Nicopolis, where King Sigismund of Hungary was vanquished by Sultan Bajazet, by whose victory the Balkan States became subject to the Porte. Here there was fierce fighting in 1810, and again in 1877, for the road to the Pass of Plevna starts from here. Here at Nicopolis are the ruins, underground, of one of the earliest Christian churches, but its history is quite unknown.
Recent times have witnessed the rise of Bulgaria from the status of an Ottoman province to that of an independent kingdom, strong, prosperous, and determined. And on its southern frontier, and from the banks of the Struma to the Black Sea shore, the armed forces of Bulgaria strained at the leash, their eager gaze towards Constantinople, Tsarigrad, the Castle of Cæsar.
Among those whose eager eyes turned ever towards the south is one (I hope he still lives) for whom I have the friendliest feelings. His name is Dedo ’Mitri, and I venture to describe a visit I paid to that worthy.
Like Bill Sloggins of song, Dedo ’Mitri is “a party as you don’t meet every day.” The continuation of the verse applies equally:
“He’s always hale and hearty,
And he’s cheerful in his way.”
In itself this condition is a matter for no great wonderment, but you must know that Dedo ’Mitri has reached the age at which it cannot be said of many that they are always hale and hearty. Many do not travel as far along life’s journey as Dedo ’Mitri has done; he was well on in the eighties when I met him a year or two ago. This, of course, accounts for his being called “Dedo ’Mitri,” which, being interpreted, meaneth “Grandfather Dimitri.” The fact of Dimitri being abbreviated to ’Mitri speaks of his popularity. Several circumstances go towards the making of Dedo ’Mitri’s popularity. His age, of course, has something to do with it, his cheerfulness still more, and his position adds to his popularity—he keeps the largest of the two inns in the village, keeps the only inn that really counts for anything. Probably the most important ingredient of the recipe for Dedo ’Mitri’s popularity is his past—he is an ex-comitadji.
To have been a comitadji is indeed a matter of great distinction in those countries south of the Balkans. There it is that Dedo ’Mitri lives and has his being, there, among the Rhodope Mountains, along which runs the frontier between Bulgaria and Turkey. Dedo ’Mitri is a Bulgarian, a splendid specimen of a fine race.
For his country’s sake Dedo ’Mitri endured untold hardships, and committed deeds desperate and daring, deeds that perhaps send their phantoms crowding round his couch o’ nights. Perhaps! though to all appearances Dedo ’Mitri’s looks do not suggest nights spent with the spectre Remorse. He, like other fighters for a country’s liberties, may rather glory in what he has done, though of this again no word escapes him. There are others in the village ready to tell you of his exploits.