Having great things before us to-day, we once more shake off dull sloth and early rise. During the night we had passed not only Belgrade and Semendria, but an ancient Turkish fortress and many other places of interest, all of which we were sorry to miss; but even the most enthusiastic of travellers cannot always keep awake.

Going out on deck, we find we are passing a long island, clothed with dense vegetation of fairest green, feathering down to the water’s edge.

“How exactly this portion of our great Duna (Danube) resembles the Mississippi, which I visited last year!” exclaimed the Count—the only passenger as yet on deck, and who coming forward greeted us with a pleasant smile. “There is nothing wanting to complete the resemblance. No! not even the canoe—for see that strange savage-looking fellow yonder, paddling himself about in that small sandy creek—his boat the hollowed-out trunk of a tree! And those ‘snags,’ too, lying half-out in mid-stream. How like all is to the mightier river of the New World!”

The island itself is full of wild-fowl—a “whir-r-r!” and away go a large flock skimming through the air, their white wings gleaming like silver in the morning light; whilst here and there web-footed “water-ravens,” about the size of a small goose, are still seen roosting on the trees or standing on sandy promontories watching for fish.

The cold is intense, the climate having altered strangely since yesterday, when even before sunrise it was warm and pleasant. Yet the river’s course has been taking us steadily southwards since leaving Pest.

“We are approaching the jaws of the defile,” said the captain, who, just then appearing on deck, observed me drawing my large “cloud” around me. “The wind is always rough there, even on the hottest day, no matter how calm it is elsewhere, and it will blow very hard to-day, for we can feel it even here.”

We had lost the greater number of our fellow-passengers, for they left us at Semlin and Belgrade. The Turkish family, however, are still with us, together with the young Bosniak, who, by the way, has been joined by a brother. Both are resplendent in crimson satin waistcoats covered with silver chains and various kinds of ornaments, and they look very handsome as they pace the deck in their beautiful sable-lined cloaks and broad fur collars. There are several Hungarians who have also remained on board, including the testy old gentleman, who hospitably insists on our being his guests at breakfast this morning. That meal, however, is very hastily partaken of on this occasion, for there are too many things of interest to be seen on deck to admit of the most prosaic person lingering in the saloon longer than is absolutely necessary.

There are three sets of steamers on the Danube, and we are fearing lest we may have to leave this one at Drenkova, on account of the lowness of the water. At some seasons the navigation of the Lower Danube is very dangerous, except for the smallest steamers; the narrow channels between the reefs, which in some places stretch across the whole breadth of the river and rise above its surface like alligators’ teeth, containing scarcely more than eighteen inches of water.

Attempts have been made to remove these obstructions by blasting the highest of the reefs, but with ill success. They principally consist of a hard micaceous slate, which is very difficult to blast; and even the little flat-bottomed barges which are made expressly for the shallows, striking on the edges of these pointed rocks, are often sunk or broken to pieces. The most dangerous of these rapids, or Cataracten as they are called here, lies below Drenkova, where the reefs create a fall of eight feet. Across these the native boatmen dash heedlessly without steering, shutting their eyes to the danger, and appealing for protection either to Allah or the Virgin, according as their religion may dictate; their craft, however, not unfrequently coming to hopeless grief notwithstanding, whilst they occasionally lose their own lives as well.

Having passed the island of Moldova, curious sandhills appear in sight. They are almost destitute of verdure, a tuft of grass here and there being the only vegetation seen upon them, and appear in fact to be formed of loose sand drifted hither by the wind. Yet these small and insignificant hillocks are in truth none other than the beginnings of the South-Eastern Carpathians, which soon enclose us on either side.

At Moldova, a military frontier-post, the river widens considerably, and wears all the appearance of a beautiful lake, whose sandy shores, crimson in the rising sun, are backed by golden and purple mountains, veiled partially in the morning mist. As we proceed, however, we soon discern a narrow cleft in the high rocks through which the river forces its way. Through this narrow defile the wind tears madly, as if to defy our entrance.

The pent-up waters are now covered with innumerable waves, as, flowing over reefs which lie only a few feet below the surface, eddies and whirlpools are formed which cause the steamer to rock from side to side. But this is by no means one of the really formidable portions of the Pass, and is but a small obstacle to the navigation of the river compared with those which we have to encounter farther on.

The scene which now presents itself to our view is surely one of the most magnificent in the world. On either side are lofty crags, which rise precipitously out of the raging waters. On the topmost crest of that to the left stands the ruined stronghold of a robber-knight, now abandoned to eagles; whilst a little lower down, on the right bank, crowning the summit of an almost inaccessible rock—the two having once held the keys of the Pass—stand the splendid but crumbling ruins of the feudal castle of Golumbacz, with its nine towers and battlemented walls dominating the river. Its name is said to be a corruption of “Columba” (the castle of the Dove), for it was here that the Greek Princess Helena was imprisoned.

This splendid ruin—called in Turkish Gögerdschnik— which was besieged by King Sigismund and afterwards taken from the Turks by Matthias Corvinus, is built on the site of an ancient Roman castrum, many historical events being recorded in connection with its imposing towers, seven of which are still in good preservation.

Projecting about eighteen or twenty feet above the boiling stream, we now come in sight of a singularly-shaped solitary rock, called “Babacaj,” a word said to mean in the Turkish language “Repent,” and to which tradition assigns a strange history. For here—so runs the legend—a ruffianly Beh, seized with jealousy, brought his young bride, and having landed her on the rock, rowed away, and left her to starve and die, answering her piteous cries with “Babacaj! babacaj!” (Repent! repent!) And the shepherds watching their flocks on the summit of these mountain heights tell how in the “stilly nights” her voice reaches them above the restless wave, and how also on stormy ones, as the water dashes over the rock, piercing screams come echoing up the gorge.

As we approach the rock “Babacaj,” a vulture perched conspicuously on its summit, solemnly regarding the surrounding scene, rose suddenly, and with a great flapping of wings, which measured fully seven or eight feet across, flew to his eyrie in a mountain crest on the opposite side of the gorge. These rocky precipices, perforated with clefts and fissures, are the abode of numerous vultures of a large species, as well as eagles.

The largest of these fissures is called “the cavern of Golumbacz,” on account of its proximity to the ruined castle of that name, and was pointed out to us by a credulous Magyar as being the veritable cave in which St. George slew the Dragon, whose carcase—so tradition adds—still in process of decay, gives birth to innumerable “Mord-mücken” (murder-flies)—a very venomous species of gnat, known to naturalists as the Furia infernalis. However much the former part of the tradition concerning their origin may be regarded as a myth, there is no doubt that these terrible little pests do really inhabit this cave. During the months of June and July they pour forth like a living cloud, and are the terror of the shepherds and herdsmen on the heights of the Danube, who light large fires of green wood by night to protect themselves and their flocks from the ravages of these insects, which often prove fatal in a few hours even to horses and buffalo, and which, attacking the eyes, nostrils, ears and throat, create suffocation from the swelling caused by the poison of their sting.

In vain the peasants have endeavoured to wall up the cavern; these poisonous gnats only force their way through other fissures. They are, however, scarcely likely to have any real connection with the cavern, and are doubtless bred in the marshes and swamps of the Danube, taking refuge in these rocks during the frosty weather, collecting into huge societies, and then pouring forth when the ice melts and the summer heat begins.

After passing the first rapids, we find ourselves in calm waters. Looking back, the scene is perfectly sublime, and the Danube, hemmed in on all sides, as at Moldova, with precipitous mountains, once more wears the appearance of a lake, whilst here and there the windings of the shallow shore, showing black against the lofty crags, and cutting into their reflections with horizontal lines, create a picture the splendour of which it is impossible to describe. Beautiful as are the defiles of the Rhine between Bingen and Coblenz, they are but a mere toy compared with those of the Lower Danube.

To the right, about half a mile below Golumbacz, are the ruins of the Roman fort Gradisca, the first visible tracings of the Via Trajana, while on the left or Hungarian bank of the river we now trace the magnificent modern road which was constructed by the Hungarian Government at the instance of its great patriot Count Szechenyi, whose name it bears, and to whom the navigation of the river, and many of the public works in Hungary, are due. This roadway is formed in some places—where the rocks, rising sheer out of the water, admitted of no pathway—of vast galleries which pierce the mountains; whilst in others, the road being carried along the outside of the rock, it is widened by terraces of masonry.

Passing beneath one of these terraces, we see three figures wending their way along, the only signs of life we have observed on the banks to-day. They are Wallachian women, dressed in bright-coloured garments, with blue and red scarves wound round their heads like turbans, and contrasting very picturesquely with the sombre grey and brown tints of the surrounding rocks. They are driving a herd of yellow long-haired swine, but the whole procession looks so small as it skirts the giant ramparts, that they appear like tiny figures in a Noah’s-ark.

We are now approaching another defile, and the wind blowing fiercely, as through the last, again defies our entrance.

The captain having kindly offered me his place, a snug little corner on the quarter-deck, strongly framed-in with canvas walls and overlooking the forecastle and bows, I not only had an uninterrupted view of all around me, but, up to my shoulders at any rate, was well protected from the fury of the wind. But for this circumstance I doubt whether I should have been able to remain on deck. Looking behind me for an instant, I see F. and the other gentlemen staggering as they try to maintain their equilibrium, whilst below me, crouching in the forecastle, whither they have gone for shelter, are our Bosnian brothers, muffled up in cloaks and fur-lined hoods, the picture of abject misery, if not despair.

Borne onwards by the swift current, we now approach the second defile at a pace that makes one giddy, the rate at which the steamer takes us being no doubt greatly exaggerated to our senses by the close proximity and height of the stupendous mountain buttresses which hem us in on either side. The wind blows against us with a deafening noise, and almost stuns us.

It is impossible to remain any longer standing, and I am obliged to sit down and hold on tightly; whilst the gentlemen’s voices shouting to me from the deck to look, now on this side, now on that, as object after object of peculiar interest and beauty, and the stupendous bastions of rugged rock, unfold in rapid succession, seem like voices far away. I cannot hear, but the captain, leaving his position on the other side of the vessel and coming to the place where I am enclosed, interprets for them, and bids me turn my eyes to the left, for we are passing a series of Roman fortifications; and then, fastening my wraps more securely round me, tells me that the wind always blows fiercely always up this gorge, though not usually so madly as to-day. And now, rounding a rocky rampart which rises perpendicularly out of the water, the cataracts of Islaez and Tachtalia come in sight, two sister reefs consisting of hard porphyry, which, stretching across the river like dams, extend for a mile and a half. Here and there, piercing through the surface, are pointed rocks, round which the water rushing fiercely makes innumerable eddies, till we at length reach the monster whirlpool that so often proves fatal to small craft ascending or descending the river. Near it rises a fragment of rock called “the Buffalo,” beyond which long lines of white-crested breakers are seen stretching across the whole width of the river. Holding our breath, we pass by a mere shave through a narrow channel in the reef, more dangerous on account of its eddies and whirlpools than even the reefs themselves. We no longer steam: the current of the river bearing us along, whilst the captain stands on the bridge looking down anxiously on the boiling, seething mass.

Navigation is fraught with the greatest danger to small vessels when the water is low. At such times also passengers are transferred from the steamers to peculiar flat-bottomed boats, constructed especially for this part of the river, which is then not navigable for boats drawing more than a minimum of water.

The Romans, alive to the serious obstacles which these rocks presented, constructed a canal here, remains of which are still said to exist.

As soon as we have safely descended the rapids and doubled a sharp promontory, the river begins to expand until it again attains the proportions almost of an inland sea; when it again becomes contracted, and we approach the formidable and perilous passage of the “Greben,” in the centre of whose reefs stands ominously an iron cross to warn boatmen of the dangerous Pass which has wrecked so many vessels.

We have now crossed three of the great rapids, or Cataracten, of the Danube, with their tremendous breakers and currents, doing so in one instance through a gap only twenty yards broad and twenty-four inches deep. Over some of these weirs the steamer rocked as in a storm at sea, as it struggled against the eddies which, formed by the rocks beneath the surface, were driven back against the current.

The river, freed from its present difficulties, now leaps forth exultant into a broad channel, like a monster released from bondage, and spreading out its arms embraces the Servian island of Porecz, where a Greek church has been erected, and above which rise bluff escarpments and walls of rock containing cracks and rents like loopholes of a Cyclopean citadel, and beneath which our steamer seems dwarfed to a mere speck upon the waters.

At this point commences a line of Roman fortifications, which with little interruption form conspicuous objects on the left bank of the river for twenty miles, until, indeed, we reach the magnificent ruin of Tricule, with its triple-towered castle, one of the most beautiful of Roman antiquities.

Immediately after passing this castle, we arrive at another imposing spectacle of the mighty Danube. Already the majestic limestone crags flanking its threshold are in sight; and we soon steam beneath one of the most glorious monuments of nature’s architecture—the “Sterbeczu Almare,” or “huge bastion of the Danube”—rocks which rear their summits almost perpendicularly to a height of over two thousand feet from the water’s brink. Beneath the rocks the narrow channel of the river, suddenly cramped to its smallest dimensions, rushes with a deafening roar, and, rolling its waves over its rocky bed with a noise like thunder, lashes the rugged sides of its obstructing enemies with furious spray. This is none other than the celebrated Kazan Pass; a defile so narrow, notwithstanding the depth of the river—200 feet at this point—that, as our pigmy steamer takes us through it, we tremble lest it should get foul of the rocks on one side or the other. And if this river presents such a wild and savage scene now, in its stately summer grandeur, what must it be in winter, when it becomes a mass of floating ice through which the narrow storm-tossed channel has to force its way! How wonderful and terrific must then be its aspect, as bearing down on its current huge boulders of ice, they knock and crash against each other, and then, hurling against the rocks, grind themselves to powder!

At the termination of this last defile, and nearly vis-à-vis to the little village of Old Gradina, we arrive at Trajan’s Tafel, another interesting monument commemorative of the achievements of the Emperor whose name it bears, consisting of a tablet hewn in the solid rock, on which are inscribed his titles, together with the names of the legions and their cohorts by whom the road was constructed.

This tablet, which stands on a niche sloping outwards from the vertical, is supported by winged genii and dolphins, the whole being surmounted by the Roman eagle.

As we passed, a man standing in a clumsy kind of canoe was impelling himself by a pole close under the tablet, whilst another wild-looking fellow was sitting in the niche cooking his mid-day meal.

At this point on the Servian side the rocks manifest very singular serpentine stratification—like metal that had twisted in the act of cooling. On the same side, too, we once more see tracings of the ancient Roman road, which, situated about ten feet above the river, extend for a considerable distance. They consist of a perfectly horizontal ridge, varying from two to four feet in width, beneath which, as previously observed higher up the river, are a number of square holes or sockets, placed at regular intervals, believed to have been made to support beams by means of which the narrow path was widened by a wooden platform which overhung the stream. In a climate like this, which is subject to such severe alternations of cold and heat—frosts Arctic in their rigour and heat little short of tropical—it is marvellous that these ancient memorials should not ere this have been either defaced and concealed, by Time’s obliterating mantle, or have crumbled beneath his tread; but there they are, as fresh as if the Roman workman had just left his hammer and chisel and would return to continue his work on the morrow; whilst in places where the rocky escarpment was cut to form the pathway, the stone is as white as if laid bare but yesterday, and its edge as sharp and angular as when first completed.

Continuing our steam down the river, we meet for the first time with true specimens of Wallachian villages, with which, at a later period, we were destined to become so familiar in our travels through Transylvania.

We descended the Danube thus far for the purpose of steaming through the renowned “Iron Grate Pass,” about twenty miles below Orsova; but, although it is said to be the most dangerous and formidable of all the rapids of the river, having two distinct falls of eight feet, which at low water form themselves into foaming cataracts and over which the water falls perpendicularly, yet the scenery is comparatively tame. In the place of rugged and scarped precipices rising to a height of from 1500 to 2000 feet, and hanging over the mighty stream like impending Titans, the mountains slope landwards, receding from the water’s edge. It is grand, however; and the little steamer, as it threads its dangerous passage between the rocks, sways from side to side.

But at last the splendid Danube, having lashed itself into weariness over the reefs which extending for a mile constitute that portion of it known as the “Iron Gate Pass,” widens considerably, and flows on henceforth with calm and dignified demeanour, till, having fulfilled its noble career, it loses itself at last in the Black Sea.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

Transcriber’s Notes:

1. Obvious printers’, punctuation and spelling errors have been corrected silently.