain and a lieutenant, who had charge of the encampment, the former being, as we now understood, the only captain in the camp, and therefore the one whom we had declared we were about to visit.

“OUR GUARD,” SERVIAN MILITIA CAMP

The officers were naturally astonished at seeing two men in boating dress appear at the door of their hut, for the militiamen stood off at a respectful distance and sent us ahead to announce ourselves; however, they received us with great courtesy, gave us the only two chairs they had, and tried to conceal their bewilderment by urgent offers of hospitality. We produced our passports, displayed the great water-mark of the eagle and shield and the arms of the British Empire, and made ourselves as agreeable as possible, all the while wondering what was going to be the result of the interview. They seemed to be in no great hurry to get rid of us, and were evidently puzzled what to do with us anyhow; for there could be no question of the validity of our credentials, and they undoubtedly had received no orders to cover this unexpected episode. The difficulty lay in our inability to explain our business; for although we could understand the greater part of what they said, from the resemblance of the language to Russian, we had a very limited stock of Servian words to use in this emergency. Even if we had successfully managed the philological feat of explaining the object of our trip in comprehensible Servian, we should have found the same difficulty here as at every other place since the beginning of our voyage in convincing them that we were engaged in no commercial enterprise, but were simply on a pleasure excursion. The captain sent men in various directions to find some one who spoke German or Hungarian, and at last a gypsy was brought who was supposed to be a linguist. His German was limited to one phrase, “Was wollen Sie?” and not a word of Hungarian did he know, so he was promptly kicked out again. While they were scouring the camp for another interpreter, it suddenly occurred to us to say we were engineers, believing that this must be a recognized profession along the Danube. The word “Ingenieur” acted like a charm. The captain immediately apologized for his stupidity in not understanding our position sooner, and called a guard to conduct us safely to the lines, saying that he could not let us remain in the camp, for the orders were against it; besides, there would be nothing to see, for the soldiers were going to have their after-dinner nap, and the parade would not take place until evening. We shook hands cordially with both officers, and followed the brawny chested peasant towards the road to the village. As we marched across the parade-ground we could not resist the

MASSING OF SERVIAN TROOPS ON THE BULGARIAN FRONTIER

temptation to make a little note of the encampment in our sketch-books, but before we could draw a line an excited party of soldiers rushed towards us, the leader brandishing a long knife. It was evident they had all the Oriental fearand aversion to being sketched, and we saw they were disposed to make it unpleasant for us. We promptly put away our books, and one of us, drawing a penknife from his pocket, deliberately opened the smallest blade and flourished it in the air as if in a mocking challenge to the giant with the long dagger. The ridiculous situation was appreciated in an instant; the whole crowd stopped shouting to laugh; the weapons were put up, and peace was declared on the basis of mutual mirth. Once beyond the camp lines we did not attempt to enter again, but waved our adieus from the canoes as we floated off.

Our adventure had been a most interesting one, and the result had not been disagreeable. We could not help thinking that these people were very little understood by those correspondents who are continually fermenting the Eastern question and making it a nauseous topic of ignorant discussion in the Press of the civilized world. Such an encampment, we thought, would be sure to be described as a massing of Servian troops near the Bulgarian frontier, and a similar experience to ours would furnish text for interminable letters on the belligerent character of the people of the Balkan provinces. For our part we could readily picture the excitement in an encampment of militia in the United States or of volunteers in England if two Servians, in native costume and carrying sketch-books, should succeed in penetrating the lines, unable to excuse or explain their presence. It is curious to note that a few days after our visit to the camp we saw an English newspaper, and almost the first paragraph we observed in the column of telegraphic news was headed, “Massing of Servian Troops on the Bulgarian Frontier.”

We did not care to come in contact with the military any more, for the reason that, now the novelty was worn off, we should scarcely find future experiences interesting enough

DRAWING WATER FOR THE CAMP, BRZA PALANKA

to compensate us for the great loss of time which they were sure to involve. But we were not far beyond the sound of drums at Brza Palanka before we unwittingly fell into a Roumanian trap by drifting, as we sketched, too near that shore. A hail from the water’s edge caused us to look up, and we saw three men, dressed like ordinary peasants, as well as we could judge, beckoning us to come ashore. Thinking they had fish or some other desirable commodity to sell, we paddled nearer, intending to land just below. As we came up to them we saw they wore military belts, and at the same time we noticed a hut like those at other picket posts under a tree on the bluff above. Our first impulse was to turn our bows down-stream and paddle away, but, on the first move we made to escape, one of the men ran up to the hut, appeared instantly again with rifle and cartridge-boxes, and proceeded to go through significant exercises in the Roumanian manual of arms. We were rather tired of this game, and surrendered with bad enough grace. The soldiers, however, were ready enough to discontinue hostilities the moment they met us on the shore; the corporal examined our passports, declared them all right, and, with the present of the silver effigy of King Charles of Roumania, we stifled effectively what little enmity still lurked under their coarse linen tunics, and paddled away, friends all round. Notwithstanding our efforts, we had not by any means finished with the military yet, for, as darkness came on, and we tried to find a camp-ground, we could discover no practicable place on the Servian side, nor escape the pickets on the opposite bank. At last we decided to make a counter-move against the enemy, and boldly landed and stalked up to a group of pickets before they had time to run for their one rifle, and asked for guidance to a good camping-ground. They advised us to stay where we were, and avoid difficulties with the postsbelow in the darkness, so we hauled up the canoes close by their shallow well, where the Danube water filtered in through the sand, and soon forgot soldiers and passports and the Eastern question.

On this part of the river villages are infrequent, uninteresting, and almost all on the Servian side. The native architecture is neither imposing nor tasteful, but the houses are comfortable, and often very neat inside and out. The frame is made of roughly hewn poles nailed or pegged together, and skilfully wattled all over with sticks about an inch in diameter, which serve to hold the mud with which all the walls and the ceilings are thickly plastered. An open porch or veranda, often occupying nearly the whole front of the house, serves as a nursery, work-room, and general sitting-room for the women in summer, and there is often a raised platform at one side, where the men sit in Turkish fashion and smoke, and drink coffee. This latter feature of native architecture is found at all country inns, and becomes an indispensable adjunct to most houses a little farther down, within the limits of former European Turkey. The Servian houses, as well as the Roumanian structures, which are built on much the same plan, are generally whitewashed, and either roofed with red tiles, or thatched with reeds or straw. Tiles are more commonly used in most parts.

The Roumanian bank had now become flat, monotonous, and apparently deserted by everybody except the pickets. For many miles we saw not even a fishing hamlet on either shore, and when, after rather a dull forenoon, we came to the great, white, straggling village of Radujeváç, on the right bank, we found it to be the last Servian river town above the Bulgarian frontier, and, fortunately for us, the most picturesque and characteristic place we had seen for days. Few shops, and those of the most primitive order, disturb the rustic simplicity of the streets. Farm-houses

SERVIAN MILITIA, BRZA PALANKA

with great court-yards enclosed by high wattled fences are half hidden among the trees on either side the broad, dusty highways, and the part of the village near the river is still surrounded by an oaken stockade eight or ten feet high, a relic of the days when such a defence was necessary.

BUILDING A HOUSE IN SERVIA

On every veranda and in every farm-yard the women sat

HOUSE AT RADUJEVÁÇ

in the shadow spinning and weaving wool, and their lively gossiping voices mingled cheerily with the clatter of the looms and the whir of the reel. Large-eyed, gray-coated oxen lay and peacefully chewed the cud at the very elbows of the women as they worked. Bright scarlet peppers and great piles of husked Indian-corn made rich splashes of color against the cool shadows of the whitewashed walls, and everywhere brilliant touches of red in the peasant costume flashed among the foliage or gleamed in the sunshine. A few idlers were assembled under the rude awning in front of the wine-shop, to drink the rank plum brandy or thin acid wine; but, with the exception of these drones of the busy hive, everybody was actively engaged in harvest-work or in some domestic manufacture. The bi-weekly Danube steamer touches at the landing at every trip up and down; freight is delivered, produce shipped and sent to some convenient market; but the little community is as far away from civilization as if steamers did not exist, and life there is still quite as primitive as in the days before the enterprising

ROUMANIAN PICKET GUARD

scouts of modern commerce began to corrupt the native taste of the peasantry with the crudities of modern productions.

In the long reaches below Radujeváç a wider landscape meets the eye. Far to the north the high Carpathians raise their noble heads in grand array, and stretch away to the eastward until their forms are lost in the shimmering distance across the Roumanian plain, while to the south the bold outlines of the Balkans may be faintly distinguished, half hidden by summer clouds. The river takes longer and more stately curves, and flows with somewhat sleepy current. No obstacles now impede its course, no cliffs and crags narrow its channel, and it winds peacefully along without a check until it pours its great flood through a dozen outlets into the Black Sea. Nor is this peaceful stream without its own peculiar charm and beauty. The sunny, smiling landscapes never tire the eye or fatigue the mind, for the majestic stream opens new vistas at every bend, and discloses ever-varied combinations of shore and stream and distance.

ON one of the pleasantest reaches, a short way below the mouth of the magnificent stream which marks the Bulgarian frontier, the Roumanian town of Kalafat, with its great church and public edifices, shows an imposing mass along a high bluff, and looks down with the conscious pride of newness on the old town and fortress of Widdin, among the green meadows on the opposite shore. From the earthworks of Kalafat, Prince Charles fired his first shot against the Turks in 1877, which found an answering echo until Bulgaria was free and Roumania became a nation. The grim old stronghold of Widdin still shelters a large Turkish population, and above the rigid lines of its half-ruined parapets the slender points of numerous minarets still rise, mute symbols of a faith that lingers even now on the banks of the Danube. It was a pleasant, quiet afternoon when we slowly paddled down the beautiful reach, enchanted by the peaceful landscape and the pastoral beauty of the river-banks. Kalafat, dominating the great bluff, was accurately reflected in the mirror of the stream, and below, the slender minarets of Widdin and a cluster of masts, showing high above a wooded island, carried the eye away in agreeable perspective. A storm of wind and rain which swept over the country an hour or two before had cleared away, leaving the sky blue and cloudless. Dreaming of the time when the smoke of hostile cannon drifted across the meadows and veiled the face of the high bluff, we floated down towards the distant fortress, scarcely moving a paddle, lest we should sweep all too soon past the charming spot. The sound of dashing water like a cataract suddenly startled us, and we saw just below us, only a short distance away, the whole surface of the river violently agitated, as if a line of rocks or a rough shallow stretched across from bank to bank. Hastily consulting the map, we found there was no such obstruction marked at this point, and we were puzzled to know what was in our path. Our ignorance was of brief duration, for even before we had taken up our paddles again a sudden gust of wind struck the canoes, and we were in the midst of tossing, angry surges. The willows on the bank bent down like corn in a summer gale, and showed their leaves all white in the sunlight. The pure dome of the sky was unbroken by a single cloud, but the wind came tearing up the stream like a cyclone. From the bluffs of Kalafat to the meadows of Widdin the great sleepy river had suddenly become a seething, foaming waste. Our only shelter was under the low mud banks on the Bulgarian side, whither we slowly fought our way, obliged to keep our bows to the wind, and at the same time to draw shorewards with all possible speed. For some moments we were buffeted by the waves and beaten about by the vicious blast, but at last we managed to gain the shelter of some large willows, and landed in the mud opposite Kalafat. We got ashore not a moment too soon, for the river, threshed by the flail of continuous gusts, grew rougher and rougher, and the waves broke with crests like ocean billows. At the spot where we landed was moored a rude fishing-boat, and two young Bulgarian fishermen sat under the trees on the bank above busily weaving rough baskets out of unpeeled willow twigs. Their camp was a bed of boughs under the gnarled, crooked trunk of a tree; their outfit

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