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the room ; and, with the warm feelings of an Englishman, was about renewing our acquaintance, but the cold, withering look he cast upon me, and which an Oriental knows so well how to assume, was absolutely petrifying. In vain I threw out a few hints respecting the late Sultan Mahmoud, and my former travels in Turkey; he still maintained the same imperturbable expression, as if we had never met before. After partaking of coffee and the tehibouque, the usual entertainment of the traveller in Orient, we rose to take leave, which gave rise to a most amusing and characteristic scene of Turkish manners. His Highness the Pacha, evidently apprized of our intended visit, had invited the dignitaries of his church, together with the principal civil and military officers of his household, who now, with all the gravity peculiar to this people, were seated in profound silence on an elevated divan around the apartment smoking their highly-ornamented tohibouques — the bowls of which, resting on the carpet in every direction, rendered it a matter of no small difficulty for an unpractised stranger to thread his way across the room without crushing one at every step. As an old traveller, having learned caution on former similar occasions, I succeeded in making my retreat without doing any injury; but my friend, this being his début into Oriental society, was somewhat over-anxious to exhibit that politeness for which his nation is justly celebrated—he, therefore, on rising to depart, bowed to the Pacha and the assembly with great ease and elegance, at the same time, stepping backwards, smash went one of the pipe-bowls. With a suppressed sacré at his own awkwardness, and turning quickly round to the owner, he exclaimed: “Oh Monsieur, je vous demande mille pardons !” when, alas ! the crush of another bowl was echoed by another sacré, and stepping backward with still greater alacrity to reiterate the apology—must I confess that another, and another bowl fell a sacrifice. Mortified and confused beyond measure at his maladroit evolutions, our bewildered friend completely lost his self-possession, and reckless of all consequences, made a hasty retreat, crushing bowl after bowl in his passage to the door. However greatly my risibility might have been excited by the unsuccessful attempt of my friend to impress the grave Osmanli with an idea of Parisian elegance of manners, the most amusing part of the scene was the unbounded and even uproarious hilarity of those usually serious and reserved believers in the True Prophet. Countenances, whose chilling solemnity appeared incapable of being thawed, even into a smile, were now convulsed with laughter. Turkish gravity seemed to have been completely demolished with the pipe-bowls, and while the shaking sides of the fat Moullah, and the tear-streaming eyes of his Highness the Pacha, proclaimed how thoroughly they enjoyed the drollery of the scene at one end of the apartment, the well-trained and statue-like ji's at the other, caught the contagion, and joined in the merry chorus as loudly as their superiors
merriment which shook the walls of the reception-room,
accompany me, at least, during my tour in Servia; but since he was no linguist, he engaged, as his servant, a German of Belgrade, who spoke Slavonian and a little French.
There are two ways of travelling in Servia, either by post-à-cheval, or with a kiraidji. The first is the most expeditious, but my object being to see the country, and stop where I pleased, I chose the latter; besides, I had the advantage of having at my disposal a man who thoroughly knew the country, and could also perform the offices of attendant.
For this purpose, a Servian kiraidji was recommended to us named Tjordji (Georgy), who was the owner of several horses, and had been accustomed to traverse every part of European Turkey, transporting merchandize. We easily came to an arrangement, as he, no doubt, found travellers a more profitable burden for his horses than bales of goods: we engaged to pay him twenty Turkish piastres a-day for each horse, including every expense.
First day's journey in Servia—Miseries of the han—Sketches of the inhabitants—Their villages and hamlets—Aspect of the country—Arrival at Hassan-Pacha-Palanka—How to procure a supper—A characteristic scene—Anecdotes of the Servian War of Independence—Prince Milosh and Tzerni George— Intrigues of Russia in Servia—Tragical death of Tzerni George —Traits characteristic of the Servians—Servian war-song.
At break of day we were aroused from our slumbers by a loud cry, in the Servian language, “Haidé! haidé! Gospodin"—the equivalent to en route. On descending into the court-yard of the inn, we found our horses saddled, bridled and loaded, with all the indispensable appendages to a tour in European Turkey. There were bags to hold our provender, saucepans for cooking, leather bottles for wine and raki, a long pouch for carrying the tehibouque, and a heap of sheepskins thrown over the wooden saddle, to which was attached our bourkas, cloaks, tartans and carpets for sleeping On.