CHAPTER VIII.

Holman, the Blind Traveller.--Milutinovich, the Poet.--Bulgarian
Legend.--Tableau de genre.--Departure for the Interior.


Belgrade, unlike other towns on the Danube, is much less visited by
Europeans, since the introduction of steam navigation, than it was
previously. Servia used to be the _porte cochere_ of the East; and
most travellers, both before and since the lively Lady Mary Wortley
Montague, took the high road to Constantinople by Belgrade, Sofia,
Philippopoli, and Adrianople. No mere tourist would now-a-days think
of undertaking the fatiguing ride across European Turkey, when he can
whizz past Widdin and Roustchouk, and even cut off the grand tongue at
the mouth of the Danube, by going in an omnibus from Czernovoda to
Kustendgi; consequently the arrival of an English traveller from the
interior, is a somewhat rare occurrence.

One day I was going out at the gateway, and saw a strange figure, with
a long white beard and a Spanish cap, mounted on a sorry horse, and at
once recognized it to be that of Holman, the blind traveller.

"How do you do, Mr. Holman?" said I.

"I know that voice well."

"I last saw you in Aleppo," said I; and he at once named me.

I then got him off his horse, and into quarters.