bawling at the top of
their voices in most villainous Castilian; all were filthy and
shabbily dressed. The agent having mentioned who I was to the group, a
broad-lipped young man with a German _mutze_ surmounting his oriental
costume, stepped forward with a confident air, and in a thick guttural
voice addressed me in an unknown tongue. I looked about for an answer,
when the agent told me in Turkish that he spoke English.

_Jew_. "You English gentleman, sir, and not know English."

_Author_. "I have to apologize for not recognizing the accents of my
native country."

_Jew_. "Bring goods wid you, sir?"

_Author_. "No, I am not a merchant. Pray can you get me a lodging?"

_Jew_. "Get you as mush room you like, sir."

_Author_. "Have you been in England?"

_Jew_. "Been in London, Amsterdam, and Hamburgh."

We now arrived at the wide folding gates of the khan, which to be sure
had abundance of space for travellers, but the misery and filth of
every apartment disgusted me. One had broken windows, another a
broken floor, a third was covered with half an inch of dust, and the
weather outside was cold and rainy; so I shrugged up my shoulders and
asked to be conducted to another khan. There I was somewhat better
off, for I got into a new room leading out of a cafe where the
charcoal burned freely and warmed the apartment. When the room was
washed out I thought myself fortunate, so dreary and deserted had the
other khan appeared to me.

I now took a walk through the bazaars, but found the place altogether
miserable, being somewhat less village-like than Roustchouk. Lying so
nicely on the bank of the Danube, which here makes such beautiful
curves, and marked on the map with capital letters, it ought (such was
my notion) to be a place having at least one well-built and
well-stocked bazaar, a handsome seraglio, and some good-looking
mosques. Nothing of the sort. The Konak or palace of the Pasha is an
old barrack. The seraglio of the famous Passavan Oglou is in ruins,
and the only decent looking house in the place is the new office of
the Steam Navigation Company, which is on the Danube.

Being Ramadan, I could not see the pasha during the day; but in the
evening, M. Petronievitch, the exiled leader of the Servian National
party, introduced me to Hussein Pasha, the once terrible destroyer of
the Janissaries. This celebrated character appeared to be verging on
eighty, and, afflicted with gout, was sitting in the corner of t