We entered the
bazaars, which were rotting and ruinous, the air infected with the
loathsome vapours of dung-hills, and their putrescent carcases,
tanpits with green hides, horns, and offal: here and there a hideous
old rat showed its head at some crevice in the boards, to complete the
picture of impurity and desolation.
Strange to say, after this ordeal we put up at an excellent khan, the
best we had seen in Servia, being a mixture of the German Wirthshaus,
and the Italian osteria, kept by a Dalmatian, who had lived twelve
years at Scutari in Albania. His upper room was very neatly furnished
and new carpeted.
In the afternoon we went to pay a visit to the Vayvode, who lived
among gardens in the upper town, out of the stench of the bazaars.
Arrived at the house we mounted a few ruined steps, and passing
through a little garden fenced with wooden paling, were shown into a
little carpeted kiosk, where coffee and pipes were presented, but not
partaken of by the Turks present, it being still Ramadan. The Vayvode
was an elderly man, with a white turban and a green benish, having
weak eyes, and a alight hesitation in his speech; but civil and
good-natured, without any of the absurd suspicions of the Mutsellim of
Sokol.
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