In spite of the night spent on—and in—the black waters of the Bosporus, when I think of Constantinople, it is not of this—not of its filthy streets nor its thousands of pariah dogs, not of their howls nor the well nigh unbearable din of bells and yells—but of my first view of a phantom-like city, seated on seven hills, the sides covered with many-colored roofs which slope down to a long white kiosk, of minarets, of mosques with slender spires, and of one tall sentinel cypress tree in the foreground, all seen through the haze of dawn over Marmora's blue waters.
HUNGARY
The world's best garden.
Shakspere,
Henry V., Epilogue.
BUDAPEST:
The Oriental Express was thundering around the Balkan Mountains in Bulgaria on its long run between Constantinople and Budapest, when suddenly, with a succession of sharp jerks, the train came to a stop.
Before we could reach the windows, above the babel was heard: "An avalanche! An avalanche! The torrent's burst!" And with the throng of people at the foot of the mountain, it was enough to strike terror to the stoutest heart.
Immediately came a guard to explain that the long tunnel had caved in and that it would be necessary for us to walk across the mountain through which the tunnel was cut that we might take the train on the other side. The people from that train had walked over the pass to take our places, and the peasants who had carried their luggage were waiting to take ours back.