The dress of the hamal is peculiar, and he has a hard cushion slung by straps over his shoulder and resting just above the hips. {72}I have seen one of these fellows carry a load that would be sufficient for a one horse dray in New-York; I have seen another carry a bale of goods said to weigh three hundred and fifty pounds; and I have seen another carry my trunk, my friend’s trunk, and another friend’s trunk, all at once, from a hotel to a steamboat landing, where the respective weights ascertained on the company’s scales were seventy pounds, one hundred and fifty pounds, and one hundred and forty-five pounds, or three hundred and sixty-five pounds in all!
The harnals walk at a dignified pace—you could hardly expect them to run—they look healthy, but either the work is not salubrious or the gods love them, as they die young.
We followed the porters up the hill to the Hotel de Paris, and as soon as we had settled into our rooms and looked through the house we sauntered out to see the city.
In front of the hotel is a public square with a fountain, where people fill water jars or idle away a sunny afternoon. Belgrade is a sort of meeting-place of the Occident and the Orient; the costumes of the lower classes are Oriental, and those of the richer inhabitants were likewise Oriental until within the past ten or twenty years. In the strides which Servia has made towards an existence independent of Turkey, she has looked leaningly and lovingly toward the West and put on some of its customs and habits. Thus you see the lower classes wearing the baggy breeches, the loose jacket, and the red cap of Turkey, while the well-to-do citizen dresses in coats, and vests, and trowsers from the slopshops of Vienna and Paris. He is proud to be thus appareled, though his clothes fit him like ready-made garments everywhere, only a little more so, and he feels not altogether comfortable in them and sometimes sighs for the garments of his youth. There is a good deal of dignity about the Servians of all classes, and you might explode a fire-cracker in the ear of one of them without getting him to move with any rapidity.
We took a short walk to the fortress of Belgrade—a fortress that has made a great deal of noise in the world and has been a bony bone of contention for several centuries. In the fifteenth century it was accounted one of the first citadels in Europe, and in 1521 it was taken by the Turks. Since then it has been captured no less than eight times, and it has been twice transferred by reason of treaties. It is a powerful fortress, even against the artillery of to-day, and occupies a commanding position on a promontory jutting out between the Danube and the Save.
The view from the esplanade is one of the finest on the Danube, and embraces a wide range. Northward stretches the broad plain of Hungary; to the West is the Save and its fertile valleys; in the south there is a landscape of river, plain, and mountain; and at our feet lies the flowing Danube rolling away towards the Draw Gate and the dark waters of the Euxine. The fort encloses a pretty garden and miniature park, and a house where once lived the Turkish pasha. By the side of the house there is a mosque rapidly going to ruin, as also are many parts of the fortress. A crowd of forçats in chains and guarded by half a dozen soldiers, are at work on the bridge which leads across the moat; they make way for us to pass, and the soldiers of the guard honor us with a salute.
From the fortress we drove through the town and out upon a macadamized road to Topchidere, or Valley of the Artillerists. It is nearly two miles from Belgrade to Topchidere, but the view is well worth the journey. There is a pretty park and garden covering quite an extent of ground; trees are arranged in rows, in circles, and in other ways, according to the fancy of the gardener; there are fountains and shaded walks, carriage and bridle paths, and there are numerous and easy seats where one may rest when he is weary. In the centre of the park is the house inhabited by Miloch Obrenovitch, Prince of Servia, who died in 1860, and was deeply and justly mourned.