And then they visit themselves in waxwork, and go
into ecstacies over the stolid representations of their life and their
furniture, and they walk about the town--a sort of grown-up
school-procession--and go home to thrill the wide-eyed village with tales
of the wonderful city.
But the other instance of converting realities into spectacles is not so
commendable. In the supplementary exhibition of "Old Buda" stands a
reproduction of an Old Buda mosque, built of stone, majolica and wood, in
a mixture of Turkish and European architecture, with minaret and cupolas,
and a small kiosk in the Indian style for a sleeping fakir. Here Moslems
and Dervishes assemble to say or dance their prayers; and for a florin
you may ascend the gallery and watch them below. The mosque opened on the
holy night of Bairam, the most solemn feast of the Mohammedan year, and
quite a crowd planked down their silver to listen to the pious
worshippers. Is it not shameful? I am happy to say I did not pay for my
seat. Even in Budapest I was a _persona gratis_. 'T was certainly a
remarkable scene, its solemnity emphasized by the thunder without, that
drowned the voice of the mueddin calling to prayer, and by the lightning
and rain-torrents that sent the pretty little _al fresco_ waitresses
scudding about with their serviettes on their heads to tend the few
parties in the leafy square that dined on regardless of diluted wine or
under the protection of umbrellas.
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