Salona

"[Froma the diary]. «Salona is very wonderful, but it is only ruins, which do not very strongly appeal to me. The largest and most interesting is a basilica, an ancient Christian church, built right over a large cemetery, which is thought to date from the time of St. Timothy, one of the saints who introduced Christianity into Dalmatia. Under the floor of the church were found many large sarcophagi, but they have all been removed to the museum at Spalato. The most famous, because the very oldest Christian tomb here, is known as the Pastor Bonus Sarcophagus. It shows 'The Good Shepherd,' with a sheep or lamb on His shoulders. There are two reclining figures on the tomb, supposed to represent a Christian couple whose sarcophagus it was. Their heads are gone, and the other sculptures are all more or less defaced. The tomb is roughly carved, and inferior both in design and workmanship to the Meleager sarcophagus, found outside the Temple of Æsculapius, altho the pagan tomb is much older».

«We walked over to the arena, but very little of it remains. Were it not for a flight of crumbling steps, and three or four ruined arches, supposed to have been a part of the outer wall, it would be difficult to recognize it. It is only a deprest, grass-covered field, which might have been almost anything; but the view from the little hill above the arena is superb, and the inland sea of Salona is charming. The rippling water lying at your feet, glittering in the sunlight, stretches away to Bua and Traü, connecting, as with a golden band, the living cities of to-day with the bleaching bones of ruined Salona».

«Children are much the same the world over! The urchins who dwell near this ancient city followed us in numbers, long before we reached the ruins. We were offered every known commodity, from pistachio nuts to anticos, in a babble of tongues which were something horrible. John picked out one little chap, with a tousled head and a huge crop of freckles, and told him he didn't want to buy either the bits of stone or fragments of broken pots, vociferously offered for sale, but that he'd 'pay for the monolog'. Seeing their companion get 'something for nothing', the rest of the crowd of youngsters set up a roar of protest. To get away, we had to throw a handful of 'hellers' to the crowd. While the children were fighting over the coppers, we made our escape. […]».

«Dear old Spalato long since was left behind us. We are now well on our way to Ragusa, 'the fairest gem of Dalmatia', as it is called. It is hard to believe it finer than all the other charming places we have seen, but I am willing to be convinced. As the harbor of Ragusa is now too shallow for steamers — the sea having receded just as it has at Spalato — we shall have to dock at a little port called Gravosa. […]. We are the only Americans on board and, of course, thought to be 'millionaires!' How John and I did laugh when we heard that. How I do wish that all Americans were millionaires, as these people seem to think»" (pp. 197-199).

"«The Lesina docks somewhere every little while, so it is hard for me to remember where things occur. At one of the little ports where we stopt only a few minutes, I caught sight of a boatload of Turkish passengers in a queer-looking dugout coming out to take the steamer. But they very nearly missed the boat. It was too comical to see the frantic efforts two Turks made in trying to row the flat tub fast enough to get it to the dock in time. I knew they were Turks at once, altho we had heard that all subjects of the Sultan wear a fez, whether Mohammendans or Christians. I saw at once these people were Turks, from head to foot. To my joy one of them was a woman; one of the veiled creatures I'd been so long dying to see. I determined to get a good look at her, so I ran down and took my position where I could see her come up the gangway. No matter how many 'veiled Turkish houris' I may see before I die, I shall never forget this one! She passed me at close range as she came staggering into the steamer. And no wonder she staggered! For on her head, or where a head is supposed to be, the creature carried an enormous bundle of bedding tied up in a cheap, gaily striped cotton rug. Her husband and two little Turks, who were miniature editions of himself, preceded her, but took no notice of her at all, and were entirely without any 'impedimenta,' notwithstanding the enormous load she carried. […]. The skirt was enormously full and long, and gathered in where the waist-line should be, to which was attached in the back a round, full cape, gathered to the belt, made of the same material. The end of the cape was thrown back, so as entirely to envelop her head. As if this was not bad enough — for the poor creature was nothing but 'a bulk in the daylight' — to cap the climax, over the small triangular opening in the latticework curtain formed by the cape in front, where her face should have been, hung a thick, black, impenetrable cloth. It was made of some lusterless stuff, covered with sprays of huge pink and green tulips. The effect of the black veil was horrible! For at a little distance she appeared to have a black face, covered with green and pink sores. Really and truly, the poor soul was hideous enough to frighten any one! I must explain, that I never would have known about the chintz Turkish trousers she wore under her skirt, nor probably about the hob-nailed shoes, only that I wickedly stood where I did, and saw her clutch at her shroud as she staggered up the gangway with her unwieldly burden».

«We hear that later on we shall see many more of these poor Moslem women. A lady on board tells me there are plenty of these wrapt-up creatures right now in the steerage. She says one of the officers told her we have a veritable 'Shrouded Woman of Mostar' on the Lesina. No matter how hard it is, I simply must get a glimpse of her; for we hear they are the worst-looking 'bundle of clothes' of them all. They are all black, and have no head, face, or arms, or anything, being only shapeless creatures swathed in heavy black garments like dominos. No matter how warm the weather, their tyrannical lords never permit them to show themselves for an instant. No one dares even to glance at one of these shrouded creatures — so how I am to get a picture of a Mostar woman I do not know! But I'm determined to try. […]».

«The lady with whom I've been chatting — Frau Friedmann is her name — tells me these women of the lower class, who have to work all day in the fields, throw back their masks when no one is around, to keep from stifling; but the instant any male creature appears, they cover themselves and remain covered until he is gone. She says no Mohammedan woman over twelve years of age ever goes unveiled before a man not her father, brother, or husband, unless she is a wrinkled old crone, a woman so old, and so hideous that even these insanely jealous Orientals are fully convinced she is no longer dangerous. It must be terrible to have to be swathed up all the time in hot, uncomfortable things, but it is even worse to think of being so horribly old and hideous that even a Turk is no longer jealous!»" (pp. 202-206).