I AM now far out on the Black Sea. Night has settled down on the face of the deep, and darkness broods over the wide, wide world. This is, however, far from being a “still and pulseless world” at present. We are not having a storm, but the wind is blowing a perfect gale. I have just been pacing the deck and watching the heaving bosom of the ocean. I love the ocean; I love its vastness; I love its doleful music; I love its foam-crested waves and white-capped billows. But I had to leave the deck to-night; it is too cold and rough and dark to remain out any longer. Hence I came to the saloon; and, as there are a few thoughts floating through my mind, I take up my pen. I am tired, and would wait until morning; but memory is a treacherous creature, and the only way I can secure these thoughts is to fasten them in words, and chain them in writing. The thoughts I propose to manacle pertain to places I have visited and objects I have seen since leaving Geneva, Switzerland. During this time, I have traveled more than two thousand miles, sometimes on foot, sometimes on trains, and sometimes on the Danube river.

Vienna, the proud capital of haughty Austria, has more than a million inhabitants, is splendidly situated, and is one of the prettiest cities in Europe. The city abounds in monuments and statues, in large parks, lovely flower gardens, and playing fountains. But Vienna’s crowning glory is her superb architecture. The Emperor’s Mansion, the Palace of Justice, and the Houses of Parliament, are especially fine. They are immense structures, and are elaborately sculptured not only from the ground to the roof, but the roof itself is covered with sculptured work. For instance, there are standing on the House of Parliament alone, eighty life-size marble statues. In addition to these, there are, on the same roof eight large gilded chariots, each drawn by four flying horses, and driven by a winged goddess. As one approaches these buildings, they present a most striking appearance.

I went through the Palace, and saw the Emperor and the crown jewels of Austria; through the royal riding-school, where the imperial family are daily instructed in the art of horsemanship; through the art galleries and Museum, which contain too many fine pictures and objects of interest to be mentioned here.

Since leaving Vienna, I have traveled through Hungary, Servia, Slavonia, and Bulgaria, stopping at Buda-Pesth, Belgrade, Rustchuk, and Varna. For two days and nights I was on the majestic Danube. Most of the time the river was broad, and the country level and uninteresting. But this was by no means uniform; occasionally the river would burst through a rocky mountain ridge, and I remember I opened my umbrella and stood on deck in the cold wind and rain for three hours, rather than go down to the saloon, where I could only half see the rugged cliffs and peaks overhanging the river. Do you say, “That was expensive pleasure?” Well, be it so. But I love nature. Besides, it has been said, and truly, I believe, that we enjoy everything in proportion to what it costs us. I am going to make a strong statement, and yet one that is as true as strong. I know that it will sound like blasphemy to some, but I believe in the old proverb, “Honor to whom honor is due;” hence I now declare that the scenery along some parts of the Danube is finer than anything on the Rhine.

The principal productions of Servia, Slavonia, Roumelia, and Bulgaria, seem to me to be ignorance, turnips, soldiers, poodle dogs, and an annual crop of semi-royal, throne-seeking dudes. I would rather own a thousand acres of black land in Texas, or be a well-to-do farmer in Blue Grass, Kentucky, than to have ten such thrones as all these petty kingdoms combined could offer. I settled the Bulgarian trouble, and left the country. (I close for the night).

I fell asleep last night little dreaming what the morning held in store for me. About 7 o’clock, a.m., though I was up long before that time, we entered the Bosphorus. We were sailing directly towards the rising sun. Along the eastern horizon great banks of purple clouds lay piled one upon another like Pelion upon Ossa. The clouds rise higher and higher, as now and then the sun climbs up to peep over, like an imprisoned giant from behind the frowning battlements.

We were apparently between the two arms of a great horseshoe, and were gliding slowly on into its curve, with the land on all sides sloping up gently from the water’s edge. We were between two continents—Europe on the right, and Asia on the left. Our narrow passage was lined on either side with great torpedo boats, and ironclad men-of-war, trembling for service. These, in turn, were flanked by two lines of impregnable forts, planted with grim and frowning cannon. As we pass the batteries and enter the bay, we behold the great city of Constantinople, crowning the heights that sweep around the curve of the horseshoe. We see its palaces, mosques, towers, and spires, all outlined against a dark background of cloud. Just at this moment, the sun rifts the purple clouds, and pours a flood of golden glory over the whole scene.

By this time the “Urano” casts anchor, and we are soon surrounded by two or three hundred row-boats that have come to take the passengers ashore. Just as I am about to step on shore an armed soldier cries out: “Halt, stand!” I do not know what the reader would have done, but I—well, I obey the gruff voice. I am informed that no man is allowed to set foot on Ottoman soil without legal papers from his native country. Whereupon, I draw from my pocket a passport. The officer admires the American eagle, but has some difficulty in reading the document. When he comes to “E pluribus Unum” he stalls; and, turning to me, he asks: “What does this mean?” I reply: “That simply indicates my high rank and official position at home. It says I am one among many.” The Turk now uncovers his head, shows his teeth, and bows.

I can say to-day, more truly than ever before, “I am a stranger in a strange land.” I have just been out in the city. The streets are crowded. I saw Turks, Greeks, Jews, Americans, Russians, Bulgarians, and Slavonians, all speaking strange languages, all wearing different, strange, and grotesque costumes, all looking and staring at me as though I was some wild animal in Barnum’s show. Nothing can be more strangely hideous than a tall, stoop-shouldered, long-haired, black-eyed, copper-colored Ottoman in his native dress, if dress it may be called. The women go with their faces veiled, their eyes being “too pure” to look upon “Christian dogs,” as they call us.

It is Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath, so I went at noon to-day to the “Imperial Mosque” to see the Sultan as he entered to say his prayers. And I saw the Sultan, the man who is the husband of 500 wives, the political ruler of the Turkish Empire, and the spiritual head of the Mohammedan world. The ceremonies attending the Sultan’s parade to the Mosque were conducted with an Oriental splendor that was simply dazzling to human sight. Twenty thousand armed soldiers—horse and foot—lined the way and surrounded the Mosque. The soldiers all wore red caps, and they looked like a veritable sea of blood, on which were floating thousands of gleaming bayonets and glistening sabres. The Sultan’s approach was announced by blowing bugles, playing bands, beating drums, and booming cannons. As the Sultan—I had almost said as the Satan—passed, the heathen people shouted: “Kalif, Humkiar,” “Zil-Ulla,” “Alem Penah,” which being interpreted means, “The successor of the Prophet,” “Vicar of God, shadow of God,” “Refuge of the world.” When I saw and heard these things, I said to myself: “I would rather be an ass—crazy, crippled, blind, and dumb—doomed to serve in a tread-mill for a thousand years, than to be a two-legged mass of putrefaction, and yet adored as a god by an ignorant and corrupt heathen people.”