The left bank of the river belongs to Hungary, and is called the “Banat;” it presents an appearance somewhat less desolate.  Much, however, remains to be desired; and the poverty that reigns around is here more to be wondered at, from the fact that this strip of land is so rich in the productions of nature as to have obtained the name of the “Garner of Hungary.”

On the Austrian side of the Danube sentries are posted at every two or three hundred paces—­an arrangement which has been imitated by the governments on the left bank, and is carried out to the point where the river empties itself into the Black Sea.

It would, however, be erroneous to suppose that these soldiers mount guard in their uniforms.  They take up their positions, for a week at a time, in their wretched tattered garments; frequently they are barefoot, and their huts look like stables.  I entered some of these huts to view the internal arrangements.  They could scarcely have been more simple.  In one corner I found a hearth; in another, an apology for a stove, clumsily fashioned out of clay.  An unsightly hole in the wall, stopped with paper instead of glass, forms the window; the furniture is comprised in a single wooden bench.  Whatever the inhabitant requires in the way of provisions he must bring with him; for this he is allowed by the government to cultivate the land.

Throughout the Russian territory the soldiers at least wear uniform.

Our journey becomes more and more charming.  Frequently the mighty river rushes foaming and roaring past the rocks, which seem scarcely to allow it a passage; at other times it glides serenely onwards.  At every turn we behold new beauties, and scarcely know on which side to turn our eager eyes.  Meanwhile the ship sails swiftly on, gliding majestically through wildly romantic scenery.

At one o’clock in the afternoon we reached Pasiest, where there is nothing to be seen but a large store of coals for the steamers and a few huts.  Of the town itself nothing can be distinguished.

A couple of miles below Pasiest we enjoy an imposing spectacle.  It is the solitary rock Babakay, rising from the midst of the waters.  Together with the beautiful ruin Golumbacz, on the Servian shore, it forms a magnificent view.

March 27th.

How unfortunate it is that all advantages are so seldom found combined!  We are now travelling amid glorious scenery, which we hoped should recompense us for the manifold discomforts we have hitherto endured; but the weather is unpropitious.  The driving snow sends us all into the cabin.  The Danube is so fiercely agitated by the stormy wind, that it rises into waves like a sea.  We are suffering lamentably from cold; unable to warm ourselves, we stand gazing ruefully at the place where the stove stood—­once upon a time.

At four o’clock we reached Drenkova without accident, but completely benumbed:  we hurried into the inn built by the steamboat company, where we found capital fare, a warm room, and tolerably comfortable beds.  This was the first place we had reached since leaving Pesth at which we could thoroughly warm and refresh ourselves.