{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_57168/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_57168","id":"gutenberg_57168","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57168","summary":null,"tags":["Category: History - European","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Transylvania (Romania) -- Description and travel"],"text":"Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by Cornell\nUniversity Digital Collections)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: OLD TOWN GATE AT HERMANSTADT (ELIZABETH THOR).]\n\n\n\n\n THE\n\n LAND BEYOND THE FOREST\n\n FACTS, FIGURES, AND FANCIES\n\n FROM\n\n TRANSYLVANIA\n\n\n BY E. GERARD\n\n AUTHOR OF\n \u201cREATA\u201d \u201cTHE WATERS OF HERCULES\u201d \u201cBEGGAR MY NEIGHBOR\u201d ETC.\n\n\n _WITH MAP AND ILLUSTRATIONS_\n\n\n NEW YORK\n HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE\n 1888\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nIn the spring of 1883 my husband was appointed to the command of the\ncavalry brigade in Transylvania, composed of two hussar regiments,\nstationed respectively at Hermanstadt and Kronstadt\u2014a very welcome\nnomination, as gratifying a long-cherished wish of mine to visit that\npart of the Austrian empire known as the Land beyond the Forest.\n\nThe two years spent in Transylvania were among the most agreeable of\nsixteen years\u2019 acquaintance with Austrian military life; and I shall\nalways look back to this time as to something quaint and exceptional,\ntotally different from all previous and subsequent experiences.\n\nMuch interested in the wild beauty of the country, the strange\nadmixture of races by which it is peopled, and their curious and varied\nfolk-lore, I recorded some of my impressions in short, independent\npapers, of which three were published in _Blackwood\u2019s Magazine_, one in\nthe _Nineteenth Century_, and one in the _Contemporary Review_. It was\nonly after I had left the country that, being desirous of preserving\nthese sketches in more convenient form, I began rearranging the matter\nfor publication; but the task of retracing my Transylvanian experiences\nwas so pleasant that it led me on far beyond my original intention.\nOne reminiscence awoke another, one chapter gave rise to a second; and\nso, instead of a small volume, as had been at first contemplated, my\nmanuscript almost unconsciously developed to its present dimensions.\n\nWhen the work was completed, the idea of illustrating it occurred to\nme: but this was a far more difficult matter; for, though offering a\nperfect treasure-mine to artists, Transylvania has not as yet received\nfrom them the attention it deserves; and had it not been for obliging\nassistance from several quarters, I should have been debarred the\nsatisfaction of elucidating some of my descriptions by appropriate\nsketches.\n\nIn this matter my thanks are greatly due to Herr Emil Sigerus, who was\ngood enough to place at my disposal the blocks of engravings designed\nby himself, and belonging to the Transylvania Carpathian Society, of\nwhich he is the secretary. Likewise to Madame Kamilla Asboth, for\npermission to copy her life-like and characteristic photographs of\nSaxons, Roumanians, and gypsies.\n\nI would also at this place acknowledge the extreme courtesy with which\nevery question of mine regarding Transylvania people and customs has\nbeen responded to by various kind acquaintances, and if some parts of\nmy work do not meet with their entire approval, let them here take the\nassurance that my remarks were prompted by no unfriendly spirit, and\nthat in each and every case I have endeavored to judge impartially\naccording to my lights.\n\n EMILY DE LASZOWSKA-GERARD.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n CHAPTER PAGE\n\n I. INTRODUCTORY 1\n\n II. HISTORICAL 6\n\n III. POLITICAL 11\n\n IV. ARRIVAL IN TRANSYLVANIA\u2014FIRST IMPRESSIONS 14\n\n V. SAXON HISTORICAL FEAST\u2014LEGEND 25\n\n VI. THE SAXONS: CHARACTER\u2014EDUCATION\u2014RELIGION 31\n\n VII. SAXON VILLAGES 39\n\n VIII. SAXON INTERIORS\u2014CHARACTER 50\n\n IX. SAXON CHURCHES AND SIEGES 62\n\n X. THE SAXON VILLAGE PASTOR 71\n\n XI. THE SAXON BROTHERHOODS\u2014NEIGHBORHOODS AND VILLAGE HANN 79\n\n XII. THE SAXONS: DRESS\u2014SPINNING AND DANCING 85\n\n XIII. THE SAXONS: BETROTHAL 94\n\n XIV. THE SAXONS: MARRIAGE 101\n\n XV. THE SAXONS: BIRTH AND INFANCY 111\n\n XVI. THE SAXONS: DEATH AND BURIAL 117\n\n XVII. THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR ORIGIN 122\n\n XVIII. THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR RELIGION, POPAS, AND CHURCHES 125\n\n XIX. THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR CHARACTER 132\n\n XX. ROUMANIAN LIFE 139\n\n XXI. ROUMANIAN MARRIAGE AND MORALITY 146\n\n XXII. THE ROUMANIANS: DANCING, SONGS, MUSIC, STORIES,\n AND PROVERBS 151\n\n XXIII. ROUMANIAN POETRY 158\n\n XXIV. THE ROUMANIANS: NATIONALITY AND ATROCITIES 173\n\n XXV. THE ROUMANIANS: DEATH AND BURIAL\u2014VAMPIRES AND WERE-WOLVES 180\n\n XXVI. ROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION: DAYS AND HOURS 188\n\n XXVII. ROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION\u2014CONTINUED: ANIMALS, WEATHER,\n MIXED SUPERSTITIONS, SPIRITS, SHADOWS, ETC. 196\n\n XXVIII. SAXON SUPERSTITION: REMEDIES, WITCHES, WEATHER-MAKERS 207\n\n XXIX. SAXON SUPERSTITION\u2014CONTINUED: ANIMALS, PLANTS, DAYS 212\n\n XXX. SAXON CUSTOMS AND DRAMAS 218\n\n XXXI. BURIED TREASURES 229\n\n XXXII. THE TZIGANES: LISZT AND LENAU 236\n\n XXXIII. THE TZIGANES: THEIR LIFE AND OCCUPATIONS 242\n\n XXXIV. THE TZIGANES: HUMOR, PROVERBS, RELIGION, AND MORALITY 253\n\n XXXV. THE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER 260\n\n XXXVI. THE TZIGANE MUSICIAN 265\n\n XXXVII. GYPSY POETRY 273\n\nXXXVIII. THE SZEKLERS AND ARMENIANS 279\n\n XXXIX. FRONTIER REGIMENTS 288\n\n XL. WOLVES, BEARS, AND OTHER ANIMALS 292\n\n XLI. A ROUMANIAN VILLAGE 299\n\n XLII. A GYPSY CAMP 306\n\n XLIII. THE BRUCKENTHALS 309\n\n XLIV. STILL-LIFE AT HERMANSTADT\u2014A TRANSYLVANIAN CRANFORD 317\n\n XLV. FIRE AND BLOOD\u2014THE HERMANSTADT MURDER 326\n\n XLVI. THE KLAUSENBURG CARNIVAL 331\n\n XLVII. JOURNEY FROM HERMANSTADT TO KRONSTADT 339\n\n XLVIII. KRONSTADT 348\n\n XLIX. SINA\u00cfA 357\n\n L. UP THE MOUNTAINS 364\n\n LI. THE BULEA SEE 372\n\n LII. THE WIENERWALD\u2014A DIGRESSION 377\n\n LIII. A WEEK IN THE PINE REGION 380\n\n LIV. LA DUS AND BISTRA 388\n\n LV. A NIGHT IN THE STINA 394\n\n LVI. FAREWELL TO TRANSYLVANIA\u2014THE ENCHANTED GARDEN 399\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n\n PAGE\n\nOld Town Gate at Hermanstadt (Elisabeth Thor) _Frontispiece_\n\nSaxon Burgher in Olden Times 9\n\nThe Thorda Spalt 19\n\nOld Fortress-tower on the Ramparts at Hermanstadt 23\n\nMounted Peasants, from the Historical Procession 28\n\nSaxon Peasant House 40\n\nOld Town Gate at Hermanstadt (on the Heltau side) 43\n\nMichelsberg 47\n\nSaxon Peasant at Home 51\n\nSaxon Embroidery 53\n\nSaxon Embroidery and Pottery 55\n\nFortified Saxon Church 63\n\nRuined Abbey of Kerz 70\n\nSaxon Pastor in Full Dress 73\n\nSaxon Peasant going to Work 84\n\nDressing for the Dance 93\n\nSaxon Betrothed Couple 97\n\nArchbishop Schaguna 131\n\nRoumanian Costumes 141\n\nRoumanian Women 143\n\nSaxon Girl in Full Dress 221\n\nGypsy Type 237\n\nA Gypsy Tinker 245\n\nBasket-maker 247\n\nBear-driver 249\n\nGypsy Girl 258\n\nGypsy Mother and Child 261\n\nGypsy Musicians 269\n\nSzekler Peasant 279\n\nThe Rothenthurm Pass 291\n\nThe Bruckenthal Palace 310\n\nBaron Samuel Bruckenthal 315\n\nStreet at Hermanstadt 319\n\nSch\u00e4ssburg 341\n\nCastle of T\u00f6rzburg 347\n\nKing Matthias Corvinus 355\n\nCastle Pelesch at Sina\u00efa 359\n\nThe Negoi 365\n\nThe Pine Valley 381\n\nThe Cavern Convent, Skit la Jalomitza 399\n\nCastle Vajda Hunyad before its restoration 401\n\nMAP OF TRANSYLVANIA _At end_\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAND BEYOND THE FOREST.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nINTRODUCTORY.\n\n\nLeaving Transylvania after a two years\u2019 residence, I felt somewhat\nlike Robinson Crusoe unexpectedly restored to the world from his\ndesert island. Despite the evidence of my own senses, and in flat\ncontradiction to the atlas, I cannot wholly divest myself of the idea\nthat it is in truth an island I have left behind me\u2014an island peopled\nwith strange and incongruous companions, from whom I part with a\nmixture of regret and relief difficult to explain even to myself.\n\nJust as Robinson Crusoe, getting attached to his parrots and his\npalm-trees, his gourds and his goats, continued to yearn for them after\nhis return to Europe, so I found myself gradually succumbing to the\nindolent charm and the drowsy poetry of this secluded land. A very few\nyears more of unbroken residence here would no doubt suffice to efface\nall memory of the world we had left behind and the century in which we\nlive.\n\nI remember reading in some fairy tale, long ago, of a youthful\nprincess who, stolen by the gnomes and carried off into gnomeland, was\nrestored to her parents after a lapse of years. Their joy was great at\nrecovering their child, but it turned to grief when they discovered\nthat she had grown estranged from them, and had lost all interest in\nthe actual world. The sun was too bright, she said, it hurt her eyes,\nand the voices of men were too loud, they scorched her ears; and\nshe could never feel at home again amid the restless glitter of her\nsurroundings.\n\nI do not recollect how the story concludes\u2014whether the young lady\nbecame in time reconciled to her father\u2019s brilliant court, or whether\nshe ran away and married a gnome; but this tale somehow reminded me of\nmy own experiences, and I caught myself wondering whether a few years\nhence, perhaps, the summons to return to the world might not have come\ntoo late.\n\nParrots and palm-trees are all very well, no doubt, to fill up the life\nof a stranded mariner, but it is questionable whether it be wise to\nlet such things absorb the mind to the extent of destroying all taste\nfor wider interests. Life in an island is apt to consist too entirely\nof foreground\u2014the breadth of a panorama and the comprehensiveness of\na bird\u2019s-eye view, only gained by constant friction with the bustling,\npushing outer world, being mostly here wanting.\n\nLuckily, or unluckily, as one may choose to view it, the spirit of\nthe nineteenth century is a ghost very difficult to be laid. A steady\ncourse of narcotics may lull it to rest for a time; but the spirit is\nbut stupefied, not dead; its vitality is great, and it will start up\nagain to life at the first trumpet-blast which reaches from without,\neager to exchange a peaceful dream for the movement of the arena and\nthe renewed clank of arms.\n\nSome such feelings were mine as I beheld the signal waving from the\nship which was to carry me back to a world I had almost forgotten; and\nthough I heaved a sigh of regret, and possibly may have dropped a tear\nor two in secret for the peaceful and familiar scenes I was leaving,\nyet I would not have steered round the vessel to return to my island.\n\n * * * * *\n\nNot the mere distance which separates Transylvania from Western Europe\ngives to it this feeling of strange isolation. Other countries as far\nor farther off are infinitely more familiar even to those who have\nnever visited them. We know all about Turkey, and Greece is no more\nstrange to us than Italy or Switzerland. But no one ever comes to\nTransylvania in cold blood, unless it be some very rabid sportsman\neager for the embrace of a shaggy bear; and as for those rushing\ntravellers, bound for the Black Sea, who sometimes traverse the country\nin hot-headed haste, they mostly resemble the superficial swallow which\nskims the surface of a placid lake, without guessing the secrets of the\nblue depths below.\n\nSituated by nature within a formidable rampart of snow-tipped\nmountains, and shielded by heavy curtains of shrouding forests\nagainst the noise and turmoil of the outer world, the very name of\nTransylvania tells us that it was formerly regarded as something\napart, something out of reach, whose existence even for a time was\nenveloped in mystery. In olden times these gloomy forest gorges were\ntenanted only by the solitary bear or packs of famished wolves,\nwhile the mistrustful lynx looked down from the giddy heights, and\nthe chamois leaped unchecked from rock to rock. The people who lived\nwestward of this mountain rampart, knowing but little or nothing of the\ncountry on the other side, designated it as Transylvania, or the land\nbeyond the forest, just as we sometimes talk of the \u201cland beyond the\nclouds.\u201d\n\nNothing, however, can remain undiscovered on the face of our globe.\nThat enterprising creature man, who is even now attempting, with some\nshow of success, to probe the country beyond the clouds, has likewise\ndiscovered the way to this secluded nook. The dense forests, once\nforming such impenetrable barriers against the outer world, have in\ngreat part disappeared; another voice is heard besides that of the\nwild beasts of the wood; another breath comes mingled along with the\nmountain vapors\u2014it is the breath of that nineteenth-century monster,\nthe steam-engine.\n\nThis benefactor of the age, this harbinger of civilization, which\nis as truly the destroyer of romance, and poetry\u2019s deadly foe, will\nundoubtedly succeed in robbing this country of the old-world charm\nwhich yet lingers about it. Transylvania will in time become as\ncivilized and cultivated, and likewise as stereotyped and conventional,\nas the best known parts of our first European States\u2014it will\neven one day cease to be an island; but as yet the advent of the\nnineteenth-century monster is of too recent a date to have tainted the\natmosphere by its breath, and the old-world charm still lingers around\nand about many things. It is floating everywhere and anywhere\u2014in\nthe forests and on the mountains, in medi\u00e6val churches and ruined\nwatch-towers, in mysterious caverns and in ancient gold-mines, in the\nsongs of the people and the legends they tell. Like a subtle perfume\nevaporating under the rays of a burning sun, it is growing daily\nfainter and fainter, and all lovers of the past should hasten to\ncollect this fleeting fragrance ere it be gone forever. This is what I\nhave endeavored to do, to some small extent, since fate for a time cast\nmy lines in those parts.\n\nAnd first and foremost let me here explain that my intentions in\ncompiling this work are nowise of an ambitious or lofty nature. I\ndesire to instruct no one, to influence no one, to enlist no one\u2019s\nsympathies in favor of any particular social question or political\ndoctrine. Even had such been my intention, I have been therein amply\nforestalled by others; nor do I delude myself into the belief that it\nis my proud vocation to correct the errors of all former writers by\ngiving to the world the only correct and trustworthy description of\nTransylvania which has yet appeared. I have not lived long enough in\nthe country to feel myself justified in taking up the gauntlet against\nthe assertions of older inhabitants of the soil, but have lived there\ntoo long to rival that admirable self-possession which induces the\naverage tourist to classify, condemn, ticket, and tie up every fact\nwhich comes within his notice, never demeaning himself to grovel or\nanalyze, nor being disturbed by any doubts of the reliability of his\nown unerring judgment.\n\nWhoever wishes to study the history of Transylvania in its past,\npresent, and future aspects, who wants to understand its geological\nformation or system of agriculture, who would thoroughly penetrate into\nthe inextricable net-work of conflicting political interests which\ndivide its interior, must seek his information elsewhere.\n\nDo you wish, for instance, to see Transylvania as it was some forty\nyears ago? If so, I can confidently advise you to read the valuable\nwork of Mr. Paget and the spirited descriptions of Monsieur de G\u00e9rando.\n\nDo you want to gain insight into the geological resources of the\ncountry, or the farming system of the Saxon peasant? Then take up\nCharles Boner\u2019s comprehensive work on Transylvania. And would you\nsee these Saxons as they love to behold themselves, then turn to Dr.\nTeutsch\u2019s learned work on \u201cDie Siebenb\u00fcrger Sachsen;\u201d while if politics\nbe your special hobby, you cannot better indulge it than by selecting\nMr. Patterson\u2019s most interesting work on Hungary and Transylvania.\n\nIf, moreover, you care to study the country \u201ccontrariwise,\u201d and would\nknow what the Roumanians are utterly unlike, read the description of\nthem in the aforementioned book of Mr. Boner; while for generally\nincorrect information on almost every available subject connected with\nthe country, I am told that the German work of Rudolf Bergner cannot be\ntoo highly recommended.\n\nRecognizing, therefore, the superiority of the many learned\npredecessors who each in their respective lines have so thoroughly\nworked out the subject in hand, I would merely forewarn the reader\nthat no such completeness of outline can be looked for here. Neither\nis my book intended to be of the guide-book species\u2014no sort of\nornamental Bradshaw or idealized Murray. I fail to see the use of\nminutely describing several scores of towns and villages which the\nEnglish reader is never likely to set eyes upon. If you think of\ntravelling this way, good and well, then buy the genuine article for\nyourself\u2014Murray or Bradshaw\u2014unadulterated by me; or, better still,\nthe excellent German hand-book of Professor Bielz; while if you stay\nat home, can you really care to know if such and such a town have five\nchurches or fifty? or whether the proportion of carbonate of magnesia\nexceed that of chloride of potassium in some particular spring of whose\nwaters you will never taste?\n\nAll that I have attempted here to do is to seize the general color\nand atmosphere of the land, and to fix\u2014as much for my own private\nsatisfaction as for any other reason\u2014certain impressions of people\nand places I should be loath to forget. I have written only of those\nthings which happened to excite my interest, and have described figures\nand scenery, such as they appeared to me. For some of the details\ncontained in these pages I am indebted to the following writers: Liszt,\nSlavici, Fronius, M\u00fcller, and Schwicker\u2014all competent authorities\nwell acquainted with their subject. Some things have found no place\nhere because I did not consider myself competent to speak of them,\nothers because they did not chance to be congenial; and although not\nabsolutely scorning serious information whenever it has come in my\nway, I have taken more pleasure in chronicling fancies than facts, and\nsuperstitions rather than statistics.\n\nMore than one error has doubtless crept unawares into this work; so\nin order to place myself quite on the safe side with regard to stern\ncritics, I had better hasten to say that I decline to pledge my word\nfor the veracity of anything contained in these pages. I only lay\nclaim to having used my eyes and ears to the best of my ability; and\nwhere I have failed to see or hear aright, the fault must be set down\nto some inherent color-blindness, or radical defect in my tympanum.\nNor do I pretend to have seen everything, even in a small country like\nTransylvania, and every spot I have failed to visit, from lack of time\nor opportunity, is not only to me a source of poignant regret, but\nlikewise a chapter missing from this book.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nHISTORICAL.\n\n\nTransylvania is interesting not only on account of its geographical\nposition, but likewise with regard to the several races which inhabit\nit, and the peculiar conditions under which part of these have obtained\npossession of the soil.\n\nSituated between 45\u00b0 16\u2019 and 48\u00b0 42\u2019 latitude, and 40\u00b0 to 44\u00b0 of\nlongitude (Ferro), the land covers a space of 54,000 square kilometres,\nwhich are inhabited by a population of some 2,170,000 heads.\n\nOf these the proportion of different races may be assumed to be pretty\nnearly as follows:\n\n Roumanians 1,200,400\n Hungarians 652,221\n Saxons 211,490\n Gypsies 79,000\n Jews 24,848\n Armenians 8,430\n\nSome one has rather aptly defined Transylvania as a vast storehouse\nof different nationalities; and in order to account for the _raison\nd\u2019\u00eatre_ of so many different races living side by side in one small\ncountry, a few words of explanation are absolutely necessary to render\nintelligible the circumstances of daily life in Transylvania, since it\nis to be presumed that to many English readers the country is still\nvirtually a \u201cland beyond the forest.\u201d\n\nNot being, however, of that ferocious disposition which loves to\ninflict needless information upon an unoffending public, I pass over\nin considerate silence such very superfluous races as the Agathyrsi,\nthe Gepid\u00e6, the Get\u00e6, and yet others who successively inhabited these\nregions. Let it suffice to say that in the centuries immediately\npreceding the Christian era the land belonged to the Dacians, who were\nin course of time subjugated by Trajan, Transylvania becoming a Roman\nprovince in the year 105 A.D. It remained under the Roman eagle for\nsomething over a century and a half; but about the year 274 the Emperor\nAurelian was compelled to remove his legions from the countries over\nthe Danube and abandon the land to the all-ravaging Goths.\n\nI have only here insisted on the Dacian and Roman occupation of\nTransylvania, because one or other or both of these peoples are\nsupposed to be the ancestors of the present Roumanian race. The\nRoumanians themselves like to think they are descended directly from\nthe Romans; while Germans are fond of denying this origin, and maintain\nthis people to have appeared in these regions at a much later period.\nAccording to the most reliable authorities, however, the truth would\nseem to lie between these two opposite statements, and the Roumanians\nto be the offspring of a cross-breed between the conqueror and the\nconquered\u2014between Romans and Dacians.\n\nAfter the Roman evacuation the country changed hands oftener than can\nbe recorded, and the rolling waves of the _V\u00f6lkerwanderung_ passed\nover the land, each nation leaving its impress more or less upon\nthe surface, till finally the Magyars began to gain something of a\npermanent hold, towards the eleventh century. This hold, however, was\nanything but a firm one, for the Hungarian king had alike outward\nenemies and inward traitors to guard against, and was in continual\nfear lest some affectionate relation should rob him of one of his\ncrown-jewels.\n\nTo add to this, the province of Transylvania was but thinly peopled,\nand ill qualified to resist attacks from without. In view, therefore,\nof all these circumstances, King Geisa II. bethought himself of\ninviting Germans to come and establish colonies in this scantily\npeopled land, promising them certain privileges in return for the\nservices he expected. Hungarian heralds began, consequently, to appear\nin German towns, proclaiming aloud in street and on market-place the\nwords of their royal master. Their voices found a ready echo among the\npeople, for this promised land was not absolutely unknown to the German\nyeomen, who many of them had passed through it on their way to and from\nthe Crusades; besides, this was the time when feudal rights weighed\nmost oppressively on unfortunate vassals, and no doubt many were glad\nto purchase freedom even at the price of expatriation.\n\nAs a German poet sings:\n\n \u201cWhen castles crowned each craggy height\n Along the banks of Rhine,\n And \u2019neath the mail\u00e8d warriors\u2019 might\n Did simple burghers pine;\n\n \u201cWhen bowed the common herd of men,\n Serfs to a lord\u2019s commanding,\n The holy Roman Empire then\n For free men had no standing.\n\n \u201cThen off broke many and away,\n Another country questing;\n \u2018We\u2019ll found another home,\u2019 said they\u2014\n \u2018A house on freedom resting.\n\n \u201c\u2018Hungarian forests, wild and free,\n Are refuge for us keeping;\n From home and home\u2019s dear ties will we\n Emancipate us, weeping.\u2019\u201d\n\nOr in the words of another:\n\n \u201cWe\u2019ll ride away to the east,\n Away to the east we go\u2014\n O\u2019er meadows away,\n O\u2019er meadows so gay;\n It will be better so.\n\n \u201cAnd when we came to the east,\n \u2019Neath the lofty house came we,\n They called us in,\n O\u2019er meadows so gay,\n And bade us welcome be.\u201d\n\nIn thus summoning German colonists to the country, the Hungarian\nmonarch showed wisdom and policy far in advance of his century, as the\nresult has proved. It was a bargain by which both parties were equally\nbenefited, and thereby induced to keep the mutual compact. The Germans\nobtained freedom, which they could not have had in their own country,\nwhile their presence was a guarantee to the monarch that this province\nwould not be torn from his crown.\n\nIn the midst of a population of serfs, and side by side with proud\nand overbearing nobles, these German immigrants occupied a totally\ndifferent and neutral position. Without being noble, they were free\nmen every one of them, enjoying rights and privileges hitherto unknown\nin the country. Depending directly from the King, they had no other\nmaster, and were only obliged to go to war when the monarch in person\ncommanded the expedition. For this reason the country inhabited by the\nGermans was often termed the K\u00f6nigsboden, or Kingsland, and on their\nofficial seal were engraved the words, \u201cAd retinendam coronam.\u201d\n\nThe exact date of the arrival of these German colonists in Transylvania\nis unknown, but appears to have been between 1141 and 1161. That they\ndid not all come at the same time is almost certain. Probably they\narrived in successive batches at different periods; for, as we see by\nhistory, all did not enjoy exactly the same privileges and rights, but\ndifferent colonies had been formed under different conditions.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON BURGHER IN OLDEN TIMES.]\n\nAlso the question of what precise part of the German father-land was\nthe home of these outwanderers is enveloped in some obscurity. They\nhave retained no certain traditions to guide us to a conclusion, and\nGerman chronicles of that time make no mention of their departure.\nThe Crusades, which at that epoch engrossed every mind, must have\ncaused these emigrations to pass comparatively unnoticed. Only a sort\nof vague floating tradition is preserved to this day in some of the\nTransylvania villages, where on winter evenings some old grandam,\nshrivelled and bent, ensconced behind the blue-tiled stove, will relate\nto the listening bairns crowding around her knees how, many, many\nhundred years ago, their ancestors once dwelt on the sea-shore, near\nto the month of four rivers, which all flowed out of a yet larger and\nmightier river. In this shadowy description probably the river Rhine\nmay be recognized, the more so that in the year 1195 these German\ncolonists are, in a yet existing document, alluded to as _Flanderers_.\nThe name of _Sachsen_ (Saxons), as they now call themselves, was, much\nlater, used only as their general designation; and it is more than\nprobable, from certain differences in language, customs, and features,\nthat different colonies proceeded from widely different parts of the\noriginal mother-country.\n\nAlthough the Hungarian kings generally kept their given word right\nnobly to the immigrants, yet these had much to suffer, both from\nHungarian nobles jealous of the privileges they enjoyed, and from\nthe older inhabitants of the soil, the Wallachians, who, living in a\nthoroughly barbaric state up in the mountains, used to make frequent\nraids down into the valleys and plains, there to pillage, burn, and\nmurder whatever came into their hands. If we add to this the frequent\ninvasions of Turks and Tartars, it seems a marvel how this little\nhandful of Germans, brought into a strange country and surrounded\nby enemies on all sides, should have maintained their independence\nand preserved their identity under such combination of adverse\ncircumstances. They built churches and fortresses, they formed schools\nand guilds, they made their own laws and elected their own judges; and\nin an age when Hungarian nobles could scarcely read or write, these\nlittle German colonies were so many havens of civilization in the midst\nof a howling wilderness of ignorance and barbarism.\n\nThe German name of Transylvania\u2014Siebenb\u00fcrgen, or Seven Forts\u2014was\nlong supposed to have been derived from the seven principal fortresses\nerected at that time. Some recent historians are, however, of opinion\nthat this name may be traced to _Cibinburg_, a fortress built near the\nriver Cibin, from which the surrounding province, and finally the whole\ncountry, was called the land of the Cibinburg\u2014of which, therefore,\nSiebenb\u00fcrgen is merely a corruption.\n\nTransylvania remained under the dependence of the Magyars till the year\n1526, when, after the battle of Mohacs, which ended so disastrously for\nthe Hungarians, Hungary was annexed to Austria, and Transylvania became\nan independent duchy, choosing its own regents, but paying, for the\nmost part, a yearly tribute to Turkey.[1]\n\nAfter something more than a century and a half of independence,\nTransylvania began to feel its position as an independent State to be\nan untenable one, and that its ultimate choice lay between complete\nsubjection to either Turkey or Austria. Making, therefore, a virtue of\nnecessity, and hoping thereby to escape the degradation of a conquered\nprovince, Transylvania offered itself to Austria, and was by special\ntreaty enrolled in the Crown lands of that empire in 1691.\n\nFinally, in 1867, when the present emperor, Francis Joseph, was crowned\nat Pesth, Transylvania was once more formally united to Hungary, and,\nlike the rest of the kingdom, divided into _komitats_, or counties.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] The Turkish sway does not seem to have been a very oppressive one,\nif we are to believe this account of how the Turkish tax-collector used\nto gather his tithes:\n\n\u201cIn a cart harnessed with four horses, the Turkish tax-collector used\nto drive round the villages in Transylvania; and when he cracked his\nwhip the people came running out and threw, each according to his\nmeans, a piece of money into the vat. Sometimes it was but a groat,\nsometimes even less, for there was but little money in the land at that\ntime; but the Turk was satisfied with what he got, and drove on without\nfurther ado.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nPOLITICAL.\n\n\nIt is not possible, even in the most cursory account of life and\nmanners in Hungary, to escape all mention of the conflicting political\ninterests which are making of Austro-Hungary one of the most curious\nethnographical problems ever presented by history. Taking even\nTransylvania alone, we should find quite enough to fill a whole volume\nmerely by describing the respective relations of the different races\npeopling the country. In addition to various minor nationalities, we\nfind here no less than three principal races diametrically opposed\nto each other in origin, language, habits, and religion\u2014to wit, the\nMagyars, the Saxons, and the Roumanians, whose exact numbers I have\ngiven on a preceding page. The gypsies, whose numbers figure next in\nthe list after the Saxons, need not here be taken into consideration,\nbeing absolutely devoid of all political character; but of the other\nthree races, each has its individual aspirations and interests,\nand each a political object in view which it pursues with dogged\npersistency.\n\nThe Hungarians are at present the masters of the position, having\nwealth and nobility on their side, besides the reins of government.\nSince the year 1867, when Hungary, having regained her former\nindependence with extended rights and privileges, re-established a\npurely Hungarian ministry and an independent Hungarian militia, the\nprogress achieved in the country, both intellectually and commercially,\nhas been remarkable, affording brilliant proof of what can be done by\na handful of energetic and intelligent men against a vast majority of\nother races.\n\nThe total population of Hungary, rated at fifteen millions, counts\nfour millions only of purely Hungarian individuals; the rest of the\npopulation is made up of Serbs, Croatians, Roumanians, Slovacks,\nand Germans, all of which (if we except the Germans, whose numbers\nare insignificant) are far inferior to the Magyars in point of\ncivilization; and here, as elsewhere, when intelligence and wealth are\nsupported by energy, the right of might belonged to the Hungarians,\nwho have always been able to produce skilful and efficient statesmen,\nknowing their own minds, and clear-sighted as to the country\u2019s\nrequirements.\n\nThose now at the helm have had the discernment from the very outset to\nforesee the danger likely to arise from the ever-increasing spirit of\nnationality gaining ground among the non-Hungarian inhabitants of the\nsoil. Two courses were here open to them: either seeking to conciliate\nthe various nationalities by concessions to their pretensions; or\nelse, by pursuance of an inflexible policy, to sacrifice all alien\nconsiderations to purely Hungarian interests, and impose their own\nnationality on all without exception.\n\nThis latter course was the one adopted by Hungary, who for the last ten\nyears, introducing measures as practical as they are far-sighted, has\npursued this object with undeviating consistency.\n\nFirst of all, the Hungarian tongue was everywhere established as the\nofficial language. In all schools, whether of Serbs, Roumanians,\nor Germans, it became compulsory to teach Hungarian; without a\nthorough knowledge of the language no one was competent to aspire\nto any official position; the courts of justice, even in completely\nnon-Hungarian districts, are held in Hungarian, and Hungarian likewise\nis the word of command throughout the Honved army. Such are the means\nby which the Government hopes to effect the Magyarization of all its\nsubjects.\n\nBut within the last few years we have beheld two new kingdoms spring\nup at Hungary\u2019s very door, Roumania and Serbia\u2014incentive enough to\ninduce all Roumanians and Serbs living in Hungary strenuously to resist\nthis Magyarizing influence, and inspire them with the hope of being\none day amalgamated with their more independent countrymen. In Croatia\nthe case is more or less the same, for, being united by similarities\nof language, custom, and religion to their Serbian neighbors, the\nCroats far rather incline to assimilate with these than with the\ntyrannical Magyars; while the Slovacks, continually stirred up by\nRussian, Ruthenian, and Bohemian agitators, have likewise their reasons\nfor resistance. Add to this that the German colonies, which, far more\nisolated than the races aforenamed, can never have a serious chance of\nindependent existence, are yet infatuated enough to harbor impossible\nvisions of a union with their father-land, and have consequently ranged\nthemselves among the most vehement opposers of Hungarian rule, and it\nwill be seen that the task which the Magyars have set themselves, of\nbending all these conflicting interests to their own ends, is indeed\na stupendous one. But Hungary, in self-preservation, could not have\nacted otherwise: it was for her a question of life or death; and having\nthe choice of becoming the hammer or the anvil, who can blame her for\nchoosing the former?\n\nWhether this portentous struggle will outlast our generation, or find\nits issue within the next few years, will depend upon outward political\nconstellations. So much, however, is certain, that should the Magyars\nbe able to carry through their system during a sufficient space of\ntime, they will have created a State which, by virtue of the richness\nof its soil, the extent of its domains, and the vigor of its race, will\nhave acquired incontestable right to independent existence.\n\nShould, however, the Oriental question, and with it the Panslavonian\none, bring about the inevitable collision of nationalities so long\nforeseen; should the Balkan races begin to agitate ere Hungary have\naccomplished her herculean task\u2014then her downfall is certain. The\nMagyars may, indeed, continue to exist as a nation, but not as a State,\nand their fate will be that of Poland.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhile in the one half of the Austro-Hungarian empire this system of\ncentralizing the power and assimilating all minor interests to the\nHungarian idea is being pursued with inflexible ardor, the Cis-Latin\nprovinces\u2014that is to say, Austria proper\u2014are being governed in\ndiametrically opposed fashion.\n\nTill within a few years ago, the German language was the official\none in all Cis-Latin provinces, and Germans had there everywhere the\nupperhand, as to-day the Magyars in the Trans-Latin countries; but\nsince the advent of Count Taafe\u2019s Ministry, now seven years ago, the\nsituation has completely changed. The present government, wishing to\nconciliate the different nationalities, such as Bohemians, Poles,\nRuthenians, etc., granted to each of these the free use of its own\ntongue in school and office\u2014a concession which may be said to mark the\nbeginning of Austria\u2019s decomposition. The results of this deplorable\nsystem as yet have been that the Germans, who in Austria form the\nwealthiest and most intelligent part of the population, imbittered at\nfinding themselves degraded from their former position of leaders of\nthe State, have become the most formidable opponents of the Government;\nwhile the minor races, only stimulated by the concessions received, are\never clamoring for more. The Taafe Ministry has marvellously succeeded,\nduring the incredibly short space of seven years, in establishing chaos\nin the administration of the Cis-Latin provinces, contenting no one,\nand fostering racial contentions which can have but the most melancholy\nresults for the stability of the empire.\n\nWhether a State, not only composed of such heterogeneous racial\nelements, but, moreover, governed by two such diametrically opposed\nsystems, will have strength to resist attacks from without, who can\nsay?\u2014for it still remains to be practically proved which of the two\ngovernments has chosen the right road to success. So much, however,\nis certain\u2014the Hungarians know what they want, and pursue their\npreconceived line of political action with consistent energy; while\nthe Austrian Government, never knowing its own mind, is swayed at\nhazard by whichever of the minor nationalities happens to have the\nmomentary ascendancy, and behindhand, as ever, of \u201can idea and of an\narmy,\u201d may almost be said to deserve the definition of one of its own\nstatesmen,[2] of being the \u201cland of improbabilities.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[2] The late Count Beust.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nARRIVAL IN TRANSYLVANIA\u2014FIRST IMPRESSIONS.\n\n\nThe War Office, whose ways are dark and whose mysteries are\ninscrutable, had unexpectedly decreed that we were to exchange Galicia\nfor Transylvania.\n\nThe unaccountable decisions of a short-sighted Ministry, which, without\nostensible reason, send unfortunate military families rolling about\nthe empire like gigantic foot-balls\u2014from Hungary to Poland, down to\nCroatia, and up again to Bohemia, all in one breath\u2014too often burst on\nhapless German _m\u00e9nages_ like a devastating bomb, bringing moans and\ncurses, tears and hysterics, in their train, according as the sufferer\nhappens to be of choleric or lachrymose temperament. Only those who\nhave lived in this country, and tasted of the bitter-sweets of Austrian\nmilitary life, can tell how formidable it is to be forced to pack up\neverything\u2014literally everything, from your stoutest kitchen-chairs\nto your daintiest egg-shell china\u2014half a dozen times during an equal\nnumber of years.\n\nFor my own part, however\u2014and I am aware that I am considered singular\nin my views\u2014I had little objection to being treated in this sportive\nfashion, as long as it gave me the opportunity of seeing fresh scenes\nand different types of people. There are two sides to every question, a\nsilver\u2014or at least a tin-foil\u2014lining to every leaden cloud, and it is\nsurely wiser to regard one\u2019s self as a tourist than as an exile?\n\nWhat if crockery perish and mirrors be shivered in the portentous\nflitting? Dry your eyes, and console yourself by gazing at mountains\nnew and lakes unknown. And if furniture be annihilated, and your grand\npiano-forte reduced to a wailing discord, what of that? Such loss is\nonly gain, for in return you will hear the music of unknown tongues and\nthe murmur of strange waters. If the proceeding be often illogical, the\nchange is always welcome; and on this particular occasion I secretly\nblessed the playful impetus which had sent our ball of fate thus high\nup in the air, to alight again in the land beyond the forest.\n\nIt was in the beginning of April that we started on our journey, and in\nGalicia we left everything still deep in ice and snow; but scarce had\nwe passed the Hungarian frontier, and got down on to the broad plains,\nwhen a warm, genial breeze came to meet us and tell us that winter was\ngone. The snow left us by degrees, and with it the poverty-stricken,\ncareworn expression peculiar to Poland; spring flowers ventured out\nof their hiding-places, singly at first, then in groups of twos and\nthrees, till they grew to extensive patches of gold or sapphire blue,\npressing up to the rails on either side of our way. Greasy _kaftans_\nbegan to give place to sheepskin _bundas_, and pointed mustaches became\nmore numerous than corkscrew ringlets. The air seemed full of joyous\nmusic\u2014the voice of the lark and the strains of a gypsy fiddler\nalternately taking up the song of triumph over the return of spring.\n\nThe railway communications are very badly managed, so that it was only\non the evening of the second day (fully forty-eight hours) that we\narrived at Klausenburg, where we were to stop for a night\u2019s rest. It\nwould hardly have taken longer to go from Lemberg to London.\n\nComing from the Hungarian plains, the entrance into Transylvania is\nvery striking, as the train dashes along narrow winding valleys, where,\nbelow, a green mountain torrent is breaking over gray bowlders; and\nabove, the cliffs are piled up so high and so near that only by craning\nour necks out of the carriage-window can we catch a glimpse of the\nsky above. Unfortunately, the early darkness had set in long before\nwe reached Klausenburg, so that I had no opportunity of observing the\ncountry immediately round the town.\n\nFresh from Polish hotels as we were, the inn where rooms had been\nsecured struck us as well kept and appointed, though I dare say that\nhad we come from Vienna or Paris it would have appeared just fairly\nsecond-rate. The beds were excellent, the rooms clean; the doors could\nactually be locked or bolted without superhuman effort; the bells could\nreally ring, and what was stranger yet, their summons was occasionally\nattended to.\n\nI was somewhat disappointed next morning when daylight came round again\nand showed me the environs of the town. Pretty enough, but tame and\ninsignificant, with nothing of the sublime grandeur which the entrance\ninto the land had led me to expect. The town itself differed but little\nfrom many other Hungarian towns I had seen before, and had indeed an\nexclusively Hungarian character, being the winter resort of the Magyar\naristocracy of Transylvania.\n\nThe present town of Klausenburg, or, in Hungarian, Kolosvar, lying\nthree hundred and thirty-five metres above the sea-level, and built\non the site of Napoca, a Roman city, was founded by German colonists\nabout the year 1270-1272, and was for many years exclusively a German\ntown, where Hungarians were only tolerated on sufferance and in one\nrestricted quarter. By degrees, however, these latter obtained a\npreponderance; and finally, when the Unitarian sect made of Klausenburg\nits principal seat, the Saxons withdrew in disgust from the place\naltogether.\n\nIn the year 1658, Klausenburg was besieged by the Tartars. The Turkish\nSultan having deposed George Rakoczy II. for acting against his\nwill, sent hither the barbarians to devastate the land. Burning and\npillaging, the wild hordes reached Klausenburg (then a Saxon city),\nand standing before its closed gates, they demanded a ransom of thirty\nthousand thalers for sparing the town.\n\nMartin Auer, the Klausenburg judge and a brave Saxon man, went out\nto meet the enemy with a portion of the required money. The Tartars\nthreatened to murder him for not bringing the whole of what they\nasked, but Auer divined that not even the payment of the entire thirty\nthousand thalers would save the town from pillage. The Tartars intended\nto take the sum, and then to sack the city. So he begged to be suffered\nto go as far as the town gates in order to persuade his fellow-citizens\nto deposit the rest of the money; but when he had reached within\nspeaking distance, he cried out to his countrymen,\n\n\u201cFriends and citizens! I have come hither under the feint of persuading\nyou to pay the rest of the fine demanded by the Tartars; but what I\nreally advise is for you to keep your money and resist the enemy to the\nlast; trust them not, for however much you pay, they will not spare\nyou. For my part, I gladly lay down my life for the good of my people.\u201d\nBut hardly had he finished speaking when the Tartars, guessing at the\npurport of his words, laid hold of the brave Saxon and dragged him off\nto a cruel death.\n\nA peculiar characteristic of Klausenburg are the Unitarian divorces,\nwhich bring many strangers on a flying visit to this town, where the\nconjugal knot is untied with such pleasing alacrity, and replaced at\nwill by more congenial bonds.\n\nTo attain this end the divorcing party must be a citizen of\nKlausenburg, and prove his possession to house or land in the place.\nThis, however, is by no means so complicated as it sounds, the\ndifficulty being provided for by a row of miserable hovels chronically\nadvertised for sale, and which for a nominal price are continually\npassing from hand to hand.\n\nHouse-buying, divorce, and remarriage can therefore be easily\naccomplished within a space of three or four days\u2014a very valuable\narrangement for those to whom time is money. By this convenient system,\ntherefore, if you happen to have quarrelled with your first wife on\na Sunday, you have only to take the train to Klausenburg on Monday,\nbecome Unitarian on Tuesday, buy a house on Wednesday, be divorced on\nThursday, remarried on Friday, and on Saturday sell your house and\nturn your back on the place with the new-chosen partner of your life,\nand likewise the pleasant _arri\u00e8re-pens\u00e9e_ that you can begin again _da\ncapo_ next week if so pleases you.\n\nI went to visit this street for sale, which presents a most doleful\naspect. As the houses are continually changing hands, none of the\ntransitory owners care to be at the expense of repairs or keeping in\norder; therefore rotten planking, hingeless gates, broken windows, and\ncaved-in roofs are the general order of the day. A row of card-houses\nmerely to mark this imaginary sort of proprietorship would equally\nfulfil the purpose.\n\nThe town is said to be unhealthy, and the mortality among children\nvery great. This is attributed to the impurity of the drinking-water,\nseveral of the springs which feed the town wells running through the\nchurch-yard, which lies on a hill.\n\nTo our left, about an hour after leaving Klausenburg, we catch sight\nof the Thorda Cleft, or _Spalt_\u2014one of the most remarkable natural\nphenomena which the country presents. It is nothing else but a gaping,\nunexpected rift, of three or four English miles in length, right\nthrough the limestone rocks, which rise about twelve hundred feet at\nthe highest point. Deep and gloomy caverns, formerly the abode of\nrobbers, honey-comb these rocky walls, and a wild mountain torrent\nfills up the space between them, completing a weirdly beautiful scene;\nbut on our first view of it from the railway-carriage it resembled\nnothing so much as a magnified loaf of bread severed in two by the cut\nof a gigantic knife.\n\nI do not know how geologists account for the formation of the Thorda\nCleft, but the people explain it in their own fashion by a legend:\n\nThe Hungarian King Ladislaus, surnamed the Saint, defeated and pursued\nby his bitterest enemies the Kumanes, sought refuge in the mountains.\nHe was already hard pressed for his life, and close on his heels\nfollowed the pagans. Then, in the greatest strait of need, with death\nstaring him in the face, the Christian monarch threw himself on his\nknees, praying to Heaven for assistance. And see! He forsaketh not\nthose that trust in Him! Suddenly the mountain is rent in twain, and a\ndeep, yawning abyss divides the King from his pursuers.\n\n[Illustration: THE THORDA SPALT.]\n\nThe rest of the country between Klausenburg and Hermanstadt is bleak\nand uninteresting\u2014it is, in fact, as I afterwards learned, one of the\nfew ugly stretches to be found in this land, of which it has so\noften been said that it is all beauty. A six hours\u2019 journey brought us\nto our destination, Hermanstadt, lying at the terminus of a small and\nsleepy branch railway. Unfortunately, with us also arrived the rain,\nstreaming down in torrents, and blotting out all view of the landscape\nin a persistent and merciless manner; and for full eight days this\ndismal downpour kept steadily on, trying our patience and souring our\ntempers. What more exasperating situation can there be? To have come\nto a new place and yet be unable to see it; as soon be sent into an\nunknown picture-gallery with a bandage over the eyes.\n\nThere was, however, nothing to be done meanwhile but to dodge about the\ntown under a dripping umbrella and try to gain a general idea of its\nprincipal characteristics.\n\nA little old-fashioned German town, spirited over here by supernatural\nagency; a town that has been sleeping for a hundred years, and is only\nnow slowly and reluctantly waking up to life, yawning and stretching\nitself, and listening with incredulous wonder to the account of all\nthat has happened in the outside world during its slumber\u2014such was the\nfirst impression I received of Hermanstadt. The top-heavy, overhanging\ngables, the deserted watch-towers, the ancient ramparts, the crooked\nstreets, in whose midst the broad currents of a peaceful stream partly\nfulfil the office of our newer-fashioned drains, and where frequently\nthe sprouting grass between the irregular stone pavement would afford\nvery fair sustenance for a moderate flock of sheep, all combine to give\nthe impression of a past which has scarcely gone and of a present which\nhas not yet penetrated.\n\nThere are curious old houses, with closely grated windows whose iron\nbars are fancifully wrought and twisted, sometimes in the shape of\nflowers and branches, roses and briers interlaced, which seem to\nhave sprung up here to defend the chamber of some beautiful princess\nlying spellbound in her sleep of a hundred years. There are quaint\nlittle gardens which one never succeeds in reaching, and which in\nsome inexplicable manner seem to be built up in a third or fourth\nstory; sometimes in spring we catch a glimpse of a burst of blossom\nfar overhead, or a wind-tossed rose will shower its petals upon us,\nyet we cannot approach to gather them. There is silence everywhere,\nsave for occasional vague snatches of melody issuing from a half-open\nwindow\u2014old forgotten German tunes, such as the \u201cMail\u00fcfterl\u201d or\n\u201cAnchen von Tharau,\u201d played on feeble, toneless spinnets. There are\nnooks and corners and unexpected flights of steps leading from the\nupper to the lower town, narrow passages and tunnels which connect\nopposite streets.\n\n\u201cThese are to enable the inhabitants to scuttle away from the Turks,\u201d\nI was told, my informant lowering his voice, as if we might expect\na row of turbans to appear at the other side of the passage we were\ntraversing. \u201cThere is our theatre,\u201d he continued, pointing to a dumpy\ntower bulging out of the rampart-wall. One of the principal strongholds\nthis used to be, but its shape now suited conveniently for the erection\nof a stage, and the narrow arrow-slits came in handy for the fixing-up\nof side-scenes.\n\nMany more such old fortress-towers are to be found all over the town,\nsome of which are now used as military stores, while others have been\nconverted into peaceable summer-houses. At the time when Hermanstadt\nwas still a Saxon stronghold each tower had its own name, as the\nGoldsmiths\u2019 Tower, the Tanners\u2019, the Locksmiths\u2019, etc., according to\nthe particular guild which manned it in time of siege.\n\nFrom one of these towers it was that the Sultan Amurad was killed by an\narrow when besieging the town in 1438 with an army of seventy thousand\nmen.\n\nThe whole character of Hermanstadt is thoroughly old German, reminding\nme rather of some of the Nuremberg streets or portions of Bregenz than\nof anything to be seen in Hungary.\n\nThe streams which run down the centre of each street are no doubt as\nenjoyable for the ducks who swim in them, as for young ladies desirous\nof displaying a neat pair of ankles; but for more humdrum mortals\nthey are somewhat of a nuisance. They can, it is true, be jumped in\ndry weather without particular danger to life or limb; but there are\nmany prejudiced persons who do not care to transform a sober round\nof shopping into a species of steeple-chase, and who will persist in\nfinding it hard to be unable to purchase a yard of ribbon or a packet\nof pins without taking several flying leaps over swift watercourses.\n\nMuch of the life and occupations of our excellent Saxon neighbors\nis betrayed by these telltale streamlets, which, chameleon-like,\nalter their color according to what is going on around them. Thus on\nwashing-days the rivulet in our street used to be of a bright celestial\nblue, rivalling the laughing Mediterranean in color, unless indeed the\nfamily in question were possessed of much scarlet hosiery of inferior\nquality, in which case it would assume a gory hue suggestive of secret\nmurders. When the chimney-sweep had been paying his rounds in the\nneighborhood, the current would be dark and gloomy as the turbid waters\nof the Styx; and when a pig was killed a few doors off\u2014But no; the\nsubject threatens to grow too painful, and I feel that a line must be\ndrawn at the pig.\n\n[Illustration: OLD FORTRESS-TOWER ON THE RAMPARTS AT HERMANSTADT.[3]]\n\nSuch is the every-day aspect of affairs; but in rainy weather these\nlittle brooklets, becoming obstreperous, swell out of all proportions,\nand for this frequent contingency small transportable bridges are kept\nin readiness to be placed across the principal thoroughfares of the\ntown. After a very heavy thunder-plump in summer, even these bridges do\nnot suffice, as then the whole street is flooded from side to side, and\nfor an hour or so Hermanstadt becomes Venice\u2014minus the gondolas.\n\nThese occasional floodings give rise to many amusing incidents, as that\nof an officer who, invited to dinner by the commanding general, beheld\nwith dismay the dinner-hour approach. He had only to cross the street,\nor rather the canal, for at that moment it presented the appearance of\na navigable river. Would the waves subside in time? was his anxious\nquestion as he gazed at the clock in growing suspense, and dismally\nsurveyed his beautifully fitting patent-leather boots. No, the waves\ndid not subside, and no carriage was to be procured, the half-dozen\n_fiacres_ of which Hermanstadt alone could boast being already engaged.\nThe clock struck the quarter. \u201cWhat is to be done?\u201d moaned the unhappy\nman in agony of spirit, while the desperate alternatives of swimming or\nof suicide began to dance before his fevered brain. \u201cA boat, a boat, a\nkingdom for a boat!\u201d he repeated, mechanically, when it struck him that\nthe quotation might as well be taken literally in this case, and that\nin default of a boat, he had three good steeds in his stables. \u201cSaddle\nmy horse\u2014my tallest one!\u201d he cried, excitedly; \u201cI am saved!\u201d\u2014and so\nhe was. The gallant steed bore him through the roaring flood, bringing\nhim high and dry to the door of his host, with patent boots intact.\n\n * * * * *\n\nMeanwhile\u2014to return to the subject of my first days at Hermanstadt\u2014the\nrain had continued to fall for a whole week, and I was beginning to\nlose all patience. \u201cI don\u2019t believe in the mountains you all tell me\nabout!\u201d I felt inclined to say, when my first eight days had shown me\nnothing but leaden clouds and dull gray mists; but even while I thought\nit, the clouds were rolling away, and bit by bit a splendid panorama\nwas unfolding before my eyes.\n\nSure enough, they were there, the mountains I had just been insulting\nby my disbelief, a long glittering row of snowy peaks shining in the\noutbursting sunshine, so delicately transparent in their loveliness,\nso harmonious in their blended coloring, so sublimely grand in their\nsweeping lines, that I could have begged their pardon for having\ndoubted their existence!\n\nAs one beautiful picture often suffices to light up a dingy apartment,\nso one lovely view gives life and interest to a monotonous county\ntown. It takes the place of theatres, art galleries, and glittering\nshop-windows; it acts at times as a refreshing medicine or a\nstimulating tonic; and though I saw it daily, it used to strike me\nafresh with a sense of delightful surprise whenever I stepped round the\ncorner of my street, and stood in face of this glorious tableau.\n\nThe town of Hermanstadt lies in the centre of a large and fertile\nplain, intersected by the serpentine curves of the river Cibin, and\ndotted over by well-built Saxon villages. To the north and west the\nland is but gently undulating, while to the east and south the horizon\nis bounded by this imposing chain of the Fogarascher Hochgebirg,\ntheir highest peaks but seldom free from snow, their base streaked by\nalternate stretches of oak, beech, and pine forests.\n\nAt one point this forest, which must formerly have covered the entire\nplain, reaches still to the farther end of the town, melting into the\npromenade, so that you can walk in the shade of time-honored oak-trees\nright to the foot of the mountains\u2014a distance of some eight English\nmiles.\n\nTo complete my general sketch of the town of Hermanstadt, I shall\nmerely mention that although our house was situated in one of the\nliveliest streets, yet the passing through of a cart or carriage\nwas a rare event, which, in its unwonted excitement, instinctively\ncaused every one to rush to their windows; that the pointed irregular\npavement, equally productive of corns and destructive to _chaussure_,\nseems to be the remnant of some medi\u00e6val species of torture; that gas\nis unknown, and the town but insufficiently lighted by dingy petroleum\nlamps.\n\nProbably by the time that Hermanstadt fully wakens up to life again,\nit will discover to its astonishment that it has slept through a whole\nera, and skipped the gas stage of existence altogether, for it will\nthen be time to replace the antediluvian petroleum lamps, not by the\nalready old-fashioned gas ones, but by the newer and more brilliant\nrays of electric light.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[3] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian\nSociety.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nSAXON HISTORICAL FEAST\u2014LEGEND.\n\n\nAs I happened to arrive at Hermanstadt[4] precisely seven hundred years\nlater than the German colonists who had founded that city, I had the\ngood-luck to assist at a national festival of peculiarly interesting\ncharacter.\n\nOf the town\u2019s foundation, old chronicles tell us how the outwanderers,\non reaching the large and fertile plain where it now stands, drove two\nswords crosswise into the ground, and thereon took their oath to be\ntrue and faithful subjects of the monarch who had called them hither,\nand with their best heart\u2019s-blood to defend the land which had given\nthem shelter. The two swords on which this oath was registered were\ncarefully preserved, and sent, one to Broos and the other to Draas\u2014two\ntowns marking the extremities of the Saxonland\u2014there to be treasured\nup forever. But in consequence of evil times which came over the\nland, and of the war and bloodshed which devastated it, one of these\nswords\u2014that of Broos\u2014got lost. But we are told that the other is\nstill to be seen in the church of Draas. It is of man\u2019s length, from\nwhich it is argued that these Saxon immigrants were well-grown and\nvigorous men.\n\nWho this Herman was who gave his name to the city can only be\nconjectured\u2014probably one of the leaders of the little band, for, as\nwe see by the names of some of the surrounding villages, each has been\ncalled after some old German, whose identity has not transpired, as\nNeppendorf from Eppo, Hammersdorf from Humbert, etc.\n\nSome old chronicles, indeed, tell us that when the Hungarian King\nStephen I. was married to Gisela, sister of the German King Henry\nII., there came in her suite a poor Baron Herman, along with his\nfamily, from Nuremberg to Transylvania, and he it was who founded the\nsettlement which later developed into the present town of Hermanstadt.\nIt is said that the first settlement was formed in 1202; likewise that\nthe said Herman lived to the age of a hundred and twenty-five, and was\nthe progenitor of a renowned and powerful race.\n\nAnother legend accounts for the foundation of Hermanstadt with the\nold well-worn tale which has done duty for so many other cities, of a\nshepherd who, when allowed to take as much land as he could compass\nwith a buffalo\u2019s hide, cut up the skin into narrow strips, and so\ncontrived to secure a handsome property. This particular sharp-witted\npeasant was, by profession, a keeper of swine; and there is a fountain\nin the lower town which still goes by the name of the _funtine\nporcolor_, or swineherd\u2019s well.\n\nWith all these conflicting statements staring one in the face, there\ndid not seem to be (so far as I could learn) any very authentic reason\nfor supposing Hermanstadt to have been founded precisely in 1184; but\neverybody had apparently made up their minds that such was the case,\nso the date was to be commemorated by a costumed procession, extensive\npreparations for which kept the quiet little town in a state of\nfermentation for many weeks beforehand.\n\nAll the tradesmen of the place seemed to have suddenly gone mad, and\ncould hardly be induced to attend to the every-day wants of commonplace\nmortals whose ancestors had not the _prestige_ of a seven-centuried\nexpatriation. If I went to order a pair of walking-boots, I was\ndisdainfully informed that I could not hope for them that week, as\nall hands were employed in fashioning high-peaked leather boots of\nyellow pig-skin for Herman and his retainers. If I looked in at the\nglove-maker\u2019s I fared no better, for he had lost all interest in pale\nkids or _gants de su\u00e8de_; and the solitary pair of Sarah Bernhardt\ngloves, hitherto the pride of his show-window, had been ruthlessly cast\naside to make way for ponderous gauntlets of heroic dimensions. The\ntailors would have nothing to do with vulgar coat or trousers, but had\nsoared unanimously to the loftier regions of jerkins and galligaskins;\neven the tinsmith had lost his mental equilibrium, apparently laboring\nunder the delusion that he was an ancient armorer who could not\npossibly demean himself by mending a simple modern pudding-mould.\n\nWe unfortunate strangers, bootless, gloveless, coatless, and\npuddingless as we were in those days, had a very hard time of it\nindeed while this national fever was at its height, and keenly felt\nthe terrible disadvantage of not having been born as ancient Saxons.\nAt last, however, the preparations were complete, and forgetting our\nprivations, we were fain to acknowledge the sight to be one of the\nmost curious and exceptional we had ever witnessed. The old-fashioned\nstreets made a fitting background for this medi\u00e6val pageant, in which\npeasants and burghers, on foot and on horseback; groups of maidens,\nquaintly attired, plying the distaff as they went along; German\nmatrons, with jewelled head-dresses and cunningly wrought golden\ngirdles; gayly ornamented chariots, bearing the fruits of the field or\nthe trophies of the chase, passed us in solemn procession; while on\na sylvan stage erected in the depths of the old oak forest a simple\nbut moving drama set forth the words and actions of the forefathers\nof those very actors\u2014the German colonists who, seven hundred years\npreviously, had come hither to seek a home in the wild Hungarian\nforests.\n\nThe costumes and procession had been arranged by native artists, and,\nas a work of art, no doubt many parts of the performance were open to\ncriticism. Some of our fashionable painters would assuredly have turned\nsick and faint at sight of the unfortunate combinations of coloring\nwhich frequently marred the effect of otherwise correctly arranged\ncostumes. Whoever has lived in large towns must have seen such things\nbetter done, over and over again; but what gave this festival a unique\nstamp of originality, not to be attained by any amount of mere artistic\narrangement, was the feeling which penetrated the whole scene and\nanimated each single actor.\n\n[Illustration: MOUNTED PEASANTS, FROM THE HISTORICAL PROCESSION.]\n\nIt is difficult to conceive, as it is impossible to describe, the deep\nand peculiar impression caused by this display of patriotism on the\npart of Germans who have never seen their father-land\u2014Rhinelanders who\nare not likely ever to behold the blue rushing waters of the Rhine.\nUntil now we had always been taught that Germany was inhabited by\nGermans, France by Frenchmen, and England by Englishmen; but here we\nhave such a complex medley of nationalities as wellnigh to upset all\nour school-room teaching. Listening to the words of the German drama,\nwe can easily fancy ourselves at Cologne or Nuremberg, were it not for\nthe dark faces of Roumanian peasants pushing forward to look at the\nunwonted scene, and for the Hungarian uniforms of the gendarmes who are\npushing them back.\n\n * * * * *\n\nMore primitive but not less interesting than the historical procession\njust described is the way in which the arrival of these German\nimmigrants is still yearly commemorated in the village of Nadesch.\nThere, on a particular day of the year, all the lads dress up as\npilgrims, in long woollen garments, rope girdles, and with massive\nstaves in their hands. Thus attired, they assemble round the flag;\na venerable old man takes the lead, beating the drum; and, singing\npsalms, they go in procession down the street, now and then entering\nsome particularly spacious court-yard, where a dance is executed\nand refreshments partaken of. A visit to the pastor is also _de\nrigueur_, and the procession only breaks up at evenfall, after\nhaving traversed the whole village from end to end. When questioned\nas to the signification of this custom, the people answer, \u201cThus\ncame our fathers, free people like ourselves, from Saxonia into this\nland, behind the flag and drum, and with staves in their hands. And\nbecause we have not ourselves invented this custom, neither did our\nancestors invent it, but have transmitted it to us from generation to\ngeneration, so do we, too, desire to hand it down to our children and\ngrandchildren.\u201d\n\nHow these Germans came to settle so many hundred miles away from\ntheir own country has also formed the subject of numerous tales, none\nprettier nor more suggestive than their identification with the lost\nchildren of Hameln\u2014a well-known German legend, rendered familiar to\nEnglish readers through Browning\u2019s poem.\n\n\u201cIt was in the year 1284\u201d (so runs the tale) \u201cthat, in the little town\nof Hameln, in Westphalia, a strange individual made his appearance.\nHe wore a coat of cloth of many colors, and announced himself as a\nrat-catcher, engaging to rid the town of all rats and mice for a\ncertain sum of money. The bargain being struck, the rat-catcher drew\nout of his pocket a small pipe, and began whistling; whereupon from\nevery barn, stable, cellar, and garret there issued forth a prodigious\nnumber of rats and mice, collecting in swarms round the stranger, all\nintent upon his music.\n\n\u201cAll the vermin of the place being thus assembled, the piper, still\nplaying, proceeded to the banks of the river Weser, and rolling up his\nbreeches above the knee, he waded into the water, blindly followed by\nrats and mice, which were speedily drowned in the rushing current.\n\n\u201cBut the burghers of Hameln, seeing themselves thus easily delivered\nfrom their plague, repented the heavy sum of money they had promised,\nputting off the payment, under various excuses, whenever the stranger\nclaimed the reward of his labors.\n\n\u201cAt last the piper grew angry and went away, cursing the town which had\nbehaved so dishonorably; but he was seen to haunt the neighborhood,\ndressed as a huntsman, with high-peaked scarlet cap; and at daybreak on\nthe 26th of June, feast of St. John, the shrill note of his pipe was\nagain heard in the streets of Hameln.\n\n\u201cThis time neither rats nor mice responded to the summons, for all\nvermin had perished in the waters of the Weser; but the little children\ncame running out of the houses, struggling out of their parents\u2019 arms,\nand could not be withheld from following the sinister piper. In this\nway he led the infantine procession to the foot of a neighboring hill,\ninto which he disappeared along with the children he had beguiled.\nAmong these was the half-grown-up daughter of the burgomaster of\nHameln, a maiden of wondrous grace and beauty.\n\n\u201cA nurse-maid who, with a little one in her arms, had been irresistibly\ncompelled to join the procession, found strength enough at the last\nmoment to tear herself away, and, reaching the town in breathless\nhaste, brought the sad news to the bereaved parents. Also one little\nboy, who had run out in his shirt, feeling cold, went back to fetch his\njacket, and was likewise saved from his comrades\u2019 fate; for by the time\nhe regained the hill-side the opening had closed up, leaving no trace\nof the mysterious piper nor of the hundred and thirty children who had\nfollowed him.\u201d\n\nNor were they ever found again by the heart-broken parents; but\npopular tradition has averred the Germans who about that time made\ntheir appearance in Transylvania to be no other than the lost children\nof Hameln, who, having performed their long journey by subterranean\npassages, reissued to the light of day through the opening of a cavern\nknown as the Almescher H\u00f6hle, in the north-east of Transylvania.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[4] The Hungarian name of is Nagy-Szeben, and its Roumanian appellation\nSibiiu.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nTHE SAXONS: CHARACTER\u2014EDUCATION\u2014RELIGION.\n\n\nWhoever has lived among these Transylvanian Saxons, and has taken\nthe trouble to study them, must have remarked that not only seven\ncenturies\u2019 residence in a strange land and in the midst of antagonistic\nraces has made them lose none of their identity, but that they are,\nso to say, _plus catholiques que le pape_\u2014that is, more thoroughly\nTeutonic than the Germans living to-day in the original father-land.\nAnd it is just because of the adverse circumstances in which they were\nplaced, and of the opposition and attacks which met them on all sides,\nthat they have kept themselves so conservatively unchanged. Feeling\nthat every step in another direction was a step towards the enemy,\nfinding that every concession they made threatened to become the link\nof a captive\u2019s chain, no wonder they clung stubbornly, tenaciously,\nblindly to each peculiarity of language, dress, and custom, in a manner\nwhich has probably not got its parallel in history. Left on their\nnative soil, and surrounded by friends and countrymen, they would\nundoubtedly have changed as other nations have changed. Their isolated\nposition and the peculiar circumstances of their surroundings have\nkept them what they were. Like a faithful portrait taken in the prime\nof life, the picture still goes on showing the bloom of the cheek and\nthe light of the eye, long after Time\u2019s destroying hand, withering the\noriginal, has caused it to lose all resemblance to its former self; and\nit is with something of the feeling of gazing at such an old portrait\nthat we contemplate these German people who dress like old bass-reliefs\nof the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and continue to hoard up\nprovisions within the church walls, as in the days when besieged by\nTurk or Tartar. Such as these Saxons wandered forth from the far west\nto seek a home in a strange land, such we find them again to-day, seven\ncenturies later, like a corpse frozen in a glacier which comes to light\nunchanged after a long lapse of years.\n\nFrom an artistic point of view these Saxons are decidedly an unlovely\nrace. There is a want of flowing lines and curves and a superfluity\nof angles about them, most distressing to a sensitive eye. The women\nmay usually be described as having rather good hair, indifferent\ncomplexions, narrow shoulders, flat busts, and gigantic feet. Their\nfeatures, of a sadly unfinished wooden appearance, irresistibly\nreminded me of the figures of Noah and his family out of a sixpenny\nNoah\u2019s ark. There is something Noah\u2019s-ark-like, too, about their\nattire, which, running entirely in hard straight lines, with nothing\ngraceful or flowing about them, no doubt helped to produce this\nScriptural impression. The Saxon peasant is stiff without dignity, just\nas he is honest without being frank. Were the whole world peopled by\nthis race alone, our dictionaries might have been lightened of a good\nmany unnecessary words, such as elegance, grace, fascination, etc.\n\nOf course, now and then one comes across an exception to this general\nrule and finds a pretty girl, like a white poppy in a field of red\nones; but such exceptions are few and far between, and I have remarked\nthat on an average it takes three well-populated villages to produce\ntwo bonnie lassies.\n\nThe men are on the whole pleasanter to look at than the fair sex,\nhaving often a certain ungainly picturesqueness of their own, reminding\none of old Flemish paintings.\n\nSomething hard and grasping, avaricious and mistrustful, characterizes\nthe expression of most Saxon peasants. For this, however, they are\nscarcely to blame, any more than for their flat busts and large\nfeet\u2014their character, and consequently their expression, being but\nthe natural result of circumstances, the upshot of seven centuries of\nstubborn resistance and warfare with those around them. \u201cWe Saxons\nhave always been cheated or betrayed whenever we have had to do with\nstrangers,\u201d they say; and no doubt they are right. The habit of\nmistrust developed almost to an instinct cannot easily be got rid of,\neven if there be no longer cause to justify it.\n\nThis defensive attitude towards strangers which pervades the Saxons\u2019\nevery word and action makes it, however, difficult to feel prepossessed\nin their favor. Taken in the sense of antiquities, they are no doubt\nan extremely interesting people, but viewed as living men and women,\nnot at first sight attractive to a stranger; and while compelling our\nadmiration by the solid virtues and independent spirit which have kept\nhim what he is, the Saxon peasant often shows to disadvantage beside\nhis less civilized, less educated, and also less honest neighbor, the\nRoumanian.\n\nAs a natural consequence of this mistrust, the spirit of speculation\nis here but little developed\u2014for speculation cannot exist without some\ndegree of confidence in one\u2019s neighbor. They do not care to risk one\nflorin in order to gain ten, but are content to keep a firm grasp on\nwhat they have got. There are no beggars at all to be seen in Saxon\ntowns, and one never hears of large fortunes gained or lost. Those who\nhappen to be wealthy have only become so by the simple but somewhat\ntedious process of spending half their income only, during a period of\nhalf a century; and after they have in this manner achieved wealth, it\ndoes not seem to profit them much, for they go on living as they did\nbefore, nourishing themselves on scanty fare, and going to bed early in\norder to save the expense of lights.\n\nThe townsfolk are weaker and punier editions of the villagers,\nfrequently showing marks of a race degenerated from constant\nintermarriage; and, stripped of their ancient Noah\u2019s-ark costume, lose\nmuch of their attraction.\n\nThey are essentially a _bourgeois_ nation, possessing neither titles\nnor nobility of their own, although many can boast of lengthy\npedigrees. Those who happen to be _adel_ (noble) have only obtained\ntheir _von_ in some exceptional manner in later times, and the\nfive-pointed crown seems somewhat of an anomaly.\n\nAlthough the Saxons talk of Germany as their father-land, yet their\npatriotic feeling is by no means what we are accustomed to understand\nby that word. Their attachment to the old country would seem rather to\nbe of prosaic than romantic sort. \u201cWe attach ourselves to the German\nnation and language,\u201d they say, endeavoring to explain the complicated\nnature of their patriotism, \u201cbecause it offers us the greatest\nadvantages of civilization and culture; we should equally have attached\nourselves to any other nation which offered us equal advantages,\nwhether that nation had happened to be Hungarian, French, or Chinese.\nIf the Hungarians had happened to be more civilized than ourselves, we\nshould have been amalgamated with them long ago.\u201d[5]\n\nSuch an incomprehensible sort of patriot would probably have been\ncondemned by Scott to go down to his grave \u201cunwept, unhonored, and\nunsung.\u201d But I suppose that allowances must be made for their peculiar\nposition, and that it is difficult to realize what it feels like to be\na grafted plant.\n\nThere is one village in Transylvania which, isolated in the midst of\na Hungarian population, offers an instance of a more complex species\nof nationality than any I have yet heard of. This is the village of\nSzass Lona, near Klausenburg, which used to be Saxon, but where the\npeople have gradually forgotten their own mother-tongue and can only\nspeak Hungarian. There is, however, no drop of Hungarian blood in\ntheir veins, as they marry exclusively among themselves; and they have\nretained alike the German type of feature and the national Saxon dress\nintact in all its characteristics. Also the family names throughout the\nvillage are German ones\u2014as Hindrik, Tod, J\u00e4ger, Hubert, etc.\n\nThough none of these people can speak a word of German, and no one can\nremember the time when German was spoken in the village, yet during the\nrevolution of 1848 these Hungarian-speaking Germans rose to a man to\nfight against the Magyars.\n\nThe Saxon dialect\u2014totally distinct from modern German\u2014has, I am told,\nmost resemblance to the patois spoken by the peasants near Luxemburg.\nIt is harsh and unpleasant to the ear, but has in some far-off and\nindefinable way a certain caricatured likeness to English. Often have\nI been surprised into turning round sharply in the street to see\nwho could be speaking English behind me, only to discover two Saxon\npeasants comparing notes as to the result of their marketing.\n\nThe language, however, differs considerably in different neighborhoods;\nand a story is told of natives of two different Saxon villages, who,\nbeing unable to understand one another, were reduced to conversing in\nRoumanian.\n\nThe _Sachsengraf_ (Count), or Comes, was formerly the head of the\nnation, chosen by the people, and acknowledging no other authority\nbut that of the King. He was at once the judge and the leader of his\npeople, and had alone the power of pronouncing sentence of death, in\ntoken of which four fir-trees were planted in front of his house.\nThe original meaning of this I take to be, that in olden times the\nmalefactors were executed on the spot, and suspended on these very\ntrees, in full sight of the windows\u2014a pleasant sight, truly, for the\nladies of the family.\n\nNowadays the Saxon Comes has shrunk to a mere shadow of his former\nself; for though there is still nominally a Comes who resides at\nHermanstadt, his position is as unlike what it used to be as those four\ntrumpery-looking little Christmas-trees stuck before his door resemble\nthe portentous gallows of which they are the emblem. It is, in fact,\nmerely as a harmless concession to Saxon national feeling that the\ntitle has been preserved at all\u2014a mere meaningless appendage tacked on\nto the person of the Hungarian _obergespan_, or sheriff.\n\nThe principal strength of these Saxon colonists has always lain in\ntheir schools, whose conservation they jealously guard, supporting\nthem entirely from their own resources, and stubbornly refusing all\nhelp from the Government. They do not wish to accept favors, they say,\nand thereby incur obligations. These schools had formerly the name of\nbeing among the very best in Austria; and I have heard of many people\nwho from a distance used to send their children to study there, some\ntwenty to thirty years ago. That this reputation is, however, highly\noverrated is an undoubted fact, as I know from sad experience with\nmy own children, though it is not easy to determine where the fault\nexactly lies. The Saxons declare their schools to have suffered from\nHungarian interference, which limits their programme in some respects,\nwhile insisting on the Hungarian language being taught in every class;\nbut many people consider the Saxons themselves quite as much to blame\nfor the bad results of their teaching. Doubtless, in this as in other\nrespects, it is their exaggerated conservatism which is at fault; and,\nkeeping no account of the age we live in, what was reckoned good some\nthirty years ago may be called bad to-day.\n\nAnyhow, between the reforming Hungarians and the conservative Saxons,\nunfortunate stranger boys have a very hard time of it indeed at the\nHermanstadt Gymnasium, and it is a fact beginning to be generally\nacknowledged that children coming to Austria from Transylvanian schools\nare thrown two classes back.\n\nBut the whole question of education in Austria is such a provoking\nand unsatisfactory one that it is hardly possible to speak of it with\neither patience or politeness; and by none are its evil effects more\ndisastrously felt than by hapless military families, who, compelled\nto shift about in restless fashion from land to land, are alternately\nobliged to conform their children to the most opposite requirements of\nutterly different systems.\n\nThus the son of an officer serving in the Austrian army may be obliged\nto study half a dozen different languages (in addition to Latin,\nGreek, German, and French) during a hardly greater number of years. He\nmust learn Italian because his father is serving at Trieste, and may be\ngetting on fairly well with that language when he is abruptly called\nupon to change it for Polish, since Cracow is henceforth the town where\nhe is to pursue his studies. But hardly has he got familiar with the\nsoft Slave tongue when, ten to one, his accent will be ruined for life\nby an untimely transition to Bohemia, where the hideous Czech language\nhas become _de rigueur_. Slavonian and Ruthenian may very likely have\ntheir turn at the unfortunate infant before he has attained the age\nof twelve, unless the distracted father be reduced to sacrifice his\nmilitary career to the education of his son.\n\nIt is not of our own individual case that I would speak thus strongly,\nfor our boys, being burdened with only seven languages (to wit, Polish,\nEnglish, German, French, Greek, Latin, and Hungarian), would scarcely\nbe counted ill-used, as Austrian boys go, having escaped Bohemian,\nSlavonian, Ruthenian, and Italian; yet assuredly to us it was a very\nhappy day indeed when we made a bonfire of the Magyar school-books,\nand ceased quaking at sight of the formidable individual who taught\nHungarian at the Hermanstadt Gymnasium.\n\nO happy English school-boys, you know not how much you have to be\nthankful for!\u2014your own noble language, adorned with a superficial\nlayer of Greek and Latin, and at most supplemented by a little\natrocious French, being sufficient to set you up for life. Think of\nthose others who are pining in a complicated net-work of Bohemian,\nPolish, Hungarian, Slavonian, Italian, Croatian, and Ruthenian fetters;\nthink of them, and drop a sympathizing tear over their mournful lot!\n\nThat the Saxon school-professors are well-educated, intelligent men is\nno proof in favor of the schools themselves, for here another motive is\nat work, namely, no man can aspire to be pastor without passing through\nthe university, and then practising for several years at a public\ngymnasium; and as these places are very lucrative, there is a great\nrun upon them. Now, as formerly, most young men are sent to complete\ntheir studies at some German university town\u2014Heidelberg, G\u00f6ttingen,\nor Jena\u2014an undertaking which, before the days of railroads, must have\nrequired considerable resolution to enable those concerned to encounter\nthe hardships of a journey which took from ten to twelve weeks to\nperform. It was usually conducted in the following manner: Some\nenterprising Roumanian peasant harnessed twelve to fourteen horses\nto some lumbering vehicle, and, laden with a dozen or more students\nthirsting for knowledge, pilgered thus to the German university town\nsome eight or nine hundred miles off. Returning to Transylvania some\nsix months later, he brought back another batch of young men who had\ncompleted their studies.\n\nThe weight which these Saxons have always attached to education may be\ngathered from the fact that in almost each of their fortified churches,\nor burgs, there was a tower set apart for the inculcation of knowledge,\nand to this day many such are still in existence, and known as the\n_schul thurm_ (school-tower). Even when the enemy was standing outside\nthe walls, the course of learning was not allowed to be interrupted. It\nmust have been a strange sight and a worthy subject for some historical\npainter to see this crowd of old-fashioned fair-haired children, all\nhuddled together within the dingy turret; some of the bolder or more\ninquisitive flaxen heads peering out of the narrow gullet-windows at\nthe turbans and crescents below, while the grim-faced mentor, stick in\nhand, recalls them to order, vainly endeavoring to fix their wandering\nattention each time a painim arrow whizzed past the opening.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhy these Saxons, who have shown themselves so rigidly conservative\non all other points, should nevertheless have changed their religion,\nmight puzzle a stranger at first sight. The mere spirit of imitation\nwould not seem sufficient to account for it, and Luther\u2019s voice could\nhardly have penetrated to this out-of-the-way corner of Europe at a\ntime when telegraphs and telephones were yet unknown. The solution\nof this riddle is, however, quite simple, and lies close at hand,\nwhen we remember that even before the Reformation all those preparing\nfor the Sacerdoce went to Germany to complete their studies. These,\nconsequently, caught the reforming infection, and brought it back fresh\nfrom headquarters, acting, in fact, as so many living telephones, who,\nconveying the great reformer\u2019s voice from one end of Europe to the\nother, promulgated his doctrines with all the enthusiasm and fire of\nyouth.\n\nEvery year thus brought fresh recruits from the scene of action; no\nwonder, then, that the original Catholic clerical party grew daily\nsmaller and weaker, and proved unable to stem this powerful new\ncurrent. The contest was necessarily an unequal one: on one side,\nimpassioned rhetoric and the fire of youth; on the other, the drowsy\nresistance of a handful of superannuated men, grown rusty in their\ntheology and lax in the exercise of their duties.\n\nIn the year 1523 Luther\u2019s teaching had already struck such firm\nroots at Hermanstadt that the Archbishop of Gran, to whose diocese\nHermanstadt then belonged, obtained a royal decree authorizing the\ndestruction of all Lutheran books and documents as pernicious and\nheretical. Accordingly an archiepiscopal commissary was despatched\nto Hermanstadt, and all burghers were compelled to deliver up their\nProtestant books and writings to be burned in the public market-place.\nIt is related that on this occasion, when the bonfire was at its\nhighest, the wind, seizing hold of a semi-consumed Psalter, carried\nit with such force against the head of the bishop\u2019s emissary that,\nseverely burned, he fainted away on the spot. The book was thrown back\ninto the fire where it soon burned to ashes; but on the third day after\nthe accident the commissary died of the wounds received.\n\nAnother anecdote relating to the Reformation is told of the village\nof Schass, which, while Luther\u2019s doctrine was being spread in\nTransylvania, despatched one of its parishioners, named Strell, to\nRome in quest of a Papal indulgence for the community. More than\nonce already had Strell been sent to Rome on a like errand, and each\ntime, on returning home with the granted indulgence for his people,\nhe was received by a solemn procession of all the villagers, bearing\nflying banners and singing sacred hymns. He was, therefore, not a\nlittle surprised this time, on approaching the village, to see the\nroad deserted before him, though he had given warning of his intended\narrival. The bells were dumb, and not a soul came out to meet him; but\nhis astonishment reached its climax when, on nearing the church, he\nperceived the images of the saints he had been wont to revere lying\nin the mire outside the church walls. To his wondering question he\nreceived the reply that in his absence the villagers had changed their\nfaith. Strell, however, did not imitate their example, but raising\nup the holy images from their inglorious position, he gave them an\nhonorable place in his house, remaining Catholic to the end of his days.\n\nNevertheless, in spite of many such incidents, the change of religion\nin Transylvania brought about fewer disturbances than in most other\nplaces. There was little strife or bloodshed, and none of that fierce\nfanaticism which has so often injured and weakened both causes. The\nSaxon peasantry did this as they do everything else, calmly and\npractically; and the Government permitting each party to follow its\nown religion unmolested, in a comparatively short time peace and order\nwere re-established in the interior of the country.\n\nWithout wishing to touch on such a very serious subject as the\nrespective merits of the two religions, or attempting to obtrude\npersonal convictions, it seems to me, from a purely artistic point\nof view, that the sterner and simpler Protestant religion fits these\nindependent and puritanical-looking Saxon folk far better than the\nancient faith can have done; while the more graceful forms of the\nOriental Church, its mystic ceremonies and arbitrary doctrines, are\nunquestionably better adapted to an ardent, ignorant, and superstitious\nrace like the Roumanian one.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[5] This, however, may be doubted, as I do not believe that, under any\ncircumstances, a natural amalgamation between Germans and Magyars could\never have come about. There is a too deeply inrooted dislike between\nthe two races.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nSAXON VILLAGES.\n\n\nSaxon villages are as easily distinguished from Roumanian ones,\ncomposed of wretched earthen hovels, as from Hungarian hamlets, which\nare marked by a sort of formal simplicity. The Saxon houses are larger\nand more massive; each one, solidly built of stone, stands within a\nroomy court-yard surrounded by a formidable stone wall. Building and\nrepairing is the Saxon peasant\u2019s favorite employment, and the Hungarian\nsays of him ironically that when the German has nothing better to do he\npulls down his house and builds it up again by way of amusement.\n\nEach village is usually formed of one long principal street, extending\nsometimes fully an English mile along the high-road; only when the\nvillage happens to be built at a junction of several roads, the streets\nform a cross or triangle, in the centre of which mostly stands the\nchurch. From this principal street or streets there sometimes branch\noff smaller by-streets on either side; but these are seldom more than\nfive or six houses deep, for the Saxon lays great stress on the point\nof locality, and the question of high-street or by-street is to him\nevery whit as important as the alternative of Grosvenor Square or City\nwould be to a Londoner.\n\nFormerly no Roumanians or gypsies were tolerated within Saxon villages,\nbut of late these people have been gradually creeping nearer, and now\nmost German villages have at one end a shabby sort of _faubourg_, or\nsuburb, composed of Roumanian and gypsy hovels.\n\nThe principal street, often broad enough to admit of eight carts\ndriving abreast, presents but little life at first sight. The windows\nof the broad gable-end next the street have often got their shutters\nclosed, for this is the best room, reserved for state occasions. Only\nwhen we open the gate and step into the large court-yard can we gain\nsome insight into the life and occupations of the inhabitants.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON PEASANT HOUSE.]\n\nNear to the entrance stands the deep draw-well, and all round are built\nthe sheds and stables for sheep, horses, cows, and buffaloes, while\nbehind these buildings another gate generally opens into a spacious\nkitchen-garden. From the court five or six steps lead up to a sort of\nopen veranda, where the peasant can sit in summer and overlook his\nfarm laborers. From this passage the kitchen is entered, to the right\nand left of which are respectively the common and the best room, both\ngood-sized apartments, with two windows each. In addition to these\nthere is often a smaller one-windowed room, in which reside a young\nmarried couple, son or daughter of the house, who have not yet had\ntime to found their own hearth-stone; or else there lives here the\nold widowed father or mother, who has abdicated in favor of the young\npeople. A ladder or rough flight of steps leads to the loft; and below\nthe veranda is the entrance to the cellar, where stores of pickled\nsauerkraut, the dearly beloved national dish of the Saxons, and casks\nof their pearly amber-colored wine, are among the principal features of\nthe provisions.\n\nIn the village street, in front of each peasant house, there used\nformerly to stand a large fruit-tree\u2014pear, apple, or sometimes\nmulberry\u2014whose spreading branches cast a pleasant shade over the stone\nbench placed there for the convenience of those who like to enjoy a\n\u201ccrack\u201d with the neighbors on fine evenings after the work is done.\nMany of these trees have now been cut down, for it was found that the\ngodless gypsies used to make their harvest there while the pious Saxons\nwere at church; or else unmannerly school-urchins in pelting down the\nfruit with stones would sometimes hit the window-panes instead, and\nthus cause still greater damage. The result is, therefore, that most\nSaxon villages now present a somewhat bleak and staring appearance, and\nthat on a burning summer day it is not easy to find a shady bench on\nwhich to rest a while.\n\nIt may be of interest here to quote the statistical figures relating to\na large and flourishing village in the north-east of Transylvania:\n\nHouses, 326 (of these 32 are earth hovels).\n\nHeads of population, 1416\u2014of these the proportion of different\nnationalities as follows:\n\n Saxons\u2014481 male, 499 female.\n Hungarians\u20142.\n Roumanians\u2014118 male, 83 female (mostly farm-servants).\n Tziganes\u2014104 men, 106 women.\n Jews\u201414 male, 9 female.\n\nIn this village, which is exceptionally rich in cattle, the different\nanimals number:\n\n Bulls 3\n Cows 357\n Young cattle 575\n Oxen 1200\n Buffaloes 120\n Horses 475\n Goats 182\n Pigs 734\n Sheep 1000-1500\n\nMost of the sheep in Transylvania are in the hands of the Roumanians,\nwhile the pigs invariably belong to the Saxons. Among these latter,\n1000 men possess on an average 215 horses, while among the Szekels only\n51 will be found to the same number of heads.\n\nThe Saxon peasant, being an enemy to all modern improvements, goes on\ncultivating his fields much as did his forefathers six hundred years\nago. Clinging to the antiquated superstition that a field is the\nmore productive the longer it lies fallow, each piece of ground is\nploughed and sowed once only in three years; and having, owing to the\ninsufficient population, rarely enough hands to till his land himself,\nhe is obliged to call in the assistance of Roumanian farm-servants.\n\nOther people, too, have taken advantage of this agricultural somnolency\nof the Saxons; so the Bulgarians, who pilger hither in troops every\nspring-time to rent the Saxons\u2019 superfluous fields, bringing with them\ntheir own tools and seed, and in autumn, having realized the profit of\ntheir labor, wend their way back to their homes and families. The great\nspecialty of these Bulgarian farmers is onions, of which they contrive\nto rear vast crops, far superior in size and quality to those grown\nby the natives. A Bulgarian onion field is easily distinguished from\na Saxon one by its trim, orderly appearance, the perfect regularity\nwith which the rows are planted, and the ingenious arrangements for\nproviding water in time of drought.\n\nOf the numerous Saxon villages which dot the plain around Hermanstadt,\nI shall here only attempt to mention two or three of those with which\nI have the most intimate acquaintance, as having formed the object\nof many a walk and ride. First, there is Heltau\u2014which, however, has\nrather the character of a market-town than a village\u2014lying in a\ndeep hollow at the foot of the hills south of Hermanstadt, and with\nnothing either rural or picturesque about it. Yet whoever chances\nfirst to behold Heltau, as I did, on a fine evening in May, when the\nfruit-trees are in full blossom, will carry away an impression not\neasily forgotten. From the road, which leads down in serpentine curves,\nthe village bursts on our eyes literally framed in a thick garland\nof blossom, snowy white and delicate peach color combining to cast a\nfictitious glamour over what is in reality a very unattractive place.\n\nThe inhabitants of Heltau, nearly all cloth-makers by trade, fabricate\nthat rough white cloth, somewhat akin to flannel, of which the\nRoumanians\u2019 hose is made. It is also largely exported to different\nparts of the empire, and Polish Jews are often seen to hover about the\nplace. Such, in fact, is the attraction exercised by this white woollen\ntissue that a colony of the children of Israel would have been\nformed here long ago had not the wary Saxons strenuously opposed such\nencroachment.\n\n[Illustration: OLD TOWN GATE AT HERMANSTADT (ON THE HELTAU SIDE).]\n\nOnce riding past here in autumn, I was puzzled to remark several fields\nnear Heltau bearing a white appearance almost like that of snow, yet\nscarcely white enough for that; on coming nearer, this whiteness\nresolved itself into wool, vast quantities of which, covering several\nacres of ground, had been put out there to dry after the triple washing\nnecessary to render it fit for weaving purposes.\n\nThe church at Heltau rejoices in the distinction of four turrets\naffixed to the belfry-tower, which turrets were at one time the cause\nof much dissension between Heltau and Hermanstadt. It was not allowed\nfor any village church to indulge in such luxuries\u2014four turrets being\na mark of civic authority only accorded to towns; but in 1590, when the\nchurch at Heltau was burned down, the villagers built it up again as it\nnow stands\u2014a piece of presumption which Hermanstadt at first refused\nto sanction. The matter was finally compromised by the Heltauers\nconsenting to sign a document, wherein they declared the four turrets\nto have been put there merely in guise of ornamentation, giving them no\nadditional privileges whatsoever, and that they pledged themselves to\nremain as before submissive to the authority of Hermanstadt.\n\nSome people, however, allege Heltau, or, as it used to be called, \u201cThe\nHelt,\u201d to be of more ancient origin than Hermanstadt\u2014concluding from\nthe fact that formerly the shoemakers, hatters, and other tradesmen\nhere resided, but that during the pest all the inhabitants dying out\nto the number of seven, the land around was suffered to fall into\nneglect. Then the Emperor sent other Germans to repeople the town, and\nthe burghers of Hermanstadt came and bought up the privileges of the\nHeltauers.\n\nThe excellence of the Heltau pickled sauerkraut is celebrated in a\nSaxon rhyme, which runs somewhat as follows:\n\n \u201cDraaser wheaten bread,\n Heltau\u2019s cabbage red,\n Streitford\u2019s bacon fine,\n Bolkatsch pearly wine,\n Sch\u00e4ssburg\u2019s maidens fair,\n Goodly things and rare.\u201d\n\nBut more celebrated still is Heltau because of the unusually high\nstature of its natives, which an ill-natured story has tried to\naccount for by the fact of a detachment of grenadiers having been\nquartered here for several years towards the end of last century.\n\nTo the west of Heltau, nestling up close to the hills, lies the smaller\nbut far more picturesque village of Michelsberg, one of the few Saxon\nvillages which have as yet resisted all attempts from Roumanians or\ngypsies to graft themselves on to their community. Michelsberg is\nspecially remarkable because of the ruined church which, surrounded by\nfortified walls, is situated on a steep conical mound rising some two\nhundred feet above the village. The church itself, though not much to\nlook at, boasts of a Romanesque portal of singular beauty, which many\npeople come hither to see. The original fortress which stood on this\nspot is said to have been built by a noble knight, Michel of Nuremberg,\nwho came into the country at the same time that came Herman, who\nfounded Hermanstadt. Michel brought with him twenty-six squires, and\nwith them raised the fortress; but soon after its completion he and his\nfollowers got dispersed over the land, and were heard of no more. The\nfortress then became the property of the villagers, who later erected a\nchurch on its site.\n\nThe Michelsbergers make baskets and straw hats, and lately wood-carving\nhas begun to be developed as a native industry. They have also the\nreputation\u2014I know not with what foundation\u2014of being bird-stealers;\nand I believe nothing will put a Michelsberger into such a rage as to\nimitate the bird-call used to decoy blackbirds and nightingales to\ntheir ruin. This he takes to be an insulting allusion to his supposed\nprofession.\n\nIn the hot summer months many of the Hermanstadt burghers come out to\nMichelsberg for change of air and coolness, and we ourselves spent\nsome weeks right pleasantly in one of the peasant houses which,\nconsisting of two rooms and a kitchen, are let to visitors for the\nseason. But it was strange to learn that this remote mountain village\nis the self-chosen exile of a modern recluse\u2014a well-born Hanoverian\ngentleman, Baron K\u2014\u2014, who for the last half-dozen years has lived\nhere summer and winter. Neither very old nor yet very young, he lives a\nsolitary life, avoiding acquaintances; and though I lived here fully a\nmonth, I only succeeded in catching a distant glimpse of him.\n\nMidsummer idleness being usually productive of all sorts of idle\nthoughts and fancies, we could not refrain from speculating on the\nreasons which were powerful enough thus to cause an educated man to\nbury himself alive so many hundred miles away from his own country in\nan obscure mountain village; and unknown to himself, the mysterious\nbaron became the hero of a whole series of fantastic air-castles,\nin which he alternately figured as a species of Napoleon, Diogenes,\nEugene Aram, or Abelard. Whichever he was, however\u2014and it certainly\nis no business of mine\u2014I can well imagine the idyllic surroundings of\nMichelsberg to be peculiarly fit to soothe a ruffled or wounded spirit.\nWrecked ambition or disappointed love must lose much of its bitterness\nin this secluded nook, so far removed from the echoes of a turbulent\nworld.\n\n[Illustration: MICHELSBERG.]\n\nAnother village deserving a word of notice is Hammersdorf, lying north\nof Hermanstadt\u2014a pleasant walk through the fields of little more\nthan half an hour. The village, built up against gently undulating\nhills covered with vineyards, is mentioned in the year 1309 as Villa\nHumperti, and is believed to stand on the site of an old Roman\nsettlement. Scarcely a year passes without Roman coins or other\nantiquities being found in the soil.\n\nFrom the top of the Grigori-Berg, which rises some one thousand eight\nhundred feet directly behind the village, a very extensive view may be\nenjoyed of the plains about Hermanstadt, and the imposing chain of the\nFogarascher mountains straight opposite.\n\nHammersdorf is considered to be a peculiarly aristocratic village, and\nits inhabitants, who pride themselves on being the richest peasants in\nthose parts, and on their womankind possessing the finest clothes and\nthe most valuable ornaments, are called arrogant and stuck-up by other\ncommunities.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt is usual for the name of the house-owner and the date of building to\nbe painted outside each house; but there are differences to be remarked\nin each place\u2014slight variations in building and decoration, as well\nas in manner, dress, and speech of the natives, despite the general\nresemblance all bear to each other.\n\nSome houses have got pretty designs of conventional flowers painted in\nblack or in contrasting color on their gable-ends, and in many villages\nit is usual to have some motto or sentence inscribed on each house.\nThese are frequently of a religious character, often a text from the\nBible or some stereotyped moral sentiment. Occasionally, however, we\ncome across inscriptions of greater originality, which seem to be a\nreflection of the particular individual whose house they adorn, as, for\ninstance, the following:\n\n \u201cI do not care to brag or boast,\n I speak the truth to all,\n And whosoever does not wish\n Myself his friend to call,\n Why, then, he\u2019s free to paint himself\n A better on the wall.\u201d\n\nOr else this sentence, inscribed on a straw-thatched cottage:\n\n \u201cTill money I get from my father-in-law,\n My roof it, alas! must be covered with straw.\u201d\n\nWhile the following one instantaneously suggests the portrait of some\nstolid-faced, sleepy individual whose ambition has never soared beyond\nthe confines of his turnip-field, or the roof of his pigsty:\n\n \u201cToo much thinking weakens ever\u2014\n Think not, then, in verse nor prose,\n For return the past will never,\n And the future no man knows.\u201d\n\nMany of the favorite maxims refer to the end of man, and give a\nsomewhat gloomy coloring to a street when several of this sort are\nfound in succession:\n\n \u201cMan is like a fragile flower,\n Only blooming for an hour;\n Fresh to-day and rosy-red,\n But to-morrow cold and dead.\u201d\n\nOr else\u2014\n\n \u201cWithin this house a guest to-day,\n So long the Lord doth let me live;\n But when He bids, I must away\u2014\n Against His will I cannot strive.\u201d\n\nHere another\u2014\n\n \u201cIf I from my door go out,\n Death for me doth wait without;\n And if in my house I stay,\n He will come for me some day.\u201d\n\nThe mistrustful character of the Saxon finds vent in many inscriptions,\nof which I give a few specimens:\n\n \u201cTrust yourself to only one\u2014\n \u2019Tis not wise to trust to none;\n Better, though, to have no friend\n Than on many to depend.\u201d\n\n \u201cIf you have a secret got,\n To a woman tell it not;\n For my part, I would as lieve\n Keep the water in a sieve.\u201d\n\n \u201cWhen I have both gold and wine,\n Many men are brothers mine;\n When the money it is done,\n And the wine has ceased to run,\n Then the brothers, too, are gone.\u201d\n\n \u201cHardly do a man I see\n But who hates and envies me;\n Inside them their heart doth burn\n For to do an evil turn,\n Grudge me sore my daily bread;\n More than one doth wish me dead.\u201d\n\n \u201cThose who build on the highway,\n Must not heed what gossips say.\u201d\n\nThe four last I here give are among the best I have come across, the\nfirst of these having a slightly Shakespearean flavor about it:\n\n \u201cTell me for what gold is fit?\n Who has got none, longs for it;\n Who has got it, fears for thieves;\n Who has lost it, ever grieves.\u201d\n\n \u201cWe cannot always dance and sing,\n Nor can each day be fair,\n Nor could we live if every day\n Were dark with grief and care;\n But fair and dark days, turn about,\n This we right well can bear.\u201d\n\n \u201cSay, who is to pay now the tax to the King?\n For priests and officials will do no such thing;\n The nobleman haughty will pay naught, I vouch,\n And poor is the beggar, and empty his pouch;\n The peasant alone he toileth to give\n The means to enable those others to live.\u201d\n\n \u201cHow to content every man,\n Is a trick which no one can;\n If to do so you can claim,\n Rub this out and write your name.\u201d\n\nAmong the many house inscriptions I have seen in Transylvania, I have\nnever come across any referring to love or conjugal happiness. The\nwell-known lines of Schiller\u2014\n\n \u201cRaum ist in der kleinsten H\u00fctte\n F\u00fcr ein gl\u00fccklich liebend Paar,\u201d[6]\n\nof which one gets such a surfeit in Germany, are here conspicuous by\ntheir absence. This will not surprise any one acquainted with the\ndomestic life of these people. Any such sentiment would most likely\nhave lost its signification long before the wind and the rain had\neffaced it, for it would not at all suit the Saxon peasant to change\nhis house motto as often as he does his wife.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[6]\n\n \u201cThere is space in the smallest hut\n To contain a happy, loving couple.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nSAXON INTERIORS\u2014CHARACTER.\n\n\nThe old-china mania, which I hear is beginning to die out in England,\nhas only lately become epidemic in Austria; and as I, like many others,\nhave been slightly touched by this malady, the quaintly decorated\npottery wine-jugs still to be found in many Saxon peasant houses\noffered a new and interesting field of research.\n\nThese jugs are by no means so plentiful nor so cheap as they were a few\nyears ago, for cunning _bric-\u00e0-brac_ Jews have found out this hitherto\nunknown store of antiquities, and pilger hither from the capital to\nbuy up wholesale whatever they find. Yet by a little patience and\nperseverance any one living in the country may yet find enough old\ncuriosities to satisfy a reasonable mania; and while seeking for these\nrelics I have come across many another remnant of antiquity quite as\ninteresting but of less tangible nature.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON PEASANT AT HOME.]\n\nInside a Saxon peasant\u2019s house everything is of exemplary neatness and\nspeaks of welfare. The boards are clean scoured, the window-panes shine\nlike crystal. There is no point on which a Saxon _hausfrau_ (housewife)\nis so sensitive as that of order and neatness, and she is visibly put\nout if surprised by a visit on washing or baking day, when things are\nnot looking quite so trim as usual.\n\nIf we happen to come on a week-day we generally find the best room,\nor _prunkzimmer_, locked up, with darkened shutters; and only on our\nrequest to be shown the embroidered pillow-covers and the best jugs\nreserved for grand occasions will the hostess half ungraciously proceed\nto unlock the door and throw open the shutter.\n\nThis prunkzimmer takes the place of the state parlor in our Scotch\nfarm-houses; but those latter, with their funereal horse-hair furniture\nand cheerless polished table, would contrast unfavorably beside these\nquaint, old-fashioned German apartments. Here the furniture, consisting\nof benches, bunkers, bedsteads, chest of drawers, and chairs, are\npainted in lively colors, often festoons of roses and tulips on a\nground of dark blue or green; the patterns, frequently bold and\nstriking, if of a somewhat barbaric style of art, betray the Oriental\ninfluence of Roumanian country artists, of whom they are doubtless\nborrowed. A similarly painted wooden framework runs round the top\nof the room, above the doors and windows, with pegs, from which are\nsuspended the jugs I am in search of, and a bar, behind which rows of\nplates are secured.\n\nOn the large unoccupied bedsteads are piled up, sometimes as high\nas the ceiling, stores of huge, downy pillows, their covers richly\nembroidered in quaint patterns executed in black, scarlet, or blue\nand yellow worsted. They are mostly worked in the usual tapestry\ncross-stitch, and often represent flowers, birds, or animals in the\nold German style\u2014the name of the embroideress and the date of the\nwork being usually introduced. Many of the pieces I saw were very old,\nand dates of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are constantly\nturning up; but alongside are others of recent date, for the custom\nof thus employing the long winter evenings is still kept up among the\nvillage girls.\n\nI asked some of them whence they took their patterns, whether they\nhad any sampler books or printed designs to copy from. Nothing of the\nsort, I was told; they just copy from one another and from old pieces\nof work. Thus it comes about that many of them to-day go on reproducing\nsome old bird or flower, first introduced by an ancestress of the\nworker many hundred years ago.\n\nThis system of copying is clearly to be traced in the different\nvillages. As each village forms a separate body or community, and\nintercourse and intermarriage hardly ever take place, these patterns\nbecome localized, and one design is apt to run in one particular\nplace to the exclusion of others. Thus I remarked one village where\nflourishes a peculiar breed of square-built peacocks, alternated with\npreposterous stags in red and blue worsted, but these fabulous animals\nare rarely wont to stray beyond the confines of their own parish; while\nin another community there is a strongly marked epidemic of embroidered\ndouble-eagles, perhaps explainable by the fact that part of the\npopulation is of Austrian extraction.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON EMBROIDERY.]\n\nThe Saxon hausfrau will generally receive us in a surly, mistrustful\nmanner, and the Saxon peasant will not dream of rising from his seat\nwhen he sees a lady enter the room. If we happen to be tired we had\nbetter sit down unbidden, for neither he nor she is likely to offer us\na chair.\n\nOur question as to whether they have any jugs or plates is usually met\nwith a sort of ungracious affirmative. \u201cWill they sell them?\u201d \u201cNot on\nany account whatsoever! these jugs belonged to some dearly beloved\ngreat-grandfather or grandmother, and must be preserved in their\nmemory. Not for unheard-of sums of gold could they bear to separate\nthemselves from such a relic,\u201d etc.\n\nThese assertions must, however, be taken for what they are worth, and\nwhoever has tried the experiment will have found by experience that it\nis merely a question of money, and that sometimes an extra bid of ten\nor twenty kreuzers (twopence or fourpence) will turn the scale, and\ninduce these pious grandchildren to consign to oblivion the memory of\nthe beloved ancestor.\n\nThese jugs, which are destined to hold wine (one for each guest) on\nthe occasion of their baptismal, wedding, or funeral banquets, are\nfrom nine to eleven inches high, and have a metal lid attached to the\nhandle. Every variety of coloring and pattern is to be found among\nthem; sometimes it is an uncouth design of dancing or drunken peasants,\nsometimes a pair of stags, or a dog in pursuit of a hare, or else a\nbasket filled with fruit, or raised medallions with sprigs of flowers\nin the centre.\n\nMy inquiries were usually met by the suspicious counter-questions, \u201cWhy\ndo you want to buy our jugs? What are you going to do with them?\u201d and\nthe answer I gave, that I was fond of such old things, and that they\nwould be hung up in my dining-room, was often received with evident\ndisbelief.\n\nThese people are not easily induced to talk about themselves, and\nhave little sense of humor or power of repartee. They have an\ninstinctive distrust of whoever tries to draw them out, scenting in\neach superfluous question a member of a species they abhor\u2014namely, \u201ca\nchiel among them taking notes;\u201d or, as the Saxon puts it, \u201cone of those\nincomprehensible towns-folk, ever fretting and ferreting after our ways\nand customs, and who have no sensible reason for doing so either.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: SAXON EMBROIDERY AND POTTERY.\n\n(This and the illustration on p. 53 are from the collection of Saxon\nAntiquities in possession of Herr Emil Sigerus at Hermanstadt.)]\n\nTwo analogous incidents which I met with, soon after my arrival in\nTransylvania, seemed to give me the respective clews to Saxon and\nRoumanian character. The first was in a Saxon peasant\u2019s house, where\nI had just purchased two jugs and a plate, for which, being still a\nstranger in those parts, I had paid considerably more than they were\nworth, when on leaving the house the hostess put a small bunch of\nflowers into my hand. The nosegay was somewhat tumbled and faded, for\nthis was Sunday afternoon, and probably the woman or her daughter\nhad worn these flowers at church earlier in the day. In my ignorance\nof Saxon character I took this offering in the light of a courteous\nattention, and accepted the bouquet with a word of thanks.\n\nMy error did not last long, for as I stepped into the court-yard the\nwooden, Noah\u2019s-ark faced woman hurried after me, and roughly snatching\nthe nosegay out of my hand, she harshly exclaimed,\n\n\u201cI do not give my flowers for nothing! unless you pay me two kreuzers\n(a halfpenny), I shall keep them for myself!\u201d\n\nVery much amused, I paid the required sum, feeling that, in spite of\nthe crushed condition of the flowers, I had got more than a halfpenny\u2019s\nworth out of my hostess after all.\n\nTwo or three days later, when out riding, we lost our way in the mazes\nof the Yungwald, the large oak-forest which stretches for miles over\nthe country to the south of Hermanstadt. It was near sunset when we\nfound ourselves in a totally strange neighborhood, not knowing which\nturn to take in order to regain the road back to the town. Just then a\nRoumanian peasant woman came in sight. She had on her back a bundle of\nfirewood, which she had probably stolen in the forest, and in her hand\nshe carried a large bunch of purple iris flowers, fresh and dripping\nfrom some neighboring marsh.\n\nI suppose that I must have looked longingly at the beautiful purple\nbunch, for while my husband was asking the way as well as he could by\nmeans of a little broken Italian, she came round to the side of my\nhorse, and with a pretty gesture held up the flowers for my acceptance.\nWith the Saxon lesson fresh in my mind I hesitated to take them, for I\nhad left my purse at home; so I explained to her by pantomime that I\nhad no money about me. She had not been thinking of money, it seems,\nand energetically disclaimed the offer of payment, continuing her way\nafter a courteous _buna sara_ (good-evening).\n\nSince then, in my walks and rides about Hermanstadt, I have often been\npresented with similar offerings from perfectly unknown Roumanian\npeasants, who would sometimes stop their galloping horses and get\nout of the cart merely for the purpose of giving me a few flowers;\nbut never, never has it been my good-luck to receive the smallest\nsign of spontaneous courtesy from any Saxon, and I grieve to say that\nfrequently my experience has been all the other way.\n\nOne day, for instance, when walking in a hay-field through which ran\na rapid mill-stream, I suddenly missed my dog, a lively rat-terrier,\nwhich had been running backward and forward in search of field-mice.\n\u201cBrick, Brick, Brick!\u201d I called in vain over and over again, but\nBrick was nowhere to be seen. Only a stifled squealing, apparently\nproceeding from the mill-stream some way off, met my ear; but I did not\nimmediately think of connecting this sound with my truant terrier. Some\nSaxon peasants were at work near the water stowing up hay on to a cart.\n\u201cHave you not seen my dog?\u201d I called out to them.\n\nOne of the men now slowly removed his pipe from his mouth. \u201cYour dog?\u201d\nhe asked, stolidly. \u201cOh yes; he\u2019s just drowning yonder in the stream.\u201d\nAnd he lazily pointed over his shoulder with a pitchfork.\n\nI rushed to the bank, and there sure enough was my poor half-drowned\nBrick struggling to keep himself above water, but almost exhausted\nalready. He had fallen in over the treacherous edge, which was masked\nby overhanging bushes; and the banks being too steep to effect a\nlanding, he must inevitably have perished had I not come up in time.\nWith considerable difficulty, and at the risk of falling in myself, I\nmanaged to drag him out, the worthy Saxons meanwhile looking on with\nindolent enjoyment, never dreaming of offering assistance.\n\nThe hard and grasping characters of the Saxons appear in every detail\nof their daily life; they taint their family relations, and would\nalmost seem to put a marketable price on the most sacred affections.\nThus a Saxon mother in her cradle-song informs the sleeping infant that\nshe values it as high as a hundred florins; while the grief over a\nbeloved corpse often takes the form of counting up the exact pecuniary\nloss to the family sustained from the decease.\n\nTheir family life does not appear to be happy, and divorces are\nlamentably numerous. It seems, in fact, as if divorce had grown to be\nan established habit among these people; and despite all efforts, of\nthe clergy to discourage this abuse, and the difficulties purposely\nput in the way of divorcing parties, there is little prospect of\nimprovement as yet. No improvement can possibly take place till Saxon\nparents give up forcing their children to wed against their will,\nmerely for mercenary reasons, and till girls are allowed to attain a\nreasonable age before binding themselves down to a contract of such\nimportance. When want of sympathy towards the proposed husband is\nurged on the part of the girl, such objections are usually settled by\nthe practical advice of the long-sighted parents. \u201cTry him for a time,\nand maybe you will get to like him; and if not\u2014well, the misfortune\nis none so great, and you can always seek for a divorce.\u201d Brides of\nfifteen are quite the order of the day, and few are suffered to reach\nso mature an age as seventeen or eighteen; the consequence of these\narrangements being that fully a third of the couples go asunder, each\nchoosing another mate, with whom they usually fare better than with\ntheir first venture.\n\nOften in the course of my visits to Saxon peasant houses have I come\nacross one of these unfortunate young females returned to her parents\u2019\nhouse, sometimes after a few weeks only of matrimony, there to await\nthe divorce which is to set her free to choose again.\n\nThe reasons which induce these people to sue for a separation\nare frequently so exceedingly futile and ridiculous as hardly to\ndeserve that name. Often it is the food which is made a cause of\ncomplaint\u2014either the husband declaring that his wife will take no\ntrouble to please him with her cookery, or else the wife complaining of\nhis being capricious and hard to please. An underdone potato may prove\nso very indigestible as to sever the conjugal bond, or an ill-baked\nloaf of bread assume such dimensions as to constitute a barrier for\nlife.\n\nVillage pastors whose parishes lie in the wine-bearing districts\naffirm that the season immediately following upon the vintage, when\nthe cellars are full of new wine, is the most quarrelsome time in the\nyear, and the one which engenders most separations. But even without\nthe aid of stimulants, and when no thought of divorce is in their\nminds, quarrelsome _m\u00e9nages_ are numerous; and the old story of the\nTartar carrying off the shrewish wife of a thoroughly resigned husband\nmay well have had its origin here. This legend, told all over Hungary,\nrelates how a peasant, as he calmly watched the retreating figure of\nthe Tartar bearing off the wife of his bosom, was heard to murmur,\n\u201cPoor Tartar! thou hast made a bad bargain.\u201d\n\nIn Transylvania this same story is told of a Saxon peasant, but with\na sequel; for this version relates how the bereaved widower settled\nhimself down to a hearty supper that same evening, ever and anon\nmurmuring, as his eye rested on the empty chair opposite his own,\nthe words, \u201cPoor Tartar!\u201d for he was a kind-hearted man, and felt\ncompassion even for the sufferings of a barbarian. But of a sudden the\ndoor flies open, and the wretched man once more beholds his lost wife\nstanding before him. Her temper had proved too much even for a Tartar,\nwho had wisely flown, leaving his captive behind.\n\nThe words \u201cPoor Tartar!\u201d now gave place to another form of ejaculation;\nand whenever he deemed himself out of ear-shot, the Saxon muttered\nbitterly between his teeth \u201cRascally Tartar! Rascally Tartar!\u201d\n\nBut for this unfortunate _d\u00e9nouement_, who knows whether Saxon husbands\nof to-day might not frequently be moved to regret the good old times\nwhen an obliging Tartar might be expected thus to relieve them of such\nsuperfluous blessings?\n\nThe bond between parent and child seems to be hardly more commendable.\nPerhaps my experience has been exceptionally infelicitous, but\ncertainly never in any country has it been my ill-fortune to listen to\nsuch shocking and disrespectful language from children to their parents\nas what I have occasionally overheard in Saxon cottages.\n\nThe Saxon peasant being a declared enemy of large families presents a\nstriking contrast to his Roumanian neighbor, with whom six or eight\nbairns are a very common allowance, and who regards each new addition\nto the family as another gift of God. The oft-repeated insinuation\nthat the Transylvanian Saxons seek to limit their progeny by unnatural\nmeans does not seem to be entirely without foundation. It is said that\nto have two children only is considered the correct thing in a Saxon\nhousehold, and that the Saxon mother who, when cross-questioned as to\nher offspring, has to acknowledge three bairns, turns away her head\nshamefacedly, as though she were confessing a crime.\n\nIt is because the Saxon does not care to see his fields cut up into\nsmall sections that he desires his family to be small; and the\nconsequence of this short-sighted egotism is, that the population of\nmany villages shows a yearly decrease, and that houses often stand\nempty because there is no one to live there.[7] Thus one village\nnear Hermanstadt can show twenty-seven, another twelve such deserted\ndwellings. A man whose whole family consisted of two daughters, both\nmarried to peasants with houses of their own, was asked what would\nbecome of his fine well-built home after his decease. \u201cIt will just\nstand empty,\u201d was the stolid reply. In some villages these empty Saxon\nhouses have been taken possession of by Roumanians, who look strangely\nincongruous within these massive stone walls, reminding one somehow of\nsparrows which have taken up their residence in a deserted rookery.\n\nSaxon political economists, alive to the danger of their race becoming\nextinct, think of trying to get new batches of German colonists to\nsettle here, in order to freshen up and increase the number of the\nrace; but there is little chance of such projects being successful. The\ninducements which formerly tempted strangers no longer exist; and there\nare probably few Germans who would think it worth their while to settle\nin a country where every inch of land has already been appropriated,\nand where the Government seeks to rob each one of his nationality.\n\nThe besetting fault of this whole Saxon nation seems to be an\nimmoderate spirit of egotism, so short-sighted as frequently to defeat\nits own end, leading each man to consider only his individual welfare,\nto the exclusion of every other feeling. It is strange and paradoxical\nthat these honest, moral, thrifty, industrious, and educated Saxons\nshould live thus in their well-built, roomy houses in a constant state\nof inward dissension and strife; while their neighbors, the poor,\nignorant, thieving Roumanians, crowded together in their wretched\nhovels, are united by the bonds of a most touching family affection.[8]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[7] This abuse, however, is entirely confined to the villages, the\ntowns showing a far more favorable rate of increase among the Saxon\npopulation.\n\n[8] The assertion that the Transylvanian Saxons\u2014taken as a body\u2014show\na yearly decrease is, however, incorrect, as has been conclusively\nproved by Dr. Oskar von Meltzl, in his recent interesting work,\n\u201cStatistik der S\u00e4chsischen Landbev\u00f6lkerung in Siebenb\u00fcrgen.\u201d By the\nauthor\u2019s own acknowledgment, however, the increase within the last\nthirty-two years has been but insignificant; while of 227 Saxon\ncommunities established in the country 92 have diminished in number\nbetween the years 1851-1883 to the extent of nearly 11 per cent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nSAXON CHURCHES AND SIEGES.\n\n\nThe words \u201cchurch\u201d and \u201cfortress\u201d used to be synonymous in\nTransylvania, so the places of worship might accurately have been\ndescribed as churches militant. Each Saxon village church was\nsurrounded by a row, sometimes even a double or triple row, of\nfortified walls, which are mostly still extant. The remains of moat\nand drawbridge are also yet frequently to be seen. When threatened\nby an enemy the people used to retire into these fortresses, often\nbuilt on some rising piece of ground, taking with them their valuables\nas well as provisions for the contingency of a lengthy siege. From\nthese heights the Saxons used to roll down heavy stones on to their\nassailants, sometimes with terrible effect; but when they had in\nthis way exhausted their missiles, the predicament was often a\nvery precarious one. Some of these stones still survive, and may\noccasionally be seen\u2014as within the fortress walls of the old ruined\nchurch which I have already mentioned as standing on a steep incline\nabove the picturesque village of Michelsberg.\n\nThe church itself, having been replaced by a more conveniently situated\none down in the village, is now deserted, and is used only as a\nstorehouse by the villagers. The fortified walls are crumbling away,\nand the passage round the church is choked up by weeds and briers,\namong which lie strewn about many old moss-grown stones, circular\nin shape and resembling giant cannon-balls. These were the missiles\nwhich lay there in readiness to be rolled down on to an approaching\nenemy; and there was a law compelling each bridegroom, before leading\nhis bride to the altar, to roll uphill to the church-door one of\nthese formidable globes. This was so ordained in order to exclude\nfrom matrimony all sick or weakly subjects; and as the incline was a\nsteep one, and each stone weighed about two hundred-weight, it was a\nconsiderable test of strength.\n\n[Illustration: FORTIFIED SAXON CHURCH.]\n\nWould that these old stones, lying here neglected among the nettles,\nhad the gift of speech! What traits of love and of bloodshed might we\nnot learn from them! Only to look at them there strewn around, it is\nnot difficult to guess at the outlines of some of the stories they are\ndumbly telling us. Many are chipped and worn away, and have evidently\nbeen used more than once in their double capacity, alternately rolled\nup the hill by smiling Cupid, to be hurled down again by furious\nNemesis.\n\nHere near a clump of burdock-leaves is a shabby-looking globe of\nyellow sandstone, whose puny size plainly speaks of a _mariage de\nconvenance_\u2014a mere union of hands without hearts; perhaps some old\nwidower, with trembling hands and shaky knees, in quest of a wife to\nlook after his house, and to whom the whole matter was very uphill work\nindeed!\n\nClose alongside, half hidden beneath the graceful tangles of a\nwild-rose bush, is a formidable bowlder of gigantic, nay, heroic size,\nwhich forcibly suggests that it must have been a mighty love indeed\nwhich brought it up here\u2014so mighty, no doubt, that to the two strong\nyoung arms which rolled it up the hill it must have seemed light as a\nfeather\u2019s weight.\n\nAnd how many of these, might one ask, have been rolled up here in vain,\nin so far as the love was concerned? When the fire of love had grown\ncold and its sweetness all turned to vinegar, how many, many a former\nlover must heartily have wished that he had never moved his stone from\nthe bottom of the hill!\n\nSuch thoughts involuntarily crowd on the mind when sitting, as I have\ndone many a time, within this lonely ruin on fine summer evenings, the\nidyllic peacefulness of the scene the more strongly felt by contrast\nwith the bloody memories linked around it. It is so strange to realize\nhow completely everything has passed away that once used to be: that\nthe hands which pushed these heavy globes, as well as the Moslem crania\nfor which they were intended, have turned alike to dust; that hushed\nforever are the voices once awaking fierce echoes within these very\nwalls; and that of all those contrasting passions, of all that tender\nlove and that burning hatred, nothing has survived but a few old stones\nlying forgotten near a deserted church!\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe history of the sieges endured in Transylvania on the part of Turk\nor Tartar would in itself furnish matter for many volumes. Numberless\nanecdotes are yet current characterizing the endurance and courage of\nthe besieged, and the original means often resorted to in order to\nbaffle or mislead the enemy.\n\nOnce it was the ready wit of a Szekel woman which saved her people\nbesieged by the Tartars within the Almescher cavern. As the whole\nland had been devastated from end to end, a severe famine was the\nconsequence, and both besiegers and besieged were sorely in want of\nvictuals. The Szekels had taken some provisions with them into the\ncave, but these were soon exhausted; and the Tartars, though starving\nthemselves, were consoled by thinking that hunger would soon compel\ntheir enemy to give in. One day, when, as usual, the barbarians had\nassembled shouting and howling in front of the cavern, whose entrance\nwas defended by a high wall, a Hungarian woman held up before their\neyes a large cake at the end of a long pole, and cried out, tauntingly,\n\u201cSee here, ye dogs of Tartars! Thus are we feasting in plenty and\ncomfort, while you are reduced to eat grass and roots of trees.\u201d This\nmuch-vaunted cake was but kneaded together of water and ashes, with a\nfew last remaining spoonfuls of flour; but the Tartars, taken in by the\nfeint, abandoned the field.\n\nAnother time it was nothing more than a swarm of bees which turned\nthe scale in favor of the Saxons, hard pressed by the enemy outside.\nAlready they had begun to scale the walls of the fortified church,\nand death and destruction seemed imminent, when the youthful daughter\nof the church-warden was struck by a bright idea. Behind the church\nwas a little garden full of sweet-scented flowers, and containing a\ndozen beehives, which it was Lieschen\u2019s (such was her name) pride to\nwatch over. Seizing a hive in each hand, she sprang up on the fortress\nwall, and with all her strength hurled them down among the approaching\nbesiegers. Again and again she repeated this man\u0153uvre till the hives\nwere exhausted, and the bewildered enemies, blinded by the dense swarm\nof infuriated bees, deafened by the angry buzzing in their ears, and\nmaddened by hundredfold stings, beat an ignominious and hasty retreat.\n\nThis occurred in the village of Holzmengen towards the end of the\nseventeenth century, and of this same village it is related that, when\npeace was finally restored to the land, the population was so reduced\nthat most houses stood empty. Of four hundred landholders there used\nto be, but fifteen now remained; and many years passed by without any\nwedding being celebrated in the place. When, however, at last this rare\nevent came to pass, the bridegroom received the name of the \u201cyoung\nman,\u201d which stuck to him until his end. The bride was no other than\nLieschen, the bee-maiden, and Thomas was the name of her husband; and\nto this day whoever is in possession of that particular house goes by\nthe name of \u201c_den jung mon Thomas_,\u201d even though he happen to have been\nchristened Hans or Peter, and be, moreover, as old as Methuselah. If\nyou ask the name of such another house in the same village, you are\ntold that it belongs to _Michel am Eck_ (Michael at the corner). It is\nnot a corner house, neither does its proprietor answer to the name of\nMichel; but where it stands was once the corner of a street, and Michel\nthe name of one of the fifteen landholders who divided the property\nafter the war; hence the appellation.\n\nThere is a story told of an active Saxon housewife who, after she had\nbeen shut up for three days within the fortress awaiting the Tartars\nreported to be near, began to weary of her enforced idleness, and\nthrowing open the gate of the citadel, impatiently called out, \u201cNow,\nthen, you dogs of Tartars, are you never coming?\u201d\n\nWhen the Tartars had succeeded in capturing prisoners they used to\nfatten them up for eating. A woman from the village of Almesch, being\nsickly, refused to fatten, and, set at liberty, came home to relate the\ndoleful tale. The little Hungarians and Saxons were regarded as toys\nfor the young Tartars, who, setting them up in rows, used to practise\nupon them the merry pastime of cutting off heads.\n\nLiving in Transylvania, we are sometimes inclined to wonder whether\nto be besieged by Turks and Tartars be really a thing of the past,\nand not rather an actual danger for which we must be prepared any\nday, so strangely are many little observances relating to those times\nstill kept up. Thus in the belfry tower at Kaisd there hangs a little\nbell bearing a Gothic inscription and the date 1506. It is rung every\nevening at the usual curfew-hour, and until within a very few years ago\nthe watchman was under the obligation of calling forth into the night\nwith stentorian voice, \u201cNot this way, you villains! not this way! I see\nyou well!\u201d\n\nAlso the habit of keeping provisions stored up within the fortified\nchurch-walls, to this day extant in most Saxon villages, is clearly\na remnant of the time when sieges had to be looked for. Even now the\npeople seem to consider their goods to be in greater security here than\nin their own barns and lofts. The outer fortified wall round the church\nis often divided off into deep recesses or alcoves, in each of which\nstands a large wooden chest securely locked, and filled with grain or\nflour, while the little surrounding turrets or chapels are used as\nstorehouses for home-cured bacon. \u201cWe have seven chapels all full of\nbacon,\u201d I was once proudly informed by a village church-warden; but,\nwith the innate mistrust of his race, he would not indulge my further\ncuriosity on the subject by suffering me to inspect the interior\nof these greasy sanctuaries, evidently suspecting me of sinister\nintentions on his bacon stores.\n\nThis storing up of provisions is a perfect mania among the Saxons,\nand each village has its own special hobby or favorite article, vast\nquantities of which it hoards up in a preposterous, senseless fashion,\nreminding one of a dog who buries more bones than he can ever hope\nto eat in the course of his life. Thus, one village prides itself on\nhaving the greatest quantity of bacon, much of which is already thirty\nor forty years old, and consequently totally unfit for use; while in\nanother community the oldest grain is the great _specialit\u00e9_. Each\narticle, case, or barrel is marked with the brand of the owner, and the\nwhole placed under the charge of the church-warden.\n\nSome parishes can still boast of many curiously wrought pieces of\nchurch plate remaining over from Catholic days\u2014enamelled chalices,\nbejewelled crucifixes, remonstrances, and ciboriums, richly inlaid and\nembossed. The village of Heltau is in possession of many such valuable\nornaments which, during the Turkish wars, used to be buried in the\nearth, sometimes for a period of many years, the exact spot where the\ntreasure was hidden being known only to the oldest church-warden, who\nwas careful to pass on the secret to the next in rank when he felt\nhimself to be drawing near the end of his life. Thus, in the year 1794,\nthe church at Heltau, struck by lightning, was seriously damaged, and\nurgently demanded extensive repairs. How to defray these expenses was\nthe question which sorely perplexed the village pastor and the church\nelders, when the old warden came forward and offered to reveal to\nthe pastor and the second warden the secret of a hidden treasure of\nwhose existence none but he was aware. The man himself had never set\neyes on the treasure, but had received from his predecessor precise\ndirections how to find it in case of necessity. Accordingly, under his\nguidance the pastor, accompanied by the younger warden, repaired to\nthe church, where, entering the right-hand aisle, the old man pointed\nto three high-backed wooden seats fixed against the wall, saying, \u201cThe\ncentre one of these chairs has a movable panel, behind which a door\nis said to be concealed.\u201d After some effort\u2014for the panel was jammed\nfrom long disuse\u2014it yielded, moving upward, and disclosing a small\niron door with a keyhole, into which fitted an old-fashioned rusty key\nproduced by the warden. When this door was at last got open, the three\nmen stepped into a small vault paved with bricks. \u201cOne of these bricks\nis marked by a cross, and under it we have to dig for the treasure,\u201d\nwere the further instructions given by the old man. A very few minutes\nproved the truth of his words, bringing to light a small wooden\nchest containing a chalice, a silver remonstrance, and various other\nvaluables, which may still be seen at the Heltau parsonage; likewise\na bag of gold and silver coins, dating from the time of the Batorys,\nwhich leads to the supposition that the treasure had been lying here\nconcealed ever since the beginning of the seventeenth century.\n\nGreat was the pastor\u2019s surprise and delight at this unexpected\nwindfall; but he only took from the bag sufficient money for the\nnecessary repairs, replacing the rest of the treasure where it had been\nfound. None of the other parishioners were informed whence had come the\nmoney, so the secret remained a secret.\n\nOnly many years later, in the present century, when the son-in-law of\nthe former clergyman had become pastor in his turn, the story of the\ntreasure was imparted to him by the successor of former wardens. The\nnecessity for concealment had now gone by, and peace and prosperity\nreigned in the country; so the church ornaments were once more\ndisinterred, and finally restored to the light of day, while the\nantiquated gold and silver pieces, exchanged into current coinage, were\napplied to useful purposes. Thus it was that the secret oozed out, and\ncame to be generally known.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSaxon village churches of the present day are generally bare and\nunornamented inside, for all decorations had been dismantled at the\ntime of the Reformation; stone niches have been emptied of the statues\nthey contained, and rich pieces of carving stowed away in lumber-rooms.\nOnly the old Oriental carpets, brought hither from Turkish campaigns,\nwhich frequently adorn the front of the pews or the organ-gallery, have\nbeen suffered to remain, and hang there still, delicately harmonious in\ncoloring, but riddled through with holes like a sieve, and fed upon by\nthe descendants of a hundred generations of moths, which flutter in a\ndense cloud round the visitor who inadvertently raises a corner of the\ndrapery to investigate its fleecy quality.\n\nCurious old tombstones and bass-reliefs may often be seen carelessly\nhuddled together in the church entrance or outside the walls, treated\nwith no sort of appreciation of their historical value or care for\ntheir ultimate preservation. Also the numerous frescos which used to\ncover many church walls have been obliterated by the barbarous touch\nof a whitewashing hand. It would almost seem as if this Saxon people\nhad originally possessed some degree of artistic feeling, which has\nbeen, however, effectually extinguished by the Reformation; for it\nis difficult otherwise to explain how a nation capable of raising\nmonuments of real artistic value in the troubled times of the barbarous\nMiddle Ages should be thus heedless of their conservation in the\npresent enlightened and peaceful century.\n\n[Illustration: RUINED ABBEY OF KERZ.]\n\nOf this lamentable indifference to the conservation of their historical\nand artistic treasures, the ruined Abbey of Kerz, situated in the\nvalley of the Aluta, offers a melancholy instance. This wealthy\nCistercian monastery was founded by King Bela III. towards the end\nof the twelfth century; but being abolished by King Mathias three\ncenturies later, on account of irregularities into which the monks had\nfallen, it passed, with its lands, into possession of the Hermanstadt\nchurch.\n\nThe choir of the ancient abbey church, built in the time of Louis the\nGreat in the transition style, is still used as a place of worship by\nthe small Lutheran congregation of Kerz, but the nave has been suffered\nto fall into decay; many of the richly carved stones of which it was\nformed have been carried off by the villagers, who have utilized them\nfor building their houses, or degraded them to yet baser purposes. We\nourselves crossed the little stream, which runs close by the parson\u2019s\nhouse, on stepping-stones evidently taken from the ancient building.\nLikewise a lime-tree of gigantic dimensions in front of the western\nportal, and supposed to have been planted when the foundation-stone of\nthe church was laid, is now in imminent danger of splitting in twain\nfor want of the trifling attention of an iron waistband to keep its\npoor old body together. Such the present lamentable condition of one\nof the most interesting relics in the country which has been named the\nMelrose of Transylvania.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nTHE SAXON VILLAGE PASTOR.\n\n\nThe contrast between the domestic lives of Roumanian and Saxon peasants\nis all the more surprising as their respective clergies set totally\ndifferent examples; for while many Roumanian priests are drunken,\ndissolute men, open to every sort of bribery, the Saxon pastor is\nalmost invariably a model of steadiness and morality, and leads a\nquiet, industrious, and contented life.\n\nOn the other hand, however, it may be remarked that if the Saxon pastor\nbe steady and well-behaved, he has very good and solid reasons for so\nbeing. Certainly he is most comfortably indemnified for the virtues he\nis expected to practise.\n\nWhen a pastor dies the villagers themselves elect his successor\nby votes. Usually it is a man whom they know already by sight or\nreputation, or from having heard him preach on stray occasions in their\nchurch. Every Saxon pastor, in order to be qualified for the position,\nmust have practised for several years as professor at a public\ngymnasium\u2014a very wise regulation, as it insures the places being\nfilled by men of education.\n\nThe part which a village pastor is called upon to play requires both\nhead and heart, for the relation between shepherd and flock is here\nvery different from the conventional footing on which clergy and laity\nstand with regard to each other in town life. Whereas in the city\nno congregation cares to see its spiritual head outside the church\nwalls, and would resent as unpardonable intrusion any attempt of his\nto penetrate the privacy of the domestic circle, the villager not only\nexpects but insists on his pastor taking intimate part in his family\nlife, and being ready to assist him with advice and admonition in every\npossible contingency.\n\nThe peasants are therefore very circumspect about the choice of a\npastor, well aware that the weal or woe of a community may depend\nupon the selection. They have often seen how some neighboring village\nhas awakened to new life and prosperity since the advent of a worthy\nclergyman; while such another parish, from a rash selection, has\nsaddled itself with a man it would fain cart away as so much useless\nstraw, were it only possible to get rid of him. For although the power\nof choice lies entirely with the peasants, they cannot likewise undo\ntheir work at will, and only the bishop has power to depose a pastor\nwhen he has investigated the complaints brought against him and found\nthem to be justified.\n\nNot only the pastor _in spe_, but also his wife, is carefully\nscrutinized, and her qualifications for the patriarchal position\nshe has to occupy critically examined into; for if the clergyman is\ntermed by his flock the \u201chonorable father,\u201d so is she designated as\nthe \u201cvirtuous mother.\u201d The candidate who happens to have a thrifty and\nbenevolent consort finds his chances of election considerably enhanced;\nwhile such another, married to a vain and frivolous woman, will most\nlikely be found awanting when weighed in the balance.\n\nThe funeral of a village pastor has been touchingly described by a\nnative author,[9] whose words I take the liberty of quoting:\n\n\u201cThe old father had gone to his long rest: more than once during the\nlast few years he had felt that the time had come for him to lay down\nthe shepherd\u2019s crook; for the world had become too stirring, and he\nno longer had the strength and activity of spirit to do all that was\nexpected of him. There were serious repairs to be undertaken about the\nchurch, and the question of building a new school-house was becoming\nurgent. Likewise many of the new church regulations were harassing and\ndistasteful exceedingly; most especially was he troubled by inward\nquakings at the idea that at the bishop\u2019s next official visit he would\nbe expected to submit to him the manuscripts of all the sermons he had\npreached within the year, and which, neatly tied up together with black\nworsted, were lying on the lowest shelf of the bookcase.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON PASTOR IN FULL DRESS.]\n\n\u201cAll these thoughts had reconciled him to the prospect of death; and\nwhen sitting before his door on fine summer evenings he would sometimes\nremark to the neighbors who had lingered near for a passing chat, \u2018It\ncannot last over-long with me now: one or two pair of soles at most I\nshall wear out, and I should be glad to remain in the village, and to\nsleep there under the big lime-tree, in the midst of those with whom\nmy life has been spent. Therefore kindly bear with me a little longer,\ngood people, for the few remaining days the Lord is pleased to spare\nme.\u2019 And these words never failed to conciliate even the more turbulent\nspirits, who were apt to think that the Herr Vater was over-long in\ngoing, and that the parish stood in need of a younger head.\n\n\u201cNow at last the coffin has been lowered into the earth, and the fresh\nmound covered with dewy garlands of flowers. All the villagers have\nturned out to render the last honors to the father they have lost.\nThe eldest son of the defunct, standing near the grave, addresses the\ncongregation. In a few simple words he thanks them for the good they\nhave done to his father and to his whole family, and, in name of the\ndead man, he begs their forgiveness for whatever wrongs the pastor may\nunwittingly have done; and when he then lays down the keys of both\nchurch and parsonage into the hand of the church-warden, scarcely an\neye will remain dry among the spectators. For forty years is a long\ntime in which a good man, even though he often errs and be at fault,\ncan yet have done much, very much, good indeed, and resentment is a\nplant which strikes no root in the upturned clods of a new-made grave.\u201d\n\nBut the orphaned congregation must have a new pastor; the flock\ncannot be suffered to remain long without a shepherd; and this is\nthe topic which is being discussed with much warmth at an assemblage\nof village elders. On the white-decked table are standing dishes of\nbread-and-cheese, flanked by large tankards of wine. The first glass\nhas just been emptied to the memory of the dead pastor, and now the\nsecond glass will be drunk to the health of his yet unknown successor.\n\nThese meetings preceding the election of a new shepherd are often\nlong and stormy; for when the wine has taken effect and loosened the\ntongues, the different candidates who might be taken into consideration\nare passed in review, and extolled with much heat, or abused with broad\nsarcasm. One man is rejected on account of an impediment in his speech,\nand another because he is known to be unmarried; a third one, who might\ndo well enough for any other parish, cannot be chosen here because\nhis old parents are natives of the village; for it is a true though a\nhard word which says that no one can be a prophet in his own country.\nOne man who ventures to suggest the vicar of a neighboring village is\ninformed that no blacker traitor exists on the face of the earth; and\nanother, who describes his pet candidate as an ideal clergyman, with\nthe figure of a Hercules and the voice of a Stentor, is ironically\nasked whether he wishes to choose a pastor by weight and measure. If\nonly his head and heart be in the right place the clergyman\u2019s legs are\nwelcome to be an inch or two shorter.\n\nAfter a longer or shorter interval a decision is finally arrived at.\nFrom a list of six candidates one has been elected by the secret\nvotes of the community, each married land-owner having a voice in the\nmatter, and the name of the successful aspirant is publicly made known\nin church. Meanwhile a group of young men on horseback are waiting at\nthe church door, and hardly has the all-important name been pronounced\nwhen they set spurs to their steeds and gallop to bear the news to the\nsuccessful candidate. A hot race ensues, for the foremost one can hope\nto get a shining piece of silver\u2014perhaps even gold\u2014in exchange for\nthe good tidings he brings. In a carriage, at a more leisurely pace,\nfollow the elders who have been deputed to hand over the official\ndocument containing the nomination.\n\nAn early day is fixed for the presentation of the new shepherd to his\nflock, and at a still earlier date the new Frau Pastorin precedes\nhim thither, where she is soon deep in the mysteries of cake-baking,\nfowl-killing, etc., in view of the many official banquets which are to\naccompany the presentation. In this employment she has ample assistance\nfrom the village matrons, as well as contributions of eggs, cream,\nbutter, and bacon. The day before the presentation the pastor has been\nfetched in a carriage drawn by six white horses. The first step to his\ninstallation is the making out and signing of the agreement or treaty\nbetween pastor and people\u2014all the said pastor\u2019s duties, obligations,\nand privileges being therein distinctly specified and enumerated, from\nthe exact quantity and quality of Holy Gospel he is bound to administer\nyearly to the congregation down to his share of wild crab-apples for\nbrewing the household vinegar, and the precise amount of acorns his\npigs are at liberty to consume.\n\nAfter this treaty has been duly signed and read aloud, the keys of the\nchurch are solemnly given over and accepted with appropriate speeches.\nThe banquet which succeeds this ceremony is called the \u201ckey-drinking.\u201d\nThen follows the solemn installation in the church, where the new\npastor, for the first time, pronounces aloud the blessing over his\ncongregation, who strain their ears with critical attention to catch\nthe sound and pass sentence thereon. The Saxon peasant thinks much of a\nfull sonorous voice; therefore woe to the man who is cursed with a thin\nsqueaky organ, for he will assuredly fall at least fifty per cent. in\nthe estimation of his audience.\n\nThen follows another banquet, at which each of the church officials\nhas his place at table marked by a silver thaler piece (about 3_s._)\nlying at the bottom of his large tankard, and visible through the clear\ngolden wine with which the bumper is filled. Etiquette demands that the\ndrinker should taste of the wine but sparingly at first, merely wetting\nthe lips and affecting not to perceive the silver coin; but when the\nhealth of the new pastor is drunk, each man must empty his tankard at\none draught, skilfully catching the thaler between the teeth as he\ndrains it dry. This coin is then supposed to be treasured up in memory\nof the event.\n\nThis has been but a flying visit to his new parish, and only some\nweeks later does the new pastor hold his solemn entry into the parish,\nthe preparations for the flitting naturally occupying some few weeks.\nThe village is bound to convey the new pastor, his family, as well as\nall their goods and chattels, to the new home, and it is considered a\ndistinction when many carts are required for the purpose, even though\nthe distance be great and the roads bad, for the people would have no\nopinion at all of a pastor who arrived in light marching order, but\nseem rather to value him in proportion to the trouble he gives them. As\nmany as eighteen to twenty carts are sometimes pressed into service for\nthis patriarchal procession.\n\nThe six white horses which are to be harnessed to the carriage for the\nclergyman and his wife have been carefully fattened up during the last\nfew weeks, their manes plaited with bright ribbons, and the carriage\nitself decorated with flower garlands. At the parish boundary all the\nyoung men of the village have come out on horseback to meet them, and\nwith flying banners they ride alongside of the carriage. In this way\nthe village is reached, where sometimes a straw rope is stretched\nacross the road to bar his entrance. This is removed on the pastor\npaying a ransom, and, entering the village, the driver is expected to\nconduct his horses at full gallop thrice round the fortified walls of\nthe church before entering the parsonage court-yard.\n\nThe village pastor, who lives among his people, must adopt their habits\nand their hours. It would not do for him to lie abed till seven or\neight o\u2019clock, like a town gentleman: five o\u2019clock, and even sooner,\nmust find him dressed and ready to attend to the hundred and one\nrequirements of his parishioners, who, even at that early hour, come\npouring in upon him from all sides.\n\nPerhaps it is a petition for some particularly fine sort of turnip-seed\nwhich only the Herr Vater has got; or else he is requested to look into\nhis wise book to see if he can find a remedy for the stubborn cough of\na favorite horse, or the distressing state of the calf\u2019s digestion.\nAnother will bring him a dish of golden honey-comb, with some question\nregarding the smoking of the hives; while a fourth has come to request\nthe pastor to transform his new-born son from a pagan into a Christian\ninfant.\n\nVarious deputations of villagers, inviting the pastor to two different\nfunerals and to six weddings, have successively been disposed of: then\nwill come a peasant with some Hungarian legal document which he would\nlike to have deciphered. Has he won the lawsuit which has been pending\nthese two years and more? or has he lost it, and will he be obliged to\npay the damages as well? This is a riddle which only the Herr Vater can\nread him aright by consulting the big Hungarian dictionary on the shelf.\n\nThe next visitor is perchance an old white-bearded man, bent double\nwith the weight of years, and carrying a well-worn Bible under his\narm. He wants to know his age, which used to be entered somewhere here\nin the book; but he cannot find the place, or else the bookbinder,\nin mending the volume last year, has pasted paper over it. Perhaps\nthe Herr Vater can make it out for him; and further to facilitate the\nsearch, he mentions that there was corn in the upper fields, and maize\nin the low meadows, the year he was born, and that since then the corn\nhas been sown twenty-four times on the same spot, and will be sown\nthere again next year if God pleases to spare him. The pastor, who\nmust of course be well versed in this sort of rural arithmetic, has no\ndifficulty in pronouncing the man to be exactly seventy-three years and\nthree months old, and sends him away well pleased to discover that he\nis a whole year younger than he had believed himself to be.\n\nOften, too, a couple appear on the scene for the purpose of being\nreconciled. The man has beaten his wife, and she has come to\ncomplain\u2014not of the beating in the abstract, but of the manner in\nwhich this particular castigation has been administered. It was really\ntoo bad this time, as, sobbing, she explains to the Herr Vater that\nhe has belabored her with a thick leather thong in a truly heathenish\nfashion, instead of taking the broomstick, as does every respectable\nman, to beat his wife.\n\nThe virtuous Frau Mutter has likewise her full share of the day\u2019s\nwork. An old hen to be made into broth for a sick grandchild, a piece\nof cloth to be cut out in the shape of a jacket, or a handkerchief\nto be hemmed on the big sewing-machine, all pass successively into\nher busy hands; and if she goes for a day\u2019s shopping to the nearest\nmarket-town she is positively besieged by commissions of all sorts.\nSix china plates of some particular pattern, a coffee-cup to replace\nthe one thrown down by the cat last week, a pound of loaf-sugar, the\nwhitest, finest, sweetest, and cheapest that can be got, or a packet of\ncomposition candles. Even weightier matters are sometimes intrusted to\nher judgment, and she may have to accept the awful responsibility of\nselecting a new mirror or a petroleum lamp.\n\nLetter-writing is also another important branch of the duties of both\npastor and wife. It may be an epistle to some daughter who is in\nservice, or to a soldier son away with his regiment, a threatening\nletter to an unconscientious debtor, or a business transaction with the\nfarmer of another village. In fact, all the raw material of epistolary\naffection, remonstrance, counsel, or threat is brought wholesale to the\nparsonage, there to be fashioned into shape, and set forth clearly in\nblack upon white.\n\nAltogether the day of a Saxon pastor is a busy and well-filled one, for\nhis doors, from sunrise to sunset, must be open to his parishioners, so\nthat after having \u201crisen with the lark\u201d he is well content further to\ncarry out the proverb by \u201cgoing to bed with the lamb.\u201d\n\nA great deal of patience and natural tact is requisite to enable a\nclergyman to deal intelligently with his folk. His time must always\nbe at their disposal, and he must never appear to be hurried or busy\nwhen expected to listen to some long-winded story or complaint. Nothing\nmust be too trifling to arouse his interest, and no hour of the day too\nunreasonable to receive a visit; yet, on the whole, the lot of such a\nvillage pastor who rightly understands his duties seems to me a very\npeaceful and enviable one. He is most comfortably situated as regards\nmaterial welfare, and stands sufficiently aside from the bustling outer\nworld to be spared the annoyances and irritations of more ambitious\ncareers. The fates of his parishioners, so closely interwoven with his\nown, are a constant source of interest, and the almost unlimited power\nhe enjoys within the confines of his parish makes him feel himself to\nbe indeed the monarch of this little kingdom.\n\nOne parsonage in particular is engraved on my mind as a perfect frame\nfor such Arcadian happiness. An old-fashioned roomy house, with\nhigh-pitched roof, it stands within the ring of fortified walls which\nencircle the church as well. A few wide-spreading lime-trees are\npicturesquely dotted about the turf between the two buildings; and\nsome old moss-grown stones, half sunk in the velvet grass where the\nviolets cluster so thick in spring, betray this to be the site of a\nlong-disused burying-place. Up a few steps there is a raised platform\nwith seats arranged against the wall, from which, as from an opera-box,\none may overlook the village street and mark the comings and goings\nof the inhabitants; and a large kitchen-garden, opening through the\nwall in another direction, contains every fruit and vegetable which a\ncountry heart can desire. But the greatest attraction, to my thinking,\nwas a long arcade of lilac-bushes, so thickly grown that the branches\nclosed together overhead, only admitting a soft, tremulous, green\nhalf-light, and scented with every variety of the dear old-fashioned\nshrub, from the exquisite dwarf Persian and snowy white to each\npossible gradation of lilac pink and pinky lilac. Along this fragrant\ngallery old carved stone benches are placed at intervals; and hither,\nas the venerable pastor informed me, he always comes on Saturday\nevenings in summer to compose his sermon for the morrow. \u201cIt is so\nmuch easier to think out here,\u201d he said, \u201camong the birds and flowers\nand the old graves all around. When the air is scented with the breath\nof violets, and from the open church window comes the sound of the\norgan, ah, then I feel myself another man, and God teaches me quite\nother words to say to my people than those I find for myself inside the\nhouse!\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[9] Dr. Fronius.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nTHE SAXON BROTHERHOODS\u2014NEIGHBORHOODS AND VILLAGE HANN.\n\n\nAmong the curiosities I picked up in the course of my wanderings\nabout Saxon villages is a large zinc dish sixteen inches in diameter,\ncuriously engraved and inscribed. On the outside rim there is a running\npattern of hares and stags; on the inside a coat-of-arms, and this\ninscription:\n\n \u201cNEU JAHRS GESCHENK VON DER\n EHRLICHEN BRUDERSCHAFT.[10]\n ALT GESEL GEORG BAYR,\n JUNGER TOMAS FRAYTAG\n 1791.\u201d\n\nThe dish makes a convenient tray for holding calling-cards, and its\norigin is an interesting addition to the history of these Saxon people,\nas it comprises two noteworthy features of their organization\u2014namely,\nthe Bruderschaften (brotherhoods) and the Nachbarschaften\n(neighborhoods).\n\nThe Bruderschaft is an association to which belong all young men of\nthe parish, from the date of their confirmation up to that of their\nmarriage. This community is governed by strict laws, in which the\nduties of its members respectively, as citizens, sons, brothers,\nsuitors, and even dancers, are distinctly traced out. In their\noutward form these brotherhoods have some sort of resemblance to the\nreligious confraternities still existing in many Catholic countries,\nand most probably they originated in the same manner; but while\nthese latter have now degenerated into mere outward forms, the Saxon\nbrotherhoods have retained the original spirit of such institutions,\nprincipally consisting in the reciprocal watch its members kept over\none another\u2019s morality. Mr. Boner, in his book, very aptly compares\nthe Saxon Bruderschaften to the Heidelberg Burschenschafts; and\nspite of the great difference which may at first sight appear, these\ninstitutions are the only ones to which the Saxon brotherhoods may at\nall be likened. In the towns these confraternities have now completely\ndisappeared; but in villages they are still in full force, and have but\nlittle or nothing of their original character.[11]\n\nThe head of the Brotherhood is called the Alt-knecht. He is chosen\nevery year, but can be deposed at any time if he prove unworthy of his\npost. It is his mission to watch over the other members, keep order,\nand dictate punishments; but when he is caught erring himself he incurs\na double forfeit. When a new Alt-knecht is about to be chosen, the\nseven oldest brothers are proposed as candidates. With money received\nfrom the treasurer these repair to the public-house, there to await\nthe decision of the confraternity. The other members meanwhile proceed\nto vote, and when they have made a decision, send a deputation of two\nbrothers to invite the candidates to come and learn the result.\n\nTwice the deputation is carelessly dismissed, the candidates affecting\nto feel no interest in the matter; only when the ambassadors appear for\nthe third time two glasses of wine are filled for them, and they are\ndesired to salute the new Alt-knecht.\n\nThe two emissaries then take place on either side of the newly chosen\nleader and drink his health, with the words, \u201cHelf Gott, Alt-knecht.\u201d\nThey then all proceed back to the assembly-room, where the senior\ncandidate says,\n\n\u201cGod be with you, brother: you have sent for us; what do you want?\u201d\n\nThe eldest among the voters answers for the others,\n\n\u201cWe have chosen N. N. for our Alt-knecht; the other six can sit down.\u201d\n\nThe lucky candidate is now expected to play the shamefaced, modest\n_r\u00f4le_, and say,\n\n\u201cLook farther, brother; seek for a better one.\u201d\n\n\u201cWe have already looked,\u201d is the answer.\n\n\u201cAnd is it in truth your will that I and no other should be your head?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is our will.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd shall it then be so?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt shall be so.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd may it be so?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt may be so.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen God help me to act righteously towards myself and you.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod help you, Alt-knecht.\u201d\n\nThe senior brother then solemnly presents him to the assembly, saying,\n\n\u201cSee, brothers, this is the Alt-knecht you have chosen for the coming\nyear. He is bound to undertake all journeys on behalf of the affairs\nof the confraternity, he will preside at our meetings, superintend the\nmaids at their spinning evenings, and will punish each one according\nto his deserts; but when he is himself at fault, he shall be doubly\nvisited (punished) by us.\u201d\n\nSix other brothers occupy different posts of authority under the\nAlt-knecht. The first in rank of these is the Gelassen Alt-knecht,\nwho takes the place of the Alt-knecht when absent; he is likewise\ntreasurer, and has the office of presenting newly chosen members to the\npastor. Once or twice a month there is a meeting of the Brotherhood at\nwhich the affairs of the confraternity are discussed and misdemeanors\njudged. In presiding at these meetings the Alt-knecht has in his hand,\nas insignia of his office, a wooden platter, with which he strikes on\nthe table whenever he wishes to call the brothers to order.\n\nWhoever, on these occasions, freely accuses himself of his faults\nincurs only half the penalty; but I am told that this contingency\nrarely occurs. The finable offences are numerous, and are taxed at\nsix, ten, twenty kreuzers and upwards, according to the heinousness of\nthe offence. Here are some of the principal delinquencies subject to\npenalties:\n\n1. Carelessness or slovenliness of attire\u2014every missing button having\na fine attached to it.\n\n2. Bad manners at table, putting the elbows on the board, or striking\nit with the fist when excited.\n\n3. Irregularity in church attendance, falling asleep during the sermon,\nyawning, stretching, etc., a particularly heavy fine being put upon\nsnoring.\n\n4. Having, on fast-days, whistled loudly in the street, or worn colored\nribbons in the hat.\n\nWhoever be discontented with the punishment assigned to him, and\nforgets himself so far as to grumble audibly, incurs a double fine.\n\nFour times yearly, before the Sacrament is administered in church, the\nBrotherhood hold what they call their Vers\u00f6hnungs-Abend (reconciliation\nevening), at which they mutually ask pardon for the injuries done.\n\nEight days after Quasimodo Sunday the Alt-knecht sends round an\ninvitation to all newly confirmed youths to enter the confraternity.\nTheir incorporation is accompanied by various ceremonies, one of which\nis that each newly chosen member is laden with a burden of heavy\nstones, old rusty pots and pans, broomsticks, and such-like rubbish,\nsecured round his neck by means of ropes, this somewhat obscure\nceremony being supposed to signify the subjection of the new member to\nthe rules of the Brotherhood.\n\nOn his marriage a man ceases to be a member of the Brotherhood, on\nleaving which both he and his bride must pay certain taxes in meat,\nbread, and wine. Henceforth he belongs to the _Nachbarschaft_, or\nneighborhood. Every village is divided into four neighborhoods, each\ngoverned by a head, called the Nachbarvater. This second confraternity\nis conducted in much the same manner as the Brotherhood, with the\ndifference that its regulations apply to the reciprocal assistance\nwhich neighbors are bound to render each other in various household\nand domestic contingencies. Thus a man is only obliged to assist those\nwho belong to his own quarter in building a house, cleaning out wells,\nextinguishing fires, and such-like. He must also contribute provisions\non christening, marriage, and funeral occasions occurring within his\nneighborhood, and lend plates and jugs for the same.\n\nThe Nachbarvater has the responsibility of watching over the order and\ndiscipline in his quarter, enforcing the regulations issued by the\npastor or the village _maire_, or _Hann_, and assuring himself of the\ncleanliness of those streets which lie under his jurisdiction. When an\nox or calf has perished through any accident, it is his duty to have\nthe fact proclaimed in the neighborhood, each family in which is then\nobliged to purchase a certain portion of the meat at the price fixed\nby the Nachbarvater, in order to lighten the loss to the afflicted\nfamily. His authority extends even to the interior of each household,\nand he is bound to report to the pastor the names of those who absent\nthemselves from church. He must fine the men who have neglected to\napproach the Sacrament, as well as the women who have lingered outside\nthe church wasting their time in senseless gossip. Children who have\nbeen overheard speaking disrespectfully of their parents, couples whose\nconnubial quarrels are audible in the street, dogs wantonly beaten by\ntheir masters, vain young matrons who have exceeded the prescribed\nnumber of glittering pins in their head-dress, or girls surpassing\ntheir proper allowance of ribbons\u2014all come under his jurisdiction;\nand the Nachbarvater is himself subject to punishment if he neglect\nto report a culprit, or show himself too lenient in the dictation of\npunishment.\n\nOf the third confraternity, to which belong the girls\u2014viz., the\n_Schwesterschaft_, or Sisterhood\u2014there is comparatively little to say;\nbut the description of one of these Saxon village communities would not\nbe complete without mention of the _Hann_, who, after the parson, is\nthe most important man in the village.\n\nThe designation _Hann_ has been derived by etymologists from the\nSaxon word _chunna_ (hundred), out of which successively Hunna, Hund,\nHunne, Honne, and Hann have been made. A Hundding or Huntari was a\ndistrict comprising a hundred divisions (but whether heads of families\nor villages is impossible now to ascertain), and the Hund, Honne, or\nHann was the title given to the man who governed this district. The\nappellation Hann is to be found in documents of the fifteenth century\nin the Rhine provinces, but seems to have disappeared there from use\nsince that time.\n\nThe Saxon village Hann is chosen every three years; and though but a\npeasant himself like the neighbors around, he becomes, from the moment\nwhen he is invested in \u201ca little brief authority,\u201d an influential\npersonage, whose word none dare to question. He is forthwith spoken\nof as the \u201cHerr Hann,\u201d his wife becomes the \u201cFrau Hanim,\u201d and _euer\nWeisheit_ (your wisdom) is henceforth the correct formula of address.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON PEASANT GOING TO WORK.]\n\nIn one village it is customary for the newly elected Hann to be placed\non a harrow (the points turned upward), and thus drawn in triumph round\nthe village. The election takes place by votes, much in the same way\nas the nomination of a pastor, and with like circumspection. It is by\nno means easy to find a man well qualified for the office, for the\nHann requires to have a very remarkable assortment of the choicest\nvirtues in order to fit him for the place. He must be upright, honest,\nenergetic, and practical, impervious to bribery, and absolutely\nimpartial; moreover, he must not be poor, for _noblesse oblige_, and\nhis new dignity brings many outlays in its train. The modest supply\nof crockery which has hitherto been ample for the requirements of his\nfamily no longer suffices, for a Hann must be prepared to receive\nguests; such luxuries as coffee, loaf-sugar, and an occasional packet\nof cigars, must now find their way into his house, to say nothing\nof paper, pens, and ink: who knows whether even a new table or an\nadditional couple of chairs may not become necessary?\n\nOf course the Hann can only be chosen from among those residing in the\nprincipal street, and it is considered to be rather an indignity if he\nhas taken his wife from some side-street family\u2014a disadvantage only to\nbe condoned for by very exceptional merit on his own part.\n\nIt would be endless were I to attempt enumerating all the duties of a\nvillage Hann; so let it suffice to say that the whole responsibility\nof the arrangements for the health, security, cleanliness, and general\nwelfare of the village rests upon his shoulders. School attendance,\nmilitary conscription, and tax-collecting are but a few of the many\nduties which devolve on him. His it is to decide on what day the\ncorn is to be cut or the hay brought home; through which street the\nbuffaloes are to be driven to pasture, and at which fountain it is\npermitted for the women to wash their linen. He must assure himself\nthat no cart return to the village after the curfew-bell has sounded;\nthat the night-watchmen\u2014one in each neighborhood\u2014are punctual in\ngoing their rounds; and that the Nachbarv\u00e4ter make discreet and worthy\nuse of their authority.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[10] New-year\u2019s gift from the honorable brotherhood.\n\n[11] The late King of Bavaria, Ludwig II., made an attempt at reviving\nthese brotherhoods, such as they existed in Germany in the Middle\nAges. He himself was the head of the confraternity, and designed the\ncostumes to be worn by its members, who, with their long pilgrim robes,\ncockle-shells, and wide flapping hats, were among the most conspicuous\nfigures at the royal funeral last summer.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nTHE SAXONS: DRESS\u2014SPINNING AND DANCING.\n\n\nNot without difficulty have these Saxons succeeded in keeping their\nnational costume so rigidly intact that the figures we meet to-day in\nevery Saxon village differ but little from old bass-reliefs of the\nthirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Here, as elsewhere, even among\nthese quiet, practical, prosaic, and unlovely people, the demon of\nvanity has been at work. Many severe punishments had to be prescribed,\nand much eloquence expended from the pulpit, in order to subdue the\nevil spirit of fashion which at various times threatened to spread over\nthe land like a contagious illness. So in 1651 we find a whole set of\ndress regulations issued by the bishop for the diocese of Mediasch.\n\n\u201c1. The men shall wear neither red, blue, nor yellow boots, nor shall\nthe women venture to approach the Holy Sacrament or baptismal font in\nred shoes; and whoever conforms not to this regulation is to be refused\nadmittance to church.\n\n\u201c2. All imitation of the Hungarians\u2019 dress, such as their waistcoats,\nbraids, galloons, etc., are prohibited to the men.\n\n\u201c3. Be it likewise forbidden for men and for serving-men to wear their\nhair in a long, foreign fashion hanging down behind, for that is a\ndishonor; for \u2018if a man have long hair, it is a shame unto him\u2019 (1 Cor.\nxi. 14).\n\n\u201c4. The peasant-folk shall wear no high boots and no large hats of\nwool, nor yet trimmed with marten fur, nor an embroidered belt, for he\nis a peasant. Who is seen wearing such will thereby expose himself to\nridicule, and the boots shall be drawn off his legs, that he shall go\nbarefoot.\n\n\u201c5. The women shall avoid all that is superfluous in dress, nor shall\nthey make horns upon their heads.[12] Rich veils shall only be worn by\nsuch as are entitled to them, neither shall any woman wear gold cords\nbeneath her veil, not even if she be the wife of a gentleman.\n\n\u201c6. Silk caps with golden stars are not suitable for every woman. More\nthan two handsome jewelled pins shall no woman wear, and should a woman\nrequire more than two for fastening her veil, let her take small pins.\nNot every one\u2019s child is entitled to wear corals round its neck. Let\nno woman copy the dress of noble dames, for it is not suitable for us\nSaxons.\n\n\u201c7. Peasant-maids shall wear no crooked (probably puffed) sleeves sewed\nwith braids, for they have no right to them. They may wear no red\nshoes, and also on their best aprons may they have two braids only;\none of these may be straight and the other nicked out, but neither\nover-broad. Let none presume to wear high-heeled shoes, but let them\nconform to the prescribed measure under heavy penalty.\n\n\u201c8. Let the womenkind remember that such things as are forbidden\nbecome them but badly. Let them wear the _borten_[13] according to\nthe prescribed measurements. Let the _herren t\u00f6chter_ (gentlemen\u2019s\ndaughters, meaning probably burghers) not make the use of gold braids\nover-common, but content themselves with honorable fringes. The\nserving-girls shall go _absolutely_ without fringes, nor may they buy\nsilk cords of three yards\u2019 length, else these will be taken from their\nhead and nailed against the church wall.\n\n\u201c9. Among the women are beginning to creep in gold rings which cover\nthe half-finger _ad formam et normam nobilium_\u2014after the fashion of\nnobles; let these be _completely_ forbidden.\u201d\n\nThe worthy prelate who issued all these stern injunctions appears to\nhave been so uncommonly well versed in all the intricacies of female\ncostume as to make us wonder whether he had not missed his vocation\nas a man-milliner. It must have been a decidedly nervous matter for\nthe women to attend service at his cathedral, with the consciousness\nthat this terrible eagle-glance was taking stock of their clothes all\nthe time, mentally appraising the value of each head-pin, and gauging\nthe breadth of every ribbon. Most likely he succeeded in his object of\nkeeping poor human vanity in check for a time, though not in rooting\nit out, for scarcely a hundred years later we find a new set of dress\nrules delivered from another pulpit:\n\n\u201cFirst of all, it is herewith forbidden to both sexes to wear\nanything whatsoever which has not been manufactured in Transylvania.\nFurthermore, it is prohibited to the men\u2014\n\n\u201c1. To wear the so-called broad summer foreign hats.\n\n\u201c2. The double-trimmed hats, with head of outlandish cloth; only the\njurymen and officials are allowed to wear them.\n\n\u201c3. Trousers of outlandish cloth, or trimmed with braids.\n\n\u201cTo the womenkind let it be _completely_ forbidden to wear\u2014\n\n\u201c1. Fine blue-dyed head-cloths.\n\n\u201c2. White-starred caps. Only the wives of officials and jurymen in the\nmarket-towns may wear yellow-starred caps.\n\n\u201c3. Silver head-pins costing more than two, or at the outside three,\nHungarian florins.\n\n\u201c4. Outlandish ribbons and fringes.\n\n\u201c5. Borten (cap) 1 foot 8\u00bd inches high, or lined inside with any\nmaterial better than bombazine or glazed calico.\n\n\u201c6. Neck-handkerchiefs.\n\n\u201c7. All outlandish stuffs, linen, etc.\u201d\n\nHere follow several more regulations, concluding with the warning that\nwhosoever dares to disregard them will be punished by having the said\narticles confiscated, besides paying a fine of from six to twelve\nflorins Hungarian money, the offender being in some cases even liable\nto corporal punishment.\n\nHow strangely these old regulations now read in an age when\nlady\u2019s-maids are so often better dressed than their mistresses, and\nevery scullion girl thinks herself ill-used if she may not deck herself\nout with ostrich-feathers of a Sunday!\n\nA story which bears on this subject is told of Andrew Helling, a\nwell-known and much-respected burgher of the town of Reps, about the\nbeginning of last century. He was repeatedly chosen as judge and\nburgomaster in his native place, and had a daughter celebrated for her\nbeauty who was engaged to be married. On the wedding morning the girl\nhad been decked out by her friends in her best, with many glittering\nornaments and long hanging ribbons in her head-gear. But what pleased\nthe young bride most was the bright silken apron, a present from her\nbridegroom received that same morning. Thus attired, before proceeding\nto church, she repaired to her father to ask his blessing, and thank\nhim for all the care bestowed on her; and he, well pleased with and\nproud of his beautiful child, gazed at her with tenderly approving eye.\nBut of a sudden his expression grew stern, and pointing to the silken\napron, he broke out into a storm of bitter reproaches at her vanity\nfor thus attiring herself in gear only suitable for the daughter of\na prince. Hearing which, the bridegroom, aggrieved at the dishonor\nshown to his gift, gave his arm to his bride, and dispensing with the\nincensed father\u2019s blessing, led her off to church.\n\nMost likely, too, it was the desire to repress all extravagance in\ndress which shaped itself into the following prophecy, still prevalent\nthroughout Transylvania:\n\n\u201cWhen luxury and extravagance have so spread over the face of the earth\nthat every one walks about in silken attire, and when sin is no longer\nshame, then, say the Saxons, the end of the world is not far off.\nThere will come then an extraordinary fruitful year, and the ripening\ncorn will stand so high that horse and rider will disappear in it; but\nno one will be there to cut and garner this corn, for a dreadful war\nwill break out, in which all monarchs will fight against each other,\nand the war-horse will run up to its fetlocks in blood, with saddle\nbeneath the belly, all the way from Cronstadt to Broos, without drawing\nbreath. At last, however, will come from the East a mighty king, who\nwill restore peace to the world. But few men will then remain alive\nin Transylvania\u2014not more than can find place in the shade of a big\noak-tree.\u201d\n\nHowever, not all the authority of stern fathers and eloquent preachers\nwas able to preserve the old custom intact in the towns, where,\nlittle by little, it dropped into disuse, being but seldom seen after\nthe beginning of this century. What costumes there remain are now\nlocked away in dark presses, only to see the light of day at costumed\nprocessions or fancy balls, while many of the accompanying ornaments\nhave found their way into jewellers\u2019 show-windows or museums. Only\nin the villages the details of dress are still as rigidly controlled\nas ever, and show no sign of degeneration just yet. Each village,\nforming, as it does, a little colony by itself, and being isolated\nfrom all outward influences, is enabled to retain its characteristics\nin a manner impossible to the town. No etiquette is so rigid as Saxon\nvillage etiquette, and there are countless little forms and observances\nwhich to neglect or transgress would be here as grave as it would be\nfor a lady to go to Court without plumes in England, or to reverse the\norder of champagne and claret at a fashionable dinner-party. The laws\nof exact precedence are here every whit as clearly defined as among our\nupper ten thousand, and the punctilio of a spinning-chamber quite as\nformal as the ordering of her Majesty\u2019s drawing-room.\n\nThese spinning meetings take place on winter evenings, the young girls\nusually coming together at different houses alternately, the young men\nbeing permitted to visit them the while, provided they do not interfere\nwith the work. There are often two different spinning meetings in\neach village, the half-grown girls taking part in the one, while the\nother assembles the full-fledged maidens of marriageable age. It is\nnot allowed for any man to enter a spinning-room in workday attire,\nbut each must be carefully dressed in his Sunday\u2019s clothes. The eldest\nmember of the Brotherhood present keeps watch over the decorum of the\nyounger members, and assures himself that no unbecoming liberties are\ntaken with the other sex.\n\nThere is a whole code of penalties drawn up for those who presume to\noutstep the limits of proper familiarity, and the exact distance a\nyouth is allowed to approach the spinning-wheel of any girl is in some\nvillages regulated by inches. A fine of ten kreuzers is attached to the\ntouching of a maiden\u2019s breastpin, while stealing a kiss always proves\na still more expensive amusement. As we see by ancient chronicles,\nthese spinning meetings (which formerly used to be held in the towns\nas well) had sometimes to be prohibited by the clergy when threatening\nto degenerate into indecorous romps in any particular place; but\nthis custom, so deeply inrooted in Saxon village life, was always\nresumed after an interval, and, thanks to the vigilant watch kept up\nby the heads of the Brotherhood, it is seldom that anything really\nobjectionable takes place. The men are allowed to join the girls in\nsinging the Rockenlieder (spinning songs), of which there are a great\nnumber.\n\nNo man may accompany a girl to her home when the meeting breaks up, but\neach must go singly, or along with her companions.\n\nMany superstitions are attached to the spinning-wheel in Saxon\nhouseholds besides the one which is mentioned in the chapter on\nweddings. So on Saturday evening the work must be desisted with\nthe first stroke of the evening bell, and there are many old pagan\nfestivals which demand that the reel be spun empty the day before.\n\nThe girl who sits up spinning on Saturday night is considered as\nsinning against both sun and moon, and will only produce a coarse,\nunequal thread, which refuses to let itself be bleached white. The\nwoman who spins on Ash-Wednesday will cause her pigs to suffer from\nworms throughout the year.\n\nAn amulet which preserves against accidents and brings luck in love\nmatters may be produced by two young girls spinning a thread together\nin silence on St. John\u2019s Day after the evening bell has rung. It must\nbe spun walking, one girl holding the distaff while the other twirls\nthe thread, which is afterwards divided between the two. Each piece of\nthis thread, if worn against the body, will bring luck to its wearer,\nbut only so long as her companion likewise retains her portion of the\ncharm.\n\nFor the twelve days following St. Thomas\u2019s Day (21st of December)\nspinning is prohibited, and the young men visiting the spinning-room\nduring that period have the right to break and burn all the distaffs\nthey find; so it has become usual for the maidens to appear on the\nfeast of St. Thomas with a stick dressed up with tow or wool to\nrepresent the distaff in place of a real spinning-wheel.\n\nThe married women have also their own spinning meetings, which are\nprincipally held in the six weeks following Christmas; and she is\nconsidered to be a dilatory housewife who has not spun all her flax\nby the first week in February. Sometimes she receives a little covert\nassistance from her lord and master, who, when he has no other work to\ndo in field or barn, may be seen half-shamefacedly plying the distaff,\nlike Hercules at the feet of Omphale. On certain occasions the women\nhold what they call _Gainzelnocht_ (whole-night)\u2014that is, they sit up\nall through the long winter night, spinning into the gray dawn of the\nmorning.\n\n * * * * *\n\nDancing takes place either at the village inn on Sunday afternoons, or\nin summer in the open air, in some roomy court-yard or under a group\nof old trees, the permission to dance having been each time formally\nrequested of the pastor by the head of the Brotherhood. The Alt-knecht\nalso sometimes settles the couples beforehand, so as to insure each\ngirl against the humiliating contingency of remaining partnerless, and\nno youth durst, under pain of penalty, refuse the hand of any partner\nthus assigned to him. Also, each man can stay near his partner only\nwhile the music is playing; he may not sit near or walk about with her\nduring the pauses, but with the last note of the valse or _l\u00e4ndler_ he\ndrops her like a hot potato, the girls retiring to one side of the room\nand the men remaining at the other, till the renewed strains of music\npermit the sexes again to mingle.\n\nOnly girls and youths take part in these village dances as a rule,\nthough in some districts it is usual for young couples to dance for\na period of six months after their marriage. Also, there are some\nvillages where the custom prevails of the married women dancing every\nfourth year, but more usually dancing ceases altogether with matrimony.\n\nThe usual dance which I have seen performed by Saxon peasants is a sort\nof valse executed with perfect propriety in a slow, ponderous style,\nand absolutely unaccompanied by any expression of enjoyment on the part\nof the dancers. In some villages, however, the amusement seems to be\nof a livelier kind, for there I am told that certain dances require\nthat the men should noisily slap the calves of their legs at particular\nparts of the music. A curious explanation is given of this. In olden\ntimes it seems their dress was somewhat different from what it is now.\nInstead of wearing high boots, they had shoes and short breeches; and\nas the stockings did not reach up to the knee, a naked strip of skin\nwas visible between, as in the Styrian and Tyrolese dress. In summer,\ntherefore, when dancing in a barn or in the open air, the dancers were\noften sorely tormented by gnats and horseflies settling on the exposed\nparts; and seeking occasional relief by vigorous slaps, these gradually\ntook the form of a regular rhythm which has survived the change of\ncostume.\n\nThe music used on these occasions is mostly execrable, both out of\ntime and tune, unless indeed they have been lucky enough to secure the\nservices of gypsy musicians; but this is rarely the case, for, bad as\nit is, the Saxon prefers his own music.\n\nHowever, it is an interesting sight to look on at one of these village\ndances, as the girls\u2019 costume is both rich and quaint. Particularly\ninteresting is this sight at the village of Hammersdorf, whose\ninhabitants, as I before remarked, are celebrated for their opulence.\nOnly on the highest festivals, three or four times a year, is it\ncustomary for the girls to don their richest attire for the dance, and\ndisplay all their ornaments\u2014often an exceedingly handsome show of\njewellery, descended from mother to daughter through many generations.\nThus Pentecost, when there is dancing two days in succession in the\nopen air, is a good time for assisting at one of these rustic balls.\n\nEach girl wears on her head the high stiff _borten_, which in shape\nresembles nothing so much as a chimney-pot hat, without either crown\nor brim, though this is perhaps rather an Irish way of putting it. It\nis formed of pasteboard covered with black velvet, and from it depend\nnumerous ribbons three or four fingers in breadth, hanging down almost\nto the hem of the skirt. In some villages these ribbons are blue; in\nothers, as at Hammersdorf, mostly scarlet and silver. The skirt at\nHammersdorf on Pentecost Monday was of black stuff, very full and wide,\nand above it a large white muslin apron covered with embroidery, with\nthe name of the wearer introduced in the pattern. The wide bulging\nblack skirt was confined at the waist by a broad girdle of massive gold\nbraid set with round clumps of jewels at regular intervals; these were\nsometimes garnets, turquoises, pearls, or emeralds. Another ornament\nis the _patzel_, worn by some on the chest, as large as a tea-saucer,\nsilver gilt, and likewise richly incrusted with two or three sorts of\ngems; some of these were of very beautiful and intricate workmanship.\nAltogether, when thus seen collectively, the costume presents a quaint\nand pretty appearance, with something martial about the general effect,\nsuggesting a troop of sturdy young Amazons\u2014the silver and scarlet\ntouches, relieving the simplicity of the black and white attire, being\nparticularly effective.\n\n[Illustration: DRESSING FOR THE DANCE.]\n\nOn Pentecost Tuesday the dance was repeated, with the difference that\nthis time all wore white muslin skirts and black silk aprons. None of\nthem could tell me the reason of this precise ordering of the costume;\nit had always been so, they said, in their mothers\u2019 and grandmothers\u2019\ntime as well, to wear the black skirts on the Pentecost Monday and the\nwhite ones on the Tuesday.\n\nEach girl carries in her hand a little nosegay of flowers, and has\na large flowered silk handkerchief stuck in her waistband. Every\nyouth is, of course, attired in his Sunday clothes; and however hot\nthe weather, it is _de rigueur_ that he keep on the heavy cloth\njacket during the first two dances. Only then, when the Alt-knecht\ngives the signal, is it allowed to lay aside the coat and dance in\nshirt-sleeves, while the girls divest themselves of their uncomfortable\nhead-dress\u2014how uncomfortable being only too apparent from the dark red\nmark which it has left across the forehead of each wearer.\n\nBut if the young people are thus elegantly got up, the same cannot\nbe said of their chaperons the mothers, who in their common week-day\nclothes have likewise come here to enjoy the fun. They have certainly\nmade none of those concessions to society which reduce the lives of\nunfortunate dowagers to a perpetual martyrdom in the ball-room, but\nare as dirty and comfortable as though they were at home, each woman\nsquatting on the low three-legged stool which she has brought with her.\n\nThe reason for this simplicity\u2014not to say slovenliness\u2014of attire\npresently becomes obvious, as the lowing of kine and a cloud of dust\nin the distance announce the return of the herd, and in a body the\nmatrons rise and desert the festive scene, stool in hand, for it is\nmilking-time, and the buffaloes, whose temper is proverbially short,\ndurst not be kept waiting; only when this important duty has been\naccomplished do the mammas return to the ball-room.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[12] This would seem to be an allusion to the Roumanian fashion in some\ndistricts of twisting up the veil into a horn-like shape on the head.\n\n[13] The _borten_ is the high, stiff head-dress worn by all Saxon\ngirls, and which they only lay aside with their marriage.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nTHE SAXONS: BETROTHAL.\n\n\nOats have been defined by Dr. Johnson as a grain serving to nourish\nhorses in England and men in Scotland; and in spite of this\ncontemptuous definition, its name, to us Caledonian born, must always\nawaken pleasant recollections of the porridge and bannocks of our\nchildhood. It is, however, a new experience to find a country where\nthis often unappreciated grain occupies a still prouder position,\nand where its name is associated with memories yet more pregnant and\ntender; for autumn, not spring, is the season of Saxon love, and oats,\nnot myrtle, are here emblematic of courtship and betrothal.\n\nIn proportion as the waving surface of the green oat-fields begins to\nassume a golden tint, so also does curiosity awaken and gossip grow\nrife in the village. Well-informed people may have hinted before that\nsuch and such a youth had been seen more than once stepping in at\nthe gate of the big red house in the long street, and more than one\nchatterer had been ready to identify the speckled carnations which on\nSundays adorned the hat of some youthful Conrad or Thomas, as having\nbeen grown in the garden of a certain Anna or Maria; but after all\nthese had been but mere conjectures, for nothing positive can be known\nas yet, and ill-natured people were apt to console themselves with the\nreflection that St. Catherine\u2019s Day was yet a long way off, and that\n\u201cthere is many a slip \u2019twixt cup and lip.\u201d\n\nBut now the great day which is to dispel all doubt and put an end\nto conjecture is approaching\u2014that day which will destroy so many\nillusions and fulfil so few; for now the sun has given the final touch\nto the ripening grain, and soon the golden sheaves are lying piled\ntogether on the clean-shorn stubble-field, only waiting to be carted\naway. Then one evening when the sun is sinking low on the horizon, and\nno breath of air is there to lift the white powdery dust from off the\nhedge-rows, the sound of a drum is heard in the village street, and a\nvoice proclaims aloud that \u201cto-morrow the oats are to be fetched home.\u201d\n\nLike wildfire the news has spread throughout the village; the cry is\ntaken up and repeated with various intonations of hope, curiosity,\nanticipation, or triumph, \u201cTo-morrow the oats will be fetched.\u201d\n\nA stranger probably fails to perceive anything particularly thrilling\nabout this intelligence, having no reason to suppose the garnering of\noats to be in any way more interesting than the carting of potatoes or\nwheat; and, no doubt, to the majority of land-owners the thought of\nto-morrow\u2019s work is chiefly connected with dry prosaic details, such as\nrepairing the harness and oiling the cart-wheels. But there are others\nin the village on whom the announcement has had an electrifying effect,\nand for whom the words are synonymous with love and wedding-bells. Five\nor six of the young village swains, or maybe as many as eight or ten,\nspend that evening in a state of pleasurable bustle and excitement,\nbusying themselves in cleaning and decking out the cart for the morrow,\nfurbishing up the best harness, grooming the work-horses till their\ncoats are made to shine like satin, and plaiting up their manes with\nbright-colored ribbons.\n\nEarly next morning the sound of harness-bells and the loud cracking\nof whips cause all curious folk to rush to their doors; and as every\none is curious, the whole population is soon assembled in the street to\ngaze at the sight of young Hans N\u2014\u2014, attired in his bravest clothes\nand wearing in his cap a monstrous bouquet, riding postilion fashion on\nthe left-hand horse, and cracking his whip with ostentatious triumph,\nwhile behind, on the gayly decorated cart, is seated a blushing maiden,\nwho lowers her eyes in confusion at thus seeing herself the object of\ngeneral attention\u2014at least this is what she is supposed to do, for\nevery well-brought-up girl ought surely to blush and hang her head\nin graceful embarrassment when she first appears in the character\nof a bride; and although no formal proposal has yet taken place,\nby consenting to assist the young man to bring in his oats she has\nvirtually confessed her willingness to become his wife.\n\nHer appearance on this occasion will doubtless cause much envy and\ndisappointment among her less fortunate companions, who gaze out\nfurtively through the chinks of the wooden boarding at the spectacle\nof a triumph they had perhaps hoped for themselves. \u201cSo it is the\nred-haired Susanna after all, and not the miller\u2019s Agnes, as every one\nmade sure,\u201d the gossips are saying. \u201cAnd who has young Martin got on\nhis cart, I wonder? May I never spin flax again if it is not that saucy\nwench, the black-eyed Lisi, who was all but promised to small-pox Peter\nof the green corner house\u201d\u2014and so on, and so on, in endless variety,\nas the decorated carts go by in procession, each one giving rise to\nmanifold remarks and comments, and not one of them failing to leave\ndisappointment and heart-burning in its rear.\n\nThis custom of the maiden helping the young man to bring in his oats,\nand thereby signifying her willingness to marry him, is prevalent\nonly in a certain district to the north of Transylvania called the\n_Haferland_, or country of oats\u2014a broad expanse of country covered\nat harvest-time by a billowy sea of golden grain, the whole fortune\nof the land-owners. In other parts various other betrothal customs\nare prevalent, as for instance in Neppendorf, a large village close\nto Hermanstadt, inhabited partly by Saxons, partly by Austrians, or\nL\u00e4ndlers, as they call themselves. This latter race is of far more\nrecent introduction in the country than the Saxons, having only come\nhither (last century) in the time of Maria Theresa, who had summoned\nthem to replenish some of the Saxon colonies in danger of becoming\nextinct. If it is strange to note how rigidly the Saxons have kept\nthemselves from mingling with the surrounding Magyars and Roumanians,\nit is yet more curious to see how these two German races have existed\nside by side for over a hundred years without amalgamating; and\nthis for no sort of antagonistic reason, for they live together in\nperfect harmony, attending the same church, and conforming to the same\nregulations, but each people preserving its own individual costume and\ncustoms. The Saxons and the L\u00e4ndlers have each their different parts of\nthe church assigned to them; no Saxon woman would ever think of donning\nthe fur cap of a L\u00e4ndler matron, while as little would the latter\nexchange her tight-fitting fur coat for the wide hanging mantle worn by\nthe other.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON BETROTHED COUPLE.]\n\nUntil quite lately unions have very seldom taken place between members\nof these different races. Only within the last twenty years or so have\nsome of the Saxon youths awoke to the consciousness that the Austrian\ngirls make better and more active housewives than their own phlegmatic\ncountrywomen, and have consequently sought them in marriage. Even then,\nwhen both parties are willing, many a projected union makes shipwreck\nupon the stiff-neckedness of the two _paterfamilias_, who neither of\nthem will concede anything to the other. Thus, for instance, when the\nSaxon father of the bridegroom demands that his future daughter-in-law\nshould adopt Saxon attire when she becomes the wife of his son, the\nL\u00e4ndler father will probably take offence and withdraw his consent\nat the last moment; not a cap nor a jacket, not even a pin or an\ninch of ribbon, will either of the two concede to the wishes of the\nyoung people. Thus many hopeful alliances are nipped in the bud, and\nthose which have been accomplished are almost invariably based on the\nunderstanding that each party retains its own attire, and that the\ndaughters born of such union follow the mother, the sons the father, in\nthe matter of costume.\n\nAmong the L\u00e4ndlers the marriage proposal takes place in a way which\ndeserves to be mentioned. The youth who has secretly cast his eye on\nthe girl he fain would make his wife prepares a new silver thaler\n(about 2_s._ 6_d._) by winding round it a piece of bright-colored\nribbon, and wrapping the whole in a clean sheet of white letter-paper.\nWith this coin in his pocket he repairs to the next village dance,\nand takes the opportunity of slipping it unobserved into the girl\u2019s\nhand while they are dancing. By no word or look does she betray any\nconsciousness of his actions, and only when back at home she produces\nthe gift, and acquaints her parents with what has taken place. A family\ncouncil is then held as to the merits of the suitor, and the expediency\nof accepting or rejecting the proposal. Should the latter be decided\nupon, the maiden must take an early opportunity of intrusting the\nsilver coin to a near relation of the young man, who in receiving it\nback is thereby informed that he has nothing further to hope in that\ndirection; but if three days have elapsed without his thaler returning\nto him, he is entitled to regard this as encouragement, and may\ncommence to visit in the house of his sweetheart on the footing of an\nofficial wooer.\n\nIn cases of rejection, it is considered a point of honor on the part\nof all concerned that no word should betray the state of the case to\nthe outer world\u2014a delicate reticence one is surprised to meet with in\nthese simple people.\n\nThis giving of the silver coin is probably a remnant of the old custom\nof \u201cbuying the bride,\u201d and in many villages it is customary still to\ntalk of the _brautkaufen_.\n\nIn some places it is usual for the lad who is courting to adorn\nthe window of his fair one with a flowering branch of hawthorn at\nPentecost, and at Christmas to fasten a sprig of mistletoe or a\nfir-branch to the gable-end of her house.\n\nTo return, however, to the land of oats, where, after the harvest has\nbeen successfully garnered, the bridegroom proceeds to make fast the\nmatter, or, in other words, officially to demand the girl\u2019s hand of her\nparents.\n\nIt is not consistent with village etiquette that the bridegroom _in\nspe_ should apply directly to the father of his intended, but he\nmust depute some near relation or intimate friend to bring forward\nhis request. The girl\u2019s parents, on their side, likewise appoint a\nrepresentative to transmit the answer. These two ambassadors are called\nthe _wortmacher_ (word-makers)\u2014sometimes also the _hochzeitsv\u00e4ter_\n(wedding-fathers). Much talking and speechifying are required correctly\nto transact a wedding from beginning to end, and a fluent and eloquent\nwortmacher is a much-prized individual.\n\nEach village has its own set formulas for each of the like\noccasions\u2014long-winded pompous speeches, rigorously adhered to, and\nadmitting neither of alteration nor curtailment. The following fragment\nof one of these speeches will give a correct notion of the general\nstyle of Saxon oration. It is the hochzeitsvater who, in the name of\nthe young man\u2019s parents, speaks as follows:\n\n\u201cA good-morning to you herewith, dear neighbors, and I further wish to\nhear that you have rested softly this night, and been enabled to rise\nin health and strength. And if such be the case I shall be rejoiced to\nhear the same, and shall thank the Almighty for his mercies towards\nyou; and should your health and the peace of your household not be as\ngood as might be desired in every respect, so at least will I thank the\nAlmighty that he has made your lot to be endurable, and beg him further\nin future only to send you so much trouble and affliction as you are\nenabled patiently to bear at a time.\n\n\u201cFurthermore, I crave your forgiveness that I have made bold to enter\nyour house thus early this morning, and trust that my presence therein\nmay in no way inconvenience you, but that I may always comport myself\nwith honor and propriety, so that you may in nowise be ashamed of me,\nand that you may be pleased to listen to the few words I have come\nhither to say.\n\n\u201cGod the Almighty having instituted the holy state of matrimony in\norder to provide for the propagation of the human race, it is not\nunknown to me, dearest neighbor, that many years ago you were pleased\nto enter this holy state, taking to yourself a beloved wife, with\nwhom ever since you have lived in peace and happiness; and that,\nfurthermore, the Almighty, not wishing to leave you alone in your\nunion, was pleased to bless you, not only with temporal goods and\nriches, but likewise with numerous offspring, with dearly beloved\nchildren, to be your joy and solace. And among these beloved children\nis a daughter, who has prospered and grown up in the fear of the Lord\nto be a comely and virtuous maiden.\n\n\u201cAnd as likewise it may not be unknown to you that years ago we too\nthought fit to enter the holy state of matrimony, and that the Lord was\npleased to bless our union, not with temporal goods and riches, but\nwith numerous offspring, with various beloved children, among whom is a\nson, who has grown up, not in a garden of roses, but in care and toil,\nand in the fear of the Lord.\n\n\u201cAnd now this same son, having grown to be a man, has likewise\nbethought himself of entering the holy state of matrimony; and he has\nprayed the Lord to guide him wisely in his choice, and to give him a\nvirtuous and God-fearing companion.\n\n\u201cTherefore he has been led over mountains and valleys, through forests\nand rivers, over rocks and precipices, until he came to your house and\ncast his eyes on the virtuous maiden your daughter. And the Lord has\nbeen pleased to touch his heart with a mighty love for her, so that he\nhas been moved to ask you to give her hand to him in holy wedlock.\u201d\n\nProbably the young couple have grown up in sight of each other, the\ngarden of the one father very likely adjoining the pigsty of the other;\nbut the formula must be adhered to notwithstanding, and neither rocks\nnor precipices omitted from the programme; and even though the parents\nof the bride be a byword in the village for their noisy domestic\nquarrels, yet the little fiction of conjugal happiness must be kept\nup all the same, with a truly magnificent sacrifice of veracity to\netiquette worthy of any Court journal discussing a royal alliance.\n\nAnd in point of fact a disinterested love-match between Saxon peasants\nis about as rare a thing as a genuine courtship between reigning\nprinces. Most often it is a simple business contract arranged between\nthe family heads, who each of them hopes to reap advantage from the\nbargain.\n\nWhen the answer has been a consent, then the compact is sealed by a\nfeast called the _brautvertrinken_ (drinking the bride), to which are\ninvited only the nearest relations on either side, the places of honor\nat the head of the table being given to the two ambassadors who have\ntransacted the business. A second banquet, of a more solemn nature, is\nheld some four weeks later, when rings have been exchanged in presence\nof the pastor. The state of the weather at the moment the rings are\nexchanged is regarded as prophetic for the married life of the young\ncouple, according as it may be fair or stormy.\n\nPutting the ring on his bride\u2019s finger, the young man says,\n\n \u201cI give thee here my ring so true;\n God grant thou may it never rue!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nTHE SAXONS: MARRIAGE.\n\n\nThe 25th of November, feast of St. Catherine,[14] is in many districts\nthe day selected for tying all these matrimonial knots. When this is\nnot the case, then the weddings take place in Carnival, oftenest in the\nweek following the Sunday when the gospel of the marriage at Cana has\nbeen read in church; and Wednesday is considered the most lucky day for\nthe purpose.\n\nThe preparations for the great day occupy the best part of a week\nin every house which counts either a bride or bridegroom among its\ninmates. There are loaves and cakes of various sorts and shapes to\nbe baked, fowls and pigs to be slaughtered; in wealthier houses\neven the sacrifice of a calf or an ox is considered necessary for\nthe wedding-feast; and when this is the case the tongue is carefully\nremoved, and, placed upon the best china plate, with a few laurel\nleaves by way of decoration, is carried to the parsonage as the\ncustomary offering to the reverend Herr Vater.\n\nThe other needful provisions for the banquet are collected in the\nfollowing simple manner: On the afternoon of the Sunday preceding the\nwedding, six young men belonging to the Brotherhood are despatched\nby the Alt-knecht from house to house, where, striking a resounding\nknock on each door, they make the village street re-echo with their\ncry, \u201cBringt rahm!\u201d (bring cream). This is a summons which none may\nrefuse, all those who belong to that neighborhood being bound to send\ncontributions in the shape of milk, cream, eggs, butter, lard, or\nbacon, to those wedding-houses within their quarter; and every gift,\neven the smallest one of a couple of eggs, is received with thanks, and\nthe messenger rewarded by a glass of wine.\n\nNext day the women of both families assemble to bake the wedding-feast,\nthe future mother-in-law of the bride keeping a sharp lookout on the\ngirl, to note whether she acquits herself creditably of her household\nduties. This day is in fact a sort of final examination the bride has\nto pass through in order to prove herself worthy of her new dignity;\nso woe to the maiden who is dilatory in mixing the dough or awkward at\nkneading the loaves.\n\nWhile this is going on the young men have been to the forest to fetch\nfiring-wood, for it is a necessary condition that the wood for heating\nthe oven where the wedding-loaves are baked should be brought in\nexpressly for the occasion, even though there be small wood in plenty\nlying ready for use in the shed.\n\nThe cart is gayly decorated with flowers and streamers, and the wood\nbrought home with much noise and merriment, much in the old English\nstyle of bringing in the yule-log. On their return from the forest,\nthe gate of the court-yard is found to be closed; or else a rope, from\nwhich are suspended straw bunches and bundles, is stretched across the\nentrance. The women now advance, with much clatter of pots and pans,\nand pretend to defend the yard against the besiegers; but the men tear\ndown the rope, and drive in triumphantly, each one catching at a straw\nbundle in passing. Some of these are found to contain cakes or apples,\nothers only broken crockery or egg-shells.\n\nThe young men sit up late splitting the logs into suitable size for\nburning. Their duties further consist in lighting the fire, drawing\nwater from the well, and putting it to boil on the hearth. Thus they\nwork till into the small hours of the morning, now and then refreshing\nthemselves with a hearty draught of home-made wine. When all is\nprepared, it is then the turn of the men to take some rest, and they\nwake the girls with an old song running somewhat as follows:\n\n \u201cAll in the early morning gray,\n A lass would rise at break of day.\n Arise, arise,\n Fair lass, arise,\n And ope your eyes,\n For darkness flies,\n And your true-love he comes to-day.\n\n \u201cSo, lassie, would you early fill\n Your pitcher at the running rill,\n Awake, awake,\n Fair maid, awake,\n Your pitcher take,\n For dawn doth break,\n And come to-day your true-love will.\u201d\n\nAnother song of equally ancient origin is sung the evening before the\nmarriage, when the bride takes leave of her friends and relations.[15]\n\n \u201cI walked beside the old church wall;\n My love stood there, but weeping all.\n I greeted her, and thus she spake:\n \u2018My heart is sore, dear love, alack!\n I must depart, I must be gone;\n When to return, God knows alone!\n When to return?\u2014when the black crow\n Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.\n\n \u201c\u2018I set two roses in my father\u2019s land\u2014\n O father, dearest father, give me once more thy hand!\n I set two roses in my mother\u2019s land\u2014\n O mother, dearest mother, give me again thy hand!\n I must depart, I must be gone;\n When to return, God knows alone!\n When to return?\u2014when the black crow\n Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.\n\n \u201c\u2018I set two roses in my brother\u2019s land\u2014\n O brother, dearest brother, give me again thy hand!\n I set two roses in my sister\u2019s land\u2014\n O sister, dearest sister, give me again thy hand!\n I must away, I must be gone;\n When to return, God knows alone!\n When to return?\u2014when the black crow\n Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.\n\n \u201c\u2018I set again two roses under a bush of yew\u2014\n O comrades, dearest comrades, I say my last adieu!\n No roses shall I set more in this my native land\u2014\n O parents, brother, sister, comrades, give me once more your hand!\n I must away, I must be gone;\n When to return, God knows alone!\n When to return?\u2014when the black crow\n Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.\n\n \u201c\u2018And when I came to the dark fir-tree,[16]\n An iron kettle my father gave me;\n And when I came unto the willow,\n My mother gave a cap and a pillow.\n Woe\u2019s me! \u2019tis only those who part\n Can tell how parting tears the heart!\n\n \u201c\u2018And when unto the bridge I came,\n I turned me round and looked back again;\n I saw no mother nor father more,\n And I bitterly wept, for my heart was sore.\n Woe\u2019s me! \u2019tis only those who part\n Can tell how parting tears the heart!\n\n \u201c\u2018And when I came before the gate,\n The bolt was drawn, and I must wait;\n And when I came to the wooden bench,\n They said, \u201cShe\u2019s but a peevish wench!\u201d\n Woe\u2019s me! \u2019tis only those who part\n Can tell how parting tears the heart!\n\n \u201c\u2018And when I came to the strangers\u2019 hearth,\n They whispered, \u201cShe is little worth;\u201d\n And when I came before the bed,\n I sighed, \u201cWould I were yet a maid!\u201d\n Woe\u2019s me! \u2019tis only those who part\n Can tell how parting tears the heart!\n\n \u201c\u2018My house is built of goodly stone,\n But in its walls I feel so lone!\n A mantle of finest cloth I wear,\n But \u2019neath it an aching heart I bear.\n Loud howls the wind, wild drives the snow,\n Parting, oh, parting is bitterest woe!\n On the belfry tower is a trumpet shrill,\n But down the kirkyard the dead lie still.\u2019\u201d\n\nVery precise are the formalities to be observed in inviting the\nwedding-guests. A member of the bride\u2019s family is deputed as _einlader_\n(inviter), and, invested with a brightly painted staff as insignia of\nhis office, he goes the round of the friends and relations to be asked.\n\nIt is customary to invite all kinsfolk within the sixth degree of\nrelationship, though many of these are not expected to comply with the\nsummons, the invitations in such cases being simply a matter of form,\npolitely tendered on the one side and graciously received on the other,\nbut not meant to be taken literally, as being but honorary invitations.\n\nUnless particular arrangements have been made to the contrary, it\nis imperative that the invitations, in order to be valid, should\nbe repeated with all due formalities, as often as three times, the\nslightest divergence from this rule being severely judged and commented\nupon; and mortal offence has often been taken by a guest who bitterly\ncomplains that he was only twice invited. In some villages it is,\nmoreover, customary to invite anew for each one of the separate\nmeals which take place during the three or four days of the wedding\nfestivities.\n\nEarly on the wedding morning the bridegroom despatches his _wortmann_\nwith the _morgengabe_ (morning gift) to the bride. This consists in a\npair of new shoes, to which are sometimes added other small articles,\nsuch as handkerchiefs, ribbons, a cap, apples, nuts, cakes, etc. An\nancient superstition requires that the young matron should carefully\ntreasure up these shoes if she would assure herself of kind treatment\non the part of her husband, who \u201cwill not begin to beat her till the\nwedding-shoes are worn out.\u201d The ambassador, in delivering over the\ngifts to the _wortmann_ of the other party, speaks as follows:\n\n\u201cGood-morning to you, Herr Wortmann, and to all worthy friends here\nassembled. The friends on our side have charged me to wish you all\na very good morning. I have further come hither to remind you of\nthe laudable custom of our fathers and grandfathers, who bethought\nthemselves of presenting their brides with a small morning gift. So in\nthe same way our young master the bridegroom, not wishing to neglect\nthis goodly patriarchal custom, has likewise sent me here with a\ntrifling offering to his bride, trusting that this small gift may be\nagreeable and pleasing to you.\u201d\n\nThe bride, on her side, sends to the bridegroom a new linen shirt,\nspun, woven, sewed, and embroidered by her own hands. This shirt he\nwears but twice\u2014once on his wedding-day for going to church, the\nsecond time when he is carried to the grave.\n\nBefore proceeding to church the men assemble at the house of the\nbridegroom, and the women at that of the bride. The young people only\naccompany the bridal pair to church, the elder members of both families\nremaining at home until the third invitation has been delivered, after\nwhich all proceed together to the house of the bride, where the first\nday\u2019s festivities are held.\n\nIn some villages it is customary for the young couple returning from\nchurch to the house of the bridegroom to have their two right hands\ntied together before stepping over the threshold. A glass of wine and\na piece of bread are given to them ere they enter, of which they must\nboth partake together, the bridegroom then throwing the glass away over\nthe house-roof.\n\nThere is much speechifying and drinking of healths, and various meals\nare served up at intervals of three or four hours, each guest being\nprovided with a covered jug, which must always be kept replenished with\nwine.\n\nIt is usual for each guest to bring a small gift as contribution to the\nnewly set-up household of the young couple, and these are deposited on\na table decked for the purpose in the centre of the court-yard, or,\nif the weather be unfavorable, inside the house\u2014bride and bridegroom\nstanding on either side to receive the gifts. First it is the\nbridegroom\u2019s father, who, approaching the table, deposits thereon a new\nshining ploughshare, as symbol that his son must earn his bread by the\nsweat of his brow; then the mother advances with a new pillow adorned\nwith bows of colored ribbon, and silver head-pins stuck at the four\ncorners. These gay ornaments are meant to represent the pleasures and\njoys of matrimony, but two long streamers of black ribbon, which hang\ndown to the ground on either side, are placed there likewise to remind\nthe young couple of the crosses and misfortunes which must inevitably\nfall to their share. The other relations of the bridegroom follow in\ndue precedence, each with a gift. Sometimes it is a piece of homespun\nlinen, a colored handkerchief, or some such article of dress or\ndecoration; sometimes a roll of sheet-iron, a packet of nails, a knife\nand fork, or a farming or gardening implement, each one laying down his\nor her gift with the words, \u201cMay it be pleasing to you.\u201d\n\nThen follow the kinsfolk of the bride with similar offerings, her\nfather presenting her with a copper caldron or kettle, her mother with\na second pillow decorated in the same manner as the first one.\n\nPlayful allusions are not unfrequently concealed in these gifts\u2014a\ndoll\u2019s cradle, or a young puppy-dog wrapped in swaddling-clothes, often\nfiguring among the presents ranged on the table.\n\nVarious games and dances fill up the pauses between the meals\u2014songs\nand speeches, often of a somewhat coarse and cynical nature, forming\npart of the usual programme. Among the games occasionally enacted at\nSaxon peasant weddings there is one which deserves a special mention,\naffording, as it does, a curious proof of the tenacity of old pagan\nrites and customs transmitted by verbal tradition from one generation\nto the other. This is the _r\u00f6ssel-tanz_, or dance of the horses,\nevidently founded on an ancient Scandinavian legend, to be found in\nSnorri\u2019s \u201cEdda.\u201d In this tale the gods Thor and Loki came at nightfall\nto a peasant\u2019s house in a carriage drawn by two goats or rams, and\nasked for a night\u2019s lodging. Thor killed the two rams, and with the\npeasant and his family consumed the flesh for supper. The bones were\nthen ordered to be thrown in a heap on to the hides of the animals; but\none of the peasant\u2019s sons had, in eating, broken open a bone in order\nto suck the marrow within, and next morning, when the god commanded\nthe goats to get up, one of them limped on the hind-leg because of the\nbroken bone, on seeing which Thor was in a great rage, and threatened\nto destroy the peasant and his whole family, but finally allowed\nhimself to be pacified, and accepted the two sons as hostages.\n\nIn the peasant drama here alluded to, the gods Thor and Loki are\nreplaced by a colonel and a lieutenant-colonel, while instead of two\ngoats there are two horses and one goat; also, the two sons of the\npeasant are here designated as Wallachians. Everything is, of course,\nmuch distorted and changed, but yet all the principal features of the\ndrama are clearly to be recognized\u2014the killing of the goat and its\nsubsequent resurrection, the colonel\u2019s rage, and the transferment\nof the two Wallachians into his service, all being part of the\nperformance.\n\nAt midnight, or sometimes later, when the guests are about to depart,\nthere prevails in some villages a custom which goes by the name of _den\nborten abtanzen_, dancing down the bride\u2019s crown. This head-covering,\nwhich I have already described, is the sign of her maidenhood, which\nshe must lay aside now that she has become a wife, and it is danced\noff in the following manner: All the married women present, except\nthe very oldest and most decrepit, join hands\u2014two of them, appointed\nas brideswomen, taking the bride between them. Thus forming a wide\ncircle, they dance backward and forward round and round the room,\nsometimes forming a knot in the centre, sometimes far apart, till\nsuddenly, either by accident or on purpose, the chain is broken\nthrough at one place, which is the signal for all to rush out into\nthe court-yard, still holding hands. From some dark corner there now\nsprings unexpectedly a stealthy robber, one of the bridesmen, who has\nbeen lying there in ambush to rob the bride of her crown. Sometimes\nshe is defended by two brothers or relations, who, dealing out blows\nwith twisted up handkerchiefs or towels, endeavor to keep the thief\nat a distance; but the struggle always ends with the loss of the\nhead-dress, which the young matron bewails with many tears and sobs.\nThe brideswomen now solemnly invest her with her new head-gear, which\nconsists of a snowy cap and veil, held together by silver or jewelled\npins, sometimes of considerable value. This head-dress, which fits\nclose to the face, concealing all the hair, has a nun-like effect, but\nis not unbecoming to fresh young faces.\n\nSometimes, after the bride is invested in her matronly head-gear, she,\nalong with two other married women (in some villages old, in others\nyoung), is concealed behind a curtain or sheet, and the husband is\nmade to guess which is his wife, all three trying to mislead him by\ngrotesque gestures from beneath the sheet.\n\nOn the morning after the wedding bridesmen and brideswomen early repair\nto the room of the newly married couple, presenting them with a cake\nin which hairs of cows and buffaloes, swine\u2019s bristles, feathers, and\negg-shells are baked. Both husband and wife must at least swallow a\nbite of this unsavory compound, to insure the welfare of cattle and\npoultry during their married life.[17]\n\nAfter the morning meal the young wife goes to church to be blessed\nby the priest, escorted by the two brideswomen, walking one on either\nside. While she is praying within, her husband meanwhile waits at the\nchurch-door, but no sooner does she reappear at the threshold than the\nyoung couple are surrounded by a group of masked figures, who playfully\nendeavor to separate the wife from her husband. If they succeed in\nso doing, then he must win her back in a hand-to-hand fight with his\nadversaries, or else give money as ransom. It is considered a bad omen\nfor the married life of the young couple if they be separated on this\noccasion; therefore the young husband takes his stand close against\nthe church-door, to be ready to clutch his wife as soon as she steps\noutside\u2014for greater precaution, often holding her round the waist\nwith both hands during the dance which immediately ensues in front of\nthe church, and at which the newly married couple merely assist as\nspectators.\n\nAs several couples are usually married at the same time, it is\ncustomary for each separate wedding-party to bring its own band of\nmusic, and dance thus independently of the others. On the occasion of a\ntriple wedding I once witnessed, it was very amusing to watch the three\nwedding-parties coming down the street, each accelerating its pace\ntill it came to be a sort of race between them up to the church-door,\nin order to secure the best dancing-place. The ground being rough\nand slanting, there was only one spot where anything like a flat\ndancing-floor could be obtained; and the winning party at once securing\nthis enviable position, the others had to put up with an inclined\nplane, with a few hillocks obstructing their ball-room _parquet_.\n\nThe eight to ten couples belonging to each wedding-party are enclosed\nin a ring of by-standers, each rival band of music playing away with\nheroic disregard for the scorched ears of the audience. \u201cWalser!\u201d calls\nout the first group; \u201cPolka!\u201d roars the second\u2014for it is a point of\nhonor that each party display a noble independence in taking its own\nline of action; and if, out of mere coincidence, two of the bands\nhappen to strike up the self-same tune, one of them will be sure to\nchange abruptly to something totally different, as soon as aware of the\nunfortunate mistake\u2014the caterwauling effect produced by this system\nbaffling all description. \u201cThis is nothing at all,\u201d said the pastor,\nfrom whose garden I was overlooking the scene, laughing at the dismay\nwith which I endeavored to stop my ears. \u201cSometimes we have eight or\nten weddings at a time, each with its own fiddlers\u2014that is something\nworth hearing indeed!\u201d\n\nThe rest of this second day is spent much in the same way as the former\none, only this time it is at the house of the bridegroom\u2019s parents.\n\nIn some places it is usual on this day for the young couple,\naccompanied by the wedding-party, to drive back to the house of the\nbride\u2019s parents in order to fetch her _truhe_\u2014viz., the painted wooden\ncoffer in which her trousseau has been stored. The young wife remains\nsitting on the cart, while her husband goes in and fetches the coffer.\nThen he returns once more, and addresses the following speech to his\nmother-in-law: \u201cIt is not unknown to me, dearest mother, that you have\nprepared various articles, at the toil of your hands, for your dearest\nchild, for which may you be heartily thanked; and may God in future\ncontinue to bless your labor, and give you health and strength to\naccomplish the same.\n\n\u201cBut as it has become known to me that the coffer containing your dear\nchild\u2019s effects has got a lock, and as to every lock there must needs\nbe a key, so have I come to beg you to give me this key, in order that\nwe may be enabled to take what we require from out the coffer.\u201d[18]\n\nAmong the customs attached to this first day of wedded life is that of\nbreaking the distaff. If the young matron can succeed in doing so at\none stroke across her knee, she will be sure to have strong and healthy\nsons born of her wedlock; if not, then she has but girls to expect.\n\nThe third day is called the finishing-up day, each family assembling\nits own friends and relations to consume the provisions remaining over\nfrom the former banquets, and at the same time to wash up the cooking\nutensils and crockery, restoring whatever has been borrowed from\nneighbors in the shape of plates, jugs, etc.\u2014the newly married couple\njoining the entertainment, now at the one, now at the other house.\nThis day is the close of the wedding festivities, which have kept both\nfamilies in a state of bustle and turmoil for fully a week. Everything\nnow returns to every-day order and regularity, the young couple usually\ntaking up their abode in a small back room of the house of the young\nman\u2019s parents, putting off till the following spring the important\nbusiness of building their own house. Dancing and feasting are now at\nan end, and henceforth the earnest of life begins, though it is usual\nto say that \u201conly after they have licked a stone of salt together\u201d can\na proper understanding exist between husband and wife.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[14] St. Catherine is throughout Germany the patroness of old\nmaids\u2014likewise in France, \u201ccoiffer la Sainte Catherine.\u201d\n\n[15] Out of the several slightly different versions of this song to be\nfound in different districts I have selected those verses which seemed\nmost intelligible.\n\n[16] Two fir-trees were often planted before Saxon peasant houses.\n\n[17] So in the Altmark the newly married couple used to be served with\na soup composed of cattle-fodder, hay, beans, oats, etc., to cause the\nfarm animals to thrive.\n\n[18] In Sweden the mother takes her seat on the coffer containing her\ndaughter\u2019s effects, and refuses to part with it till the son-in-law has\nransomed it with money.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\nTHE SAXONS: BIRTH AND INFANCY.\n\n\nBy-and-by, when a few months have passed over the heads of the newly\nmarried couple, and the young matron becomes aware that the prophecies\npointed at by the broken distaff and the doll\u2019s cradle are likely to\ncome true, she is carefully instructed as to the conduct she must\nobserve in order to insure the well-being of herself and her child.\n\nIn the first place, she must never conceal her state nor deny it, when\ninterrogated on the subject; for if she do so, her child will have\ndifficulty in learning to speak; nor may she wear beads round her neck,\nfor that would cause the infant to be strangled at its birth. Carrying\npease or beans in her apron will produce malignant eruptions, and\nsweeping a chimney makes the child narrow-breasted.\n\nOn no account must she be suffered to pull off her husband\u2019s boots,\nnor to hand him a glowing coal to light his pipe, both these actions\nentailing misfortune. In driving to market she may not sit with her\nback to the horses, nor ever drink at the well out of a wooden bucket.\nLikewise, her intercourse with the pigsty must be carefully regulated;\nfor should she, at any time, listen over-attentively to the grunting\nof pigs, her child will have a deep grunting voice; and if she kick\nthe swine or push one of them away with her foot, the infant will\nhave bristly hair on its back. Hairs on the face will be the result\nof beating a dog or cat, and twins the consequence of eating double\ncherries or sitting at the corner of the table.\n\nDuring this time she may not stand godmother to any other child, or\nelse she will lose her own baby, which will equally be sure to die if\nshe walk round a new-made grave.\n\nIf any one unexpectedly throw a flower at the woman who expects to\nbecome a mother, and hit her with it on the face, her child will have a\nmole at the same place touched by the flower.\n\nShould, however, the young matron imprudently have neglected any of\nthese rules, and have cause to fear that an evil spell has been cast\non her child, she has several very efficacious recipes for undoing\nthe harm. Thus if she sit on the door-step, with her feet resting on\na broom, for at least five minutes at a time, on several consecutive\nFridays, thinking the while of her unborn babe, it will be released\nfrom the impending doom; or else let her sit there on Sundays, when the\nbells are ringing, with her hair hanging unplaited down her back; or\nclimb up the stair of the belfry tower and look down at the sinking sun.\n\nWhen the moment of the birth is approaching, the windows must be\ncarefully hung over with sheets or cloths, to prevent witches from\nentering; but all locks and bolts should, on the contrary, be opened,\nelse the event will be retarded.\n\nIf the new-born infant be weakly, it is usual to put yolks of eggs,\nbran, sawdust, or a glass of old wine into its first bath.\n\nVery important for the future luck and prosperity of the child is the\nday of the week and month on which it happens to have been born.\n\nSunday is, of course, the luckiest day, and twelve o\u2019clock at noon,\nwhen the bells are ringing, the most favorable hour for beginning life.\n\nWednesday children are _schlabberkinder_\u2014that is, chatterboxes.\nFriday bairns are unfortunate, but in some districts those born on\nSaturday are considered yet more unlucky; while again, in other places\nSaturday\u2019s children are merely supposed to grow up dirty.\n\nWhoever is born on a stormy night will die of a violent death.\n\nThe full or growing moon is favorable; but the decreasing moon produces\nweakly, unhealthy babes.\n\nAll children born between Easter and Pentecost are more or less lucky,\nunless they happen to have come on one of the distinctly unlucky days,\nof which I here give a list:\n\n January 1st, 2d, 6th, 11th, 17th, 18th.\n February 8th, 14th, 17th.\n March 1st, 3d, 13th, 15th.\n April 1st, 3d, 15th, 17th, 18th.\n May 8th, 10th, 17th, 30th.\n June 1st, 17th.\n July 1st, 5th, 6th, 14th.\n August 1st, 3d, 17th, 18th.\n September 2d, 15th, 18th, 30th.\n October 15th, 17th.\n November 1st, 7th, 11th.\n December 1st, 6th, 11th, 15th.\n\nI leave it to more penetrating spirits to decide whether these\nseemingly capricious figures are regulated on some occult cabalistic\nsystem, the secret workings of which have baffled my understanding, so\nthat I am at a loss to explain why January and April have the greatest,\nJune and October the least, proportion of unlucky days allotted to\nthem; and why the 1st and 17th of each month are mostly pernicious,\nwhile, barring the 30th of May and September, no date after the 18th is\never in bad odor.\n\nBoth mother and child must be carefully watched over during the first\nfew days after the birth, and all evil influences averted. The visit\nof another woman who has herself a babe at the breast may deprive\nthe young mother of her milk; and whosoever enters the house without\nsitting down will assuredly carry off the infant\u2019s sleep.\n\nIf the child be subject to frequent and apparently groundless fits of\ncrying, that is proof positive that it has been bewitched\u2014either by\nsome one whose eyebrows are grown together, and who consequently has\nthe evil eye, or else by one of the invisible evil spirits whose power\nis great before the child has been taken to church. But even a person\nwith quite insignificant eyebrows may convey injury by unduly praising\nthe child\u2019s good looks, unless the mother recollect to spit on the\nground as soon as the words are spoken.\n\nHere are a few specimens of the recipes _en vogue_ for counteracting\nsuch evil spells:\n\n\u201cPlace nine straws, which must be counted backward from nine to one, in\na jug of water drawn from the river _with_ the current, not _against_\nit; throw into the water some wood-parings from off the cradle, the\ndoor-step, and the four corners of the room in which the child was\nborn, and add nine pinches of ashes, likewise counted backward. Boil up\ntogether, and pour into a large basin, leaving the pot upside down in\nit. If the boiling water draws itself up into the jug\u201d (as of course it\nwill), \u201cthat is proof positive that the child is bewitched. Now moisten\nthe child\u2019s forehead with some of the water before it has time to cool,\nand give it (still counting backward) nine drops to drink.\u201d\n\nThe child that has been bewitched may likewise be held above a red-hot\nploughshare, on which a glass of wine has been poured; or else a glass\nof water, in which a red-hot horseshoe has been placed, given to drink\nin spoonfuls.\n\nIn every village there used to be (and may still occasionally be\nfound) old women who made a regular and profitable trade out of\npreparing the water which is to undo such evil spells.\n\nThe Saxon mother is careful not to leave her child alone till it\nhas been baptized, for fear of malignant spirits, who may steal it\naway, leaving an uncouth elf in its place. Whenever a child grows up\nclumsy and heavy, with large head, wide mouth, stump nose, and crooked\nlegs, the gossips are ready to swear that it has been changed in the\ncradle\u2014more especially if it prove awkward and slow in learning to\nspeak. To guard against such an accident, it is recommended to mothers\nobliged to leave their infants alone to place beneath the pillow either\na prayer-book, a broom, a loaf of bread, or a knife stuck point upward.\n\nVery cruel remedies have sometimes been resorted to in order to force\nthe evil spirits to restore the child they have stolen and take back\ntheir own changeling. For instance, the unfortunate little creature\nsuspected of being an elf was beaten with a thorny branch until quite\nbloody, and then left sitting astride on a hedge for an hour. It was\nthen supposed that the spirits would secretly bring back the stolen\nchild.\n\nThe infant must not be suffered to look at itself in the glass till\nafter the baptism, nor should it be held near an open window. A very\nefficacious preservative against all sorts of evil spells is to hang\nround the child\u2019s neck a little triangular bag stuffed with grains of\nincense, wormwood, and various aromatic herbs, and with an adder\u2019s\nhead embroidered outside. A gold coin sewed into the cap is also much\nrecommended.\n\nTwo godfathers and two godmothers are generally appointed at Saxon\npeasant christenings, and it is customary that the one couple should\nbe old and the other young; but in no case should a husband and wife\nfigure as godparents at the same baptism, but each one of the quartette\nmust belong to a different family. This is the general custom, but in\nsome districts the rule demands two godfathers and one godmother for a\nboy, two godmothers and one godfather for a girl.\n\nIf the parents have previously lost other children, then the infant\nshould not be carried out by the door in going to church, but handed\nout by the window and brought back in the same way. It should be\ncarried through the broadest street, never by narrow lanes or by-ways,\nelse it will learn thieving.\n\nThe godparents must on no account look round on their way to church,\nand the first person met by the christening procession will decide the\nsex of the next child to be born\u2014a boy if it be a man.\n\nIf two children are baptized out of the same water, one of them is\nsure to die; and if several boys are christened in succession in the\nsame church without the line being broken by a girl, there will be war\nin the land as soon as they are grown up. Many girls christened in\nsuccession denotes fruitful vintages for the country when they shall\nhave attained a marriageable age.\n\nIf the child sleep through the christening ceremony, it will be pious\nand good-tempered\u2014but if it cries, bad-tempered or unlucky; therefore\nthe first question asked by the parents on the party\u2019s return from\nchurch is generally, \u201cWas it a quiet baptism?\u201d and if such has not been\nthe case, the sponsors are apt to conceal the truth.\n\nIn some places the christening procession returning to the house finds\nthe door closed. After knocking for some time in vain, a voice from\nwithin summons the godfather to name seven bald men of the parish. This\nhaving been answered, a further question is asked as to the gospel read\nin church, and only on receiving this reply, \u201cLet the little children\ncome to me,\u201d is the door flung open, saying, \u201cCome in; you have\nhearkened attentively to the words of the Lord.\u201d\n\nThe sponsors next inquiring, \u201cWhere shall we put the child?\u201d receive\nthis answer:\n\n \u201cOn the bunker let it be,\n It will jump then like a flea.\n Put it next upon the hearth,\n Heavy gold it will be worth.\n On the floor then let it sleep,\n That it once may learn to sweep.\n On the table in a dish,\n Grow it will then like a fish.\u201d\n\nAfter holding it successively in each of the places named, the baby is\nfinally put back into the cradle, while the guests prepare to enjoy\nthe _tauf schmaus_, or christening banquet, to which each person has\nbeen careful to bring a small contribution in the shape of eggs, bacon,\nfruit, or cakes; the godparents do not fail to come, each laden with a\nbottle of good wine besides some other small gift for the child.\n\nThe feast is noisy and merry, and many are the games and jokes\npractised on these occasions. One of these, called the _badspringen_\n(jumping the bath), consists in placing a washing trough or bath upside\ndown on the ground with a lighted candle upon it. All the young women\npresent are then invited to jump over without upsetting or putting\nout the light. Those successful in this evolution will be mothers of\nhealthy boys. If they are bashful and refuse to jump, or awkward enough\nto upset and put out the candle, they will be childless or have only\ngirls.\n\nThe _spiesstanz_, or spit dance, is also usual at christening feasts.\nTwo roasting-spits are laid on the ground crosswise, as in the\nsword-dance, and the movements executed much in the same manner.\nSometimes it is the grandfather of the new-born infant, who, proud of\nhis agility, opens the performance singing:\n\n \u201cPurple plum so sweet,\n See my nimble feet,\n How I jump and slide,\n How I hop and glide.\n Look how well I dance,\n See how high I prance.\n Purple plum so sweet,\n See my nimble feet.\u201d\n\nBut if the grandfather be old and feeble, and the godfathers unwilling\nto exert themselves, then it is usually the midwife who, for a small\nconsideration, undertakes the dancing.\n\nIt is not customary for the young mother to be seated at table along\nwith the guests; and even though she be well and hearty enough to have\nbaked the cakes and milked the cows on that same day, etiquette demands\nthat she should play the interesting invalid and lie abed till the\nfeasting is over.\n\nFull four weeks after the birth of her child must she stay at home,\nand durst not step over the threshold of her court-yard, even though\nshe has resumed all her daily occupations within the first week of the\nevent. \u201cI may not go outside till my time is out; the Herr Vater would\nbe sorely angered if he saw me,\u201d is the answer I have often received\nfrom a woman who declined to come out on the road. Neither may she spin\nduring these four weeks, lest her child should suffer from dizziness.\n\nWhen the time of this enforced retirement has elapsed, the young mother\nrepairs to church to be blessed by the pastor; but before so doing she\nis careful to seek out the nearest well and throw down a piece of\nbread into its depths, probably as an offering to the _brunnenfrau_ who\nresides in every well, and is fond of luring little children down to\nher.\n\nWith these first four weeks the greatest perils of infancy are\nconsidered to be at an end, but no careful mother will fail to observe\nthe many little customs and regulations which alone will insure the\nfurther health and well-being of her child. Thus she will always\nremember that the baby may only be washed between sunrise and sunset,\nand that the bath water should not be poured out into the yard at a\nplace where any one can step over it, which would entail death or\nsickness, or at the very least deprive the infant of its sleep.\n\nTwo children which cannot yet talk must never be suffered to kiss each\nother, or both will be backward in speech.\n\nA book laid under the child\u2019s pillow will make it an apt scholar; and\nthe water in which a puppy dog has been washed, if used for the bath,\nwill cure all skin diseases.\n\nWhoever steps over a child as it lies on the ground will cause it to\ndie within a month. Other prognostics of death are to rock an empty\ncradle, to make the baby dance in its bath, or to measure it with a\nyard measure before it can walk.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\nTHE SAXONS: DEATH AND BURIAL.\n\n\nIn olden times, when the Almighty used still to show himself on earth,\nthe people say that every one knew beforehand exactly the day and hour\nof his death.\n\nThus one day the Creator in the course of his wanderings came across\na peasant who was mending his garden paling in a careless, slovenly\nmanner.\n\n\u201cWhy workest thou so carelessly?\u201d asked the Lord, and received this\nanswer:\n\n\u201cWhy should I make it any better? I have got only one year left to\nlive, and it will last till then.\u201d\n\nHearing which God grew angry, and said,\n\n\u201cHenceforward no man shall know the day or hour of his death; thou art\nthe last one who has known it.\u201d And since that time we are all kept in\nignorance of our death-hour; therefore should every man live as though\nhe were to die in the next hour, and work as if he were to live forever.\n\nDeath to the Saxon peasant appears in the light of a treacherous enemy\nwho must be met with open resistance, and may either be conquered by\ncourageous opposition or conciliated with a bribe. \u201cHe has put off\ndeath with a slice of bread\u201d is said of a man who has survived some\ngreat danger.\n\nWhen the first signs of an approaching illness declare themselves in a\nman, all his friends are strenuous in advising him to hold out against\nit\u2014not to let himself go, but to grapple with this foe which has\nseized him unawares. Even though all the symptoms of typhus-fever be\nalready upon him, though his head be burning like fire and his limbs\nheavy as lead, he is yet exhorted to bear up against it, and on no\naccount to lie down, for that would be a concession to the enemy.\n\nIn this way many a man goes about with death upon his face, determined\nnot to give in, till at last he drops down senseless in the field or\nyard where he has been working. Even then his family are not disposed\nto let him rest. With well-meant but mistaken kindness they endeavor\nto rouse him by shouting in his ear. He must be made to wake up and\nwalk about, or it will be all over with him; and not for the world\nwould they send for a doctor, who can only be regarded as an omen of\napproaching death.[19]\n\nSome old woman, versed in magic formulas and learned in the decoction\nof herbs and potions, is hastily summoned to the bedside, and the\nunfortunate man would probably be left to perish without intelligent\nadvice, unless the pastor, hearing of his illness, takes upon himself\nto send for the nearest physician.\n\nBy the time the doctor arrives the illness has made rapid strides, and\nmost likely the assistance comes too late. The first care of the doctor\non entering the room will be to remove the warm fur cap and the heavy\nblankets, which are wellnigh stifling the patient, and order him to\nbe undressed and comfortably laid in his bed. He prescribes cooling\ncompresses and a medicine to be taken at regular intervals, but shakes\nhis head and gives little hope of recovery.\n\nAlready this death is regarded as a settled thing in the village; for\nmany of the gossips now remember to have heard the owl shriek in the\npreceding night, or there has been an unusual howling of dogs just\nabout midnight. Some remember how a flight of crows flew cawing over\nthe village but yesterday, which means a death, for it is meat that the\ncrows are crying for; or else the cock has been heard to crow after\nsix in the evening; or the loaves were cracked in the oven on last\nbaking-day. Others call to mind how over-merry the old man had been\nfour weeks ago, when his youngest grandchild was christened, and that\nis ever a sign of approaching decease. \u201cAnd only a week ago,\u201d says\nanother village authority, \u201cwhen we buried old N\u2014\u2014 N\u2014\u2014, there was\nan amazing power of dust round the grave, and the Herr Vater sneezed\ntwice during his sermon; and that, as every one knows, infallibly means\nanother funeral before long. Mark my words, ere eight days have passed\nhe will be lying under the nettles!\u201d\n\n\u201cSo it is,\u201d chimes in another gossip. \u201cHe will hear the cuckoo cry no\nmore.\u201d\n\nThe village carpenter, who has long been out of work, now hangs about\nthe street in hopes of a job. \u201cHow is the old man?\u201d he anxiously\ninquires of a neighbor.\n\n\u201cThe preacher has just gone in to knock off the old sinner\u2019s irons,\u201d is\nthe irreverent reply, at which the carpenter brightens up, hoping that\nhe may soon be called in to make the \u201cfir-wood coat,\u201d for he has a heap\nof damaged boards lying by which he fain would get rid of.\n\nSometimes, however, it is the thrifty peasant himself, who, knowing the\nways of village carpenters, and foreseeing this inevitable contingency,\nhas taken care to provide himself with a well-made solid coffin years\nbefore there was any probability of its coming into use. He has\nhimself chosen out the boards, tested their soundness, and driven a\nhard bargain for his purchase, laying himself down in the coffin to\nassure himself of the length being sufficient. For many years this\nuseless piece of furniture has been standing in the loft covered with\ndust and cobwebs, and serving, perhaps, as a receptacle for old iron\nor discarded boots; and now it is the dying man himself who, during a\npassing interval of consciousness, directs that his coffin should be\nbrought down and cleaned out; his glassy eye recovering a momentary\nbrightness as he congratulates himself on his wise forethought.\n\nDeath is indeed approaching with rapid strides. Only two spoonfuls of\nthe prescribed medicine has the patient swallowed. \u201cTake it away,\u201d he\nsays, when he has realized his situation\u2014\u201ctake it away, and keep it\ncarefully for the next person who falls ill. It can do me no good, and\nit is a pity to waste it on me, for I feel that my time has come. Send\nfor the preacher, that I may make my peace with the Almighty.\u201d\n\nThe last dispositions as to house and property have been made in the\npresence of the pastor or preacher. The house and yard are to belong to\nthe youngest son, as is the general custom among the Saxons; the eldest\nson or daughter is to be otherwise provided for. The small back room\nbelongs to the widow, as jointure lodging for the rest of her life;\nlikewise a certain proportion of grain and fruit is assured to her. The\nexact spot of the grave is indicated, and two ducats are to be given\nto the Herr Vater if he will undertake to preach a handsome funeral\noration, and to compose a suitable epitaph for the tombstone.\n\nWhen it becomes evident that the last death-struggle is approaching,\nthe mattress is withdrawn from under the dying man, for, as every one\nknows, he will expire more gently if laid upon straw.\n\nScarcely has the breath left his body than all the last clothes he has\nworn are taken off and given to a gypsy. The corpse, after being washed\nand shaved, is dressed in bridal attire\u2014the self-same clothes once\ndonned on the wedding-morning long ago, and which ever since have been\nlying by, carefully folded and strewn with sprigs of lavender, in the\nlarge painted _truhe_ (bunker), waiting for the day when their turn\nmust come round again. Possibly they now prove a somewhat tight fit;\nfor the man of sixty has considerably developed his proportions since\nhe wore these same clothes forty years ago, and no doubt it will be\nnecessary to make various slits in the garments in order to enable them\nto fulfil their office.\n\nThe coffin is prepared to receive the body by a sheet being spread over\na layer of wood-shavings; for the head a little pillow, stuffed with\ndried flowers and aromatic herbs, which in most houses are kept ready\nprepared for such contingencies. In sewing this pillow great care must\nbe taken not to make any knot upon the thread, which would hinder the\ndead man from resting in his grave, and likewise prevent his widow\nfrom marrying again; also, no one should be suffered to smell at the\nfuneral wreaths, or else they will irretrievably lose their sense of\nsmell.\n\nA new-dug grave should not if possible stand open overnight, but only\nbe dug on the day of the funeral itself.\n\nAn hour before the funeral, the ringer begins to toll the _seelenpuls_\n(soul\u2019s pulse), as it is called; but the sexton is careful to pause in\nthe ringing when the clock is about to strike, for \u201cif the hour should\nstrike into the bell\u201d another death will be the consequence.\n\nStanding before the open grave, the mourners give vent to their grief,\nwhich, even when true and heartfelt, is often expressed with such\nquaint realism as to provoke a smile:\n\n\u201cMy dearest husband,\u201d wails a disconsolate widow, \u201cwhy hast thou gone\naway? I had need of thee to look after the farm, and there was plenty\nroom for thee at our fireside. My God, is it right of thee to take my\nsupport away? On whom shall I now lean?\u201d\n\n_The children near their dead mother._\u2014\u201cMother, mother, who will care\nfor us now? Shall we live within strange doors?\u201d\n\n_A mother bewailing her only son._\u2014\u201cO God, thou hast had no pity! Even\nthe Emperor did not take my son away to be a soldier. Thou art less\nmerciful than the Emperor!\u201d\n\n_Another mother weeping over two dead children._\u2014\u201cWhat a misfortune is\nmine, O God! If I had lost two young foals, at least their hides would\nhave been left to me!\u201d And the children, standing by the open grave of\ntheir father, cry out, \u201cOh, father, we shall never forget thee! Take\nour thanks for all the good thou hast done to us during thy lifetime,\nas well as for the earthly goods thou hast left behind!\u201d\n\nThe banquet succeeding the obsequies is in some places still called the\n_tor_\u2014perhaps in reference to the old god Thor, who with his hammer\npresides alike over marriages and funerals.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[19] On the rare occasions when the Saxon peasant consults a physician,\nhe is determined to reap the utmost advantage from the situation.\nAn amusing instance of this was related to me by a doctor to whom\na peasant had come for the purpose of being bled. Deeming that the\npatient had lost sufficient blood, the doctor was about to close the\nwound, when the Saxon interposed. \u201cSince I have come this long way to\nbe bled, doctor,\u201d he remonstrated, \u201cyou might as well let ten kreuzers\u2019\nworth more blood flow!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nTHE ROUMANIANS: THEIR ORIGIN.\n\n\n\u201cIt is a fine country, but there are dreadfully many Roumanians,\u201d was\nthe verdict of a respectable Saxon, who accompanied his words with\na deep sigh and a mournful shake of the head. Evidently the worthy\nman thought necessary to adopt a deprecatory tone in alluding to\nthese objectionable people, as though the presence of Roumanians in\na landscape were matter for apology, like the admission of rats in\na stable, or bugs in a bedstead. To an unprejudiced outsider, it is\ncertainly somewhat amusing to observe the feelings with which the three\nprincipal races inhabiting this country regard each other: thus, to\nthe Hungarian and the Saxon the Roumanian is but simple, unqualified\nvermin; while the Saxon regards the Magyar as a barbarian, which\ncompliment the latter returns by considering the Saxon a boor; and the\npoor Roumanian, even while cringing before his Saxon and Hungarian\nmasters, is taught by his religion to regard as unclean all those who\nstand outside his faith.\n\nBriefly to sum up the respective merits of these three races, it may be\nallowable to define them as representing manhood in the past, present,\nand future tenses.\n\nThe Saxons _have been_ men, and right good men, too, in their day;\nbut that day has gone by, and they are now rapidly degenerating\ninto mere fossil antiquities, physically deteriorated from constant\nintermarriage, and morally opposed to any sort of progress involving\namalgamation with the surrounding races.\n\nThe Hungarians _are_ men in the full sense of the word, perhaps all the\nmore so that they are a nation of soldiers rather than men of science\nand letters.\n\nThe Roumanians _will be_ men a few generations hence, when they have\nhad time to shake off the habits of slavery and have learned to\nrecognize their own value. There is a wealth of unraised treasure, of\nabilities in the raw block, of uncultured talent, lying dormant in this\nignorant peasantry, who seem but lately to have begun to understand\nthat they need not always bend their neck beneath the yoke of other\nmasters, nor are necessarily born to slavery and humiliation. In face\nof their rapidly increasing population, of the thirst for knowledge and\nthe powerful spirit of progress which have arisen among them of late\nyears, it is scarcely hazardous to prophesy that this people have a\ngreat future before them, and that a day will come when, other nations\nhaving degenerated and spent their strength, these descendants of the\nancient Romans, rising ph\u0153nix-like from their ashes, will step forward\nwith a whole fund of latent power and virgin material to rule as\nmasters where formerly they have crouched as slaves.\n\nTwo popular legends current in Transylvania may here find a place, as\nsomewhat humorously defining the national characteristics of the three\nraces just alluded to.\n\n\u201cWhen God had decreed to banish Adam and Eve from Paradise because\nthey had sinned against his laws, he first deputed his Hungarian angel\nGabor (Gabriel) to chase them out of the garden of Eden. But Adam and\nEve were already wise, for they had eaten of the fruit of knowledge; so\nthey resolved to conciliate the angel by putting good cheer before him,\nand inviting him to partake of it. In truth, the angel ate and drank\nheartily of the good things on the table, and, after having eaten, he\nhad not the heart to repay his kind hosts for their hospitality by\nchasing them out of Paradise, so he returned to heaven without having\nexecuted his commission, and begged the Lord to send another in his\nplace, for he could not do it.\n\n\u201cThen God sent the Wallachian angel Florian, thinking he was less\nfine-feeling and would execute the mission better. Adam and Eve were\nsitting at table when the servant of the Lord entered, shod in leather\n_opintschen_ (sandals) and with fur cap under his arm. After humbly\nsaluting, he told his errand. But Adam, on seeing the appearance of\nthis messenger, felt no more fear, and asked roughly, \u2018Hast brought no\nwritten warrant with thee?\u2019 At this the angel Florian began to tremble,\nturned round on the spot, and went back to heaven.\n\n\u201cThen the Lord became angry, and sent down the German Archangel\nMichael. Adam and Eve were mightily terrified on seeing him, but\nresolved to do their best to soften his heart; so they prepared for\nhim a sumptuous meal of his favorite dishes\u2014ham-sausage, pickled\nsauerkraut, beer, wine, and sweet mead. The German angel was highly\npleased, and played such a good knife and fork that Adam and Eve began\nto feel light of heart again. But hardly had the archangel eaten his\nfill when, rising from the table, he swung his flaming sword overhead\nand thundered forth to his terrified hosts, \u2018Now pack yourselves off!\u2019\nIn vain did our first parents beg and sue for mercy; nothing served to\ntouch the heart of the inflexible German angel, who, without further\nado, drove them both out of Paradise.\u201d\n\nThe second legend relates to the Holy Sepulchre, and tells us how a\ndeputation, consisting of a Hungarian, a Saxon, and a Wallachian, was\nonce sent by the Transylvanian Diet to Palestine in order to recover\nthe Saviour\u2019s body from the infidels. \u201cThey started on their journey\nfull of hope, but when they had reached Jerusalem they found the\nsepulchre guarded by a strong enforcement of Roman soldiers. What was\nnow to be done? was the question debated between them. The Hungarian\nwas for cutting into the soldiers at once with his sword, but the canny\nSaxon held him back and said, \u2018They are stronger than we, and we might\nreceive blows; let us rather attempt to barter.\u2019 The Wallachian only\nwinked with one eye and whispered, \u2018Let us wait till nightfall, and\nthen we can steal the body.\u2019\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere has been of late years so much learned discussion about the\norigin of this Roumanian people that it were presumption, in face\nof the erudite authorities enlisted on either side, to advance any\nindependent opinion on the subject. German writers, especially Saxons,\nhave been strenuous in sneering down all claims to Roman extraction,\nand contending that whatever Roman elements remained over after their\nevacuation of the territory must long since have been swallowed up in\nthe great rush of successive nations which passed over the land in the\nearly part of the Middle Ages. Roumanian writers, on the contrary,\nare fond of laying great stress on the direct Roman lineage which it\nis their pride to believe in, sometimes, however, injuring their own\ncause by over-anxiety to claim too much\u2014laying too little stress\non the admixture of Slave blood, which is as surely a fundamental\ningredient of the race. One of the most enlightened Roumanian authors,\nJoan Slavici, states the case more accurately in saying that the\nethnographical importance of the Roumanians does not lie in the fact\nof their being descendants of the ancient Romans, nor in that of the\nlong-vanished Dacian race having been Romanized by the conquerors,\nbut solely and entirely therein; that this people, placed between two\nsharply contrasting races, form an important connecting link in the\nchain of European tribes.\n\nThe classical type of feature so often to be met with among Roumanian\npeasants of both sexes pleads strongly in favor of the theory of Roman\norigin; and if in a former chapter I compared the features of Saxon\npeasants to those of Noah\u2019s-ark figures, rudely cut out of the very\ncoarsest wood, the Roumanians as often remind me of a type of face\nchiefly to be met with on cameo ornaments or ancient signet-rings. If\nwe take at random a score of individuals from any Roumanian village, we\ncannot fail to find a goodly choice of classical profiles, worthy to be\nimmortalized on agate, onyx, or jasper, like a handful of antique gems\nwhich have been strewn broadcast over the land.\n\nWallack, or Wlach, by which name this people was generally designated\nup to the year \u201948, points equally to Roman extraction\u2014Wallack being\nbut another version of the appellations Welsh, Welch, Wallon, etc.,\ngiven by Germans to all people native of Italy. It may, however, not be\nsuperfluous here to mention that at no period whatever did these people\ndescribe themselves otherwise than as \u201cRom\u0101ns,\u201d Roumanians, and would\nhave been as little likely to speak of themselves as Wallacks as would\nbe an American to call himself a Yankee, or a Londoner to designate\nhimself as a cockney. As far as I can make out, a certain sense of\nopprobrium seems to be attached to this word Wallack as applied by\nstrangers, explainable perhaps by the fact that the appellation Wlach\nwas formerly used to describe all people subjugated by the Romans.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nTHE ROUMANIANS: THEIR RELIGION, POPAS, AND CHURCHES.\n\n\nIn order at all to understand the Roumanian peasant, we must first\nof all begin by understanding his religion, which alone gives us the\nclew to the curiously contrasting shades of his complicated character.\nMonsieur De G\u00e9rando, writing of the Wallacks some forty years ago, says,\n\n\u201cAujourd\u2019hui leur seul mobile est la religion, si on peut donner ce nom\n\u00e0 l\u2019ensemble de leurs pratiques superstitieuses;\u201d and another author,\nwith equal accuracy, remarks that \u201cthe whole life of a Wallack is taken\nup in devising talismans against the devil.\u201d\n\nHistorians are very much divided as to the date of the Roumanians\u2019\nconversion to Christianity, for while some consider this to have only\ntaken place in the time of Patriarch Photius (in the ninth century),\nothers are of opinion that they embraced Christianity as early as the\nthird century. It is not improbable that during the Roman occupation of\nTransylvania in the second and third centuries Christians may have come\nhither, and so imparted their religion to the ancient inhabitants with\nwhom they intermingled.\n\nUp to the end of the seventeenth century all the Transylvanian\nRoumanians belonged to the Greek Schismatic Church. In the year 1698,\nhowever, the Austrian Government succeeded in inducing a great portion\nof the people to embrace the Greek united faith, and acknowledge the\nsupremacy of the Pope; and at the present day the numbers of the two\nconfessions in Transylvania are pretty equally balanced, with only a\nsmall proportion in favor of the Schismatic Church.\n\nThe united Roumanians in Transylvania are subject to an archbishop\nresiding at Blasendorf, while those of the Greek Schismatic Church\nstand under another archbishop, whose seat is at Hermanstadt.\n\nOld chronicles of the thirteenth century make mention of the Wallacks\nas a people \u201cwhich, though professing the Christian faith, is yet given\nto the practice of manifold pagan rites and customs wholly at variance\nwith Christianity;\u201d and even to-day the Roumanians are best described\nby the paradoxical definition of Christian-pagans, or pagan-Christians.\n\nTrue, the Roumanian peasant will never fail to uncover his head\nwhenever he passes by a way-side cross, but his salutation to the\nrising sun will be at least equally profound; and if he goes to church\nand abstains from work on the Lord\u2019s Day, it is by no means certain\nwhether he does not regard the Friday (Vinere), dedicated to Paraschiva\n(Venus), as the holier day of the two. The list of other unchristian\nfeast-days is lengthy, and still lengthier that of Christian festivals,\nin whose celebration pagan rites may yet be traced.\n\nWhoever buries his dead without placing a coin in the hand of\nthe corpse is regarded as a pagan by the orthodox Roumanian.\n\u201c_Nu-i-de-legea-noastra_\u201d\u2014he is not of our law\u2014he says of such a one;\nand whosoever stands outside the Roumanian religion, be he Christian,\npagan, Jew, or Mohammedan, is invariably regarded as unclean, and\nconsequently whatever comes in contact with any such individual is\nunclean likewise.\n\nThe Roumanian language has a special word to define this\nuncleanness\u2014_spurcat_\u2014which corresponds somewhat to the _koscher_ and\n_unkoscher_ of the Jews.\n\nIf any animal fall into a well of drinking-water, then the well\nforthwith becomes _spurcat_, and _spurcat_ likewise whoever drinks of\nthis water. If it be a large animal, such as a calf or goat, which\nhas fallen into the well, then the whole water must be bailed out;\nand should this fail to satisfy the conscience of any ultra-orthodox\nproprietor, then the popa must be called in to read a mass over the\nspot where perhaps a donkey has found a watery grave. But when it is a\nman who has been drowned there, no further rehabilitation is possible\nfor the unlucky well, which must therefore be filled up and discarded\nas quite too hopelessly _spurcat_.\n\nEvery orthodox Roumanian household possesses three different classes of\ncooking and eating utensils: unclean, clean for the meat-days, and the\ncleanest of all for fast-days.\n\nThe cleansing of a vessel which has, through some accident, become\n_spurcat_ is only conceded in the case of very large and expensive\narticles, such as barrels and tubs; copious ablutions of holy-water,\nbesides thorough scouring, scraping, and rubbing, being resorted\nto in such cases. All other utensils which do not come under this\ndenomination must simply be thrown away, or at best employed for\nfeeding the domestic animals. The Roumanian who does not strictly\nobserve all these regulations is himself _spurcat_.\n\nThis same measure he applies to all individuals whom he considers to\nbe clean or unclean, according to their observance of these rules. The\nuncleanliness, according to him, does not lie in the individual, but in\nhis laws, which fail to enforce cleanliness; the law it is, therefore,\nwhich is unclean, _lege spurcat_, which, for the Roumanian, is\nsynonymous with unchristian. For instance, a man who eats horse-flesh\nis by him regarded as a pagan.\n\nThis recognition of the uncleanliness of most of his fellow-creatures\nis, however, wholly independent of either hatred or contempt on the\npart of the Roumanian, who, on the contrary, shows much interest in\nforeign countries and habits; and when he wishes to affirm the high\ncharacter of a stranger, he says of him that he is a man who keeps his\nown law\u2014_tine la legea lui_\u2014spite of which the Roumanian will refuse\nto wear the coat or eat off the plate of this honorable stranger, and\nwould regard any such familiarity as a deadly sin.\n\nThe idea so strongly rooted in the Roumanian mind, that they alone are\nChristians, and that, consequently, no man can be a Christian without\nbeing also a Roumanian, seems to imply that there was a time when the\ntwo words were identical for them, and that, surrounded for long by\npagans with whom they could hold no sort of community, they lacked all\nknowledge of other existing Christian races.\n\nOn the other hand, these people are curiously liberal towards strangers\nin the matter of religion, allowing each one, whatsoever be his\nconfession, to enter their churches and receive their sacraments. No\nRoumanian popa durst refuse to administer a sacrament to whosoever may\napply to him, be he Catholic, Protestant, Jew, or pagan, provided he\nsubmits to receive it in the manner prescribed by the Oriental Church.\nSo to-day, as six hundred years ago, the popa cannot, without incurring\nscandal, refuse to bury a Jew, or administer the sacrament to a dying\ninfidel; his church must be open to all mankind, and all are welcome to\navail themselves of its blessings and privileges.\n\nThis liberality in religious matters cannot, however, be reversed, and\nno true Roumanian ever consents to receive a sacrament from a priest\nof a different confession; and though he may occasionally assist at a\nProtestant or Catholic service, he conforms himself to no foreign forms\nof worship, but is careful to comport himself precisely as though he\nwere in his own church. He does not mind joining a Catholic procession\non occasion, but no power on earth can induce him to take part in a\nstrange funeral.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe position occupied by the Roumanian clergyman towards his flock\nis such a peculiar one that it deserves a special notice. Though his\ninfluence over his people is unlimited, it is in nowise dependent\non his personal character. Unlike the Saxon pastor, it is quite\nsuperfluous for the popa to present in his person a model of the\nvirtues he is in the habit of describing from the altar. He may, for\nhis part, be drunken, dishonest, and profligate to his heart\u2019s content,\nwithout thereby losing his prestige as spiritual head. Like the Indian\nBramins, his official character is absolutely intangible, and not to\nbe shaken by any private misdemeanors; and the Roumanian proverb which\nsays, \u201c_face zice popa dar unce face el_\u201d\u2014that is to say, \u201cdo as the\npopa tells you, but do not act as he does\u201d\u2014describes his attitude with\nperfect accuracy. Only the popa has the privilege of wearing a beard,\nas he alone is privileged to indulge in certain pet vices which it is\nhis mission officially to condemn, and, like the virtue of charity,\nthis beard may often be said literally to cover a very great multitude\nof sins.\n\nThese Roumanian popas, with their thick curly beards, long flowing\ngarments, and wide-brimmed hats, used to give me the impression of\na set of jolly apostles, such as we sometimes see depicted on old\nchurch-windows; not infrequently the extreme joviality of their\nappearance threatening to overpower the apostolic character altogether,\nand completing the simile by suggesting further ideas of glorious\ncrimson sunsets deepening each tint of the mellow-stained glass.\n\nMr. Boner, in his work on Transylvania, mentions an instance of a group\nof Roumanian villagers who were seen on a Saturday afternoon dragging\ntheir sorely resisting spiritual head in the direction of the church.\nOn being asked what they were about, the peasants explained that they\nwere going to lock him up till Sunday morning, else he would be too\ndrunk to say mass for the congregation. \u201cWhen church is over we shall\nlet him out again.\u201d From personal observation I have no doubt of the\nveracity of this story, having come across more than one Roumanian\nvillage popa who would have been none the worse for a little such\njudicious confinement.\n\nAlthough of late years, thanks chiefly to the enlightened efforts\nof the late Archbishop Schaguna, much has been done to raise the\nmoral standard of the Roumanian clergy, yet there remains still much\nto do before the prevailing coarseness, brutality, and ignorance\ntoo often characterizing this class can be removed. At present the\naverage village popa is simply a peasant with a beard, and is not\nnecessarily a particularly respected or respectable individual. Many\nwell-authenticated cases are told of popas who could not write or read,\nand who betrayed their ignorance by holding the book of Gospels upside\ndown.\n\nOn week-days the popa goes about his agricultural duties like any other\npeasant, digging in the garden or going behind the plough as a matter\nof course; his wife is a simple peasant woman, and her children run\nabout as dirty and unkempt as any other brats in the village.\n\nOn one occasion when I had visited a Roumanian church I dropped twenty\nkreuzers (about fourpence) into the hand of the peasant lass who had\nunlocked the door for me. She accepted the coin with humble gratitude,\nbut I felt myself to have been guilty of a terrible _gaucherie_ when I\nsubsequently discovered the young lady to be no other than Madame Popa\nherself!\n\nTowards any one of the higher classes the popa, as a rule, is crouching\nand obsequious, humbly uncovering his head, and hardly daring to take\na seat when offered. An old Hungarian gentleman told me of a Roumanian\npopa who, when requested to be seated, declined so doing, as he\nconsiderately observed that he should not like to distress the noble\ngentleman by leaving vermin on his furniture.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe Roumanian churches offer a pleasant contrast to the bleak,\nuncompromising appearance of the Saxon ones. Even when architecturally\nnot remarkable, they are invariably covered with a profusion of\nornament and decoration of extremely artistic effect. Few places\nof worship appeal so strongly to the imagination as these Oriental\nbuildings, which, without as well as within, are one mass of warm soft\ncoloring. The belfry tower is encircled by a procession of celestial\nbeings, and the walls divided off into little arched niches beneath\nthe roof, each of which harbors some quaint Byzantine saint, with\npale golden aureole and shadowy palm-branch. Though the outlines may\nbe somewhat primitive, and the laws of perspective but imperfectly\nunderstood, nature, the greatest artist of all, has here stepped in to\ncomplete the picture: summer showers and winter snows have mellowed\neach tint, and blended together the color into perfect harmony.\n\nThe same style of ornament is repeated inside with increased effect;\nfor here the saintly legions which adorn the walls are brighter\nand more vivid, stronger and fiercer looking, because in better\npreservation. They seem to be the living originals of which those\nothers outside are but the pale ghosts, and appear to rush at us from\nall sides as we enter the place, increasing in numbers as our eyesight\ngets used to the dim, mysterious twilight let in by the narrow windows.\nNot a corner but from which starts up some grinning devil, not a nook\nbut reveals some choleric-looking saint, till we feel ourselves to be\nsurrounded by a whole pageant of celestial and diabolical beings, only\ndistinguishable from one another by the respective fashions of their\nhead-gear\u2014horns or halos, as the case may be.\n\nThese horned devils play a very important part in each Roumanian\nchurch, where usually a large portion of the walls is given up to\nrepresentations of the place of eternal punishment. The poor Roumanian\npeasant, whose daily life is often so wretched and struggling as hardly\nto deserve that name, seems to derive considerable consolation from\nanticipations of the day when the tables are to be turned, and the\nhitherto despised poor shall receive an eternal crown. Thus the hapless\nvictims depicted as being marched off to the infernal regions under\nthe escort of several ferocious-looking demons armed with terrific\npitchforks, are invariably recruited from the ranks of the upper ten\nthousand. They are all being conducted to their destination with\ndue regard for etiquette, and rigid observance of the laws of exact\nprecedence. First comes a row of kings, easily to be distinguished by\ntheir golden crowns; then a procession of mitred bishops, followed by\na line of noblemen booted and spurred; while on the other side of the\nwall a crowd of simple peasants and a group of shaven friars are being\nwarmly invited by St. Peter, key in hand, to step over the threshold of\nthe golden gate which leads to Paradise.\n\n[Illustration: ARCHBISHOP SCHAGUNA.]\n\nEach of these churches is divided into three sections: first, there\nis the sanctuary, partitioned off by trellised gates, painted and\ngilt, behind which the priest disappears at certain parts of the\nceremony; then, in the body of the church, up to the step approaching\nthe sanctuary, stand the men, and behind them, in a sort of outer\ndepartment connected by an archway, are the women, next to the door,\nand close to the pictures of hell.\n\nIn the more primitive buildings there are rarely benches for the\ncongregation, but a curious sort of prong may be sometimes seen,\nconstructed out of the forked branch of a tree, and which, placed at\nintervals along the walls, is intended to give support to feeble old\npeople unable to stand upright during a lengthy service.\n\nIt is a pretty sight to look on at the celebration of mass in any\nRoumanian church, more especially in summer, when every matron and\nmaiden carries a bunch of sweet-scented flowers in her hand, and each\nman has a similar nosegay stuck in the cap which he holds beneath his\narm. These flowers bestow an additional sprinkling of bright color over\nthe scene, and counteract any closeness in the atmosphere by their\npungent aromatic scent.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nTHE ROUMANIANS: THEIR CHARACTER.\n\n\nThe Roumanian is very obstinate in character, and does not let himself\nbe easily persuaded. He does nothing without reflection, and often he\nreflects so long that the time for action has passed. This slowness has\nbecome proverbial, for the Saxon says, \u201cGod grant me the enlightenment\nwhich the Roumanian always gets too late.\u201d In the same proportion as he\nis slow to make up his mind, he is also slow to change it. Frankness\nis not regarded as a virtue, and the Roumanian language has no word\nwhich directly expresses this quality. The Hungarians, on the contrary,\nregard frankness and truth-speaking as a duty, and are therefore often\nlaughed at by their Roumanian neighbors, who consider as a fool any man\nwho injures himself by speaking the truth.\n\nOf pride the Roumanian has little idea as yet; he has been too\nlong treated as a degraded and serf-like being, and the only word\napproaching this characteristic would rather seem to express the\nvanity of a handsome man who sees himself admired. Also for dignity\nthe epithet is wanting, and the nearest approach to it is to say that a\nman is sensible and composed if you would express that he is dignified.\n\nRevenge is cultivated as a virtue, and whoever would be considered a\nrespectable man must keep in mind the injuries done to him, and show\nresentment thereof on fitting occasions. Reconciliation is regarded as\nopprobrious, and forgiveness of wrongs degrading. But the Roumanian\u2019s\nrage is stealthy and disguised, and while the Hungarian lets his anger\nopenly explode, the Roumanian will dissemble and mutter between his\nteeth, \u201c_Tine mente_\u201d (\u201cThou shalt remember this\u201d); and his memory is\ngood, for he does not suffer himself to forget. When an injury has\nbeen done to him henceforward it becomes his sacred duty to brood over\nhis vengeance. He must not say a good word more to his enemy nor do\nhim a service, and must strive to injure his foe to the best of his\nability\u2014with, however, this nice distinction, that he himself do not\nprofit by the injury done. Thus, it would not be consistent with the\nRoumanian\u2019s code of honor were he to steal the horse or ox of his\nenemy, but there can be no reasonable objection to his advising or\ninducing another man to do so. Such behavior is considered only right\nand just, and by so acting he will only be fulfilling his duty as an\nhonest and honorable man.\n\nThe Roumanian does not seem to be courageous by nature\u2014at least not\nas we understand courage\u2014nor does courage exactly take rank as a\nvirtue in his estimation, for courage implies a certain recklessness\nof consequences, and, according to his way of thinking, every action\nshould be circumscribed, and only performed after due deliberation.\nWhen, however, driven to it by circumstances, and brought to recognize\nthe necessity, he can fight bravely and is a good soldier. In the\nsame way, he will never expose his life without necessity, and will\ncoolly watch a house burning down without offering assistance; but when\ncompelled to action under military orders, he will go blindly into the\nfire, even knowing death to be inevitable.\n\nWhat is commonly understood by military enthusiasm is wanting in the\nRoumanian (at least on this side of the frontier), for he is too\nignorant to perceive the advantage of letting himself be shot in the\nservice of a foreign master, for a cause of which he understands\nnothing and cares less. He is extremely sorry for himself when forced\nto enlist, and sometimes becomes most poetically plaintive on the\nsubject, as in the following verses translated from a popular song:\n\n \u201cTo the battle-field I go,\n There to fight the country\u2019s foe.\n Wash my linen, mother mine,\n All my linen white and fine.[20]\n Rinse it in thy tears, and then\n Dry on burning breast again.\n Send it, mother, to me there\n Where you hear the trumpet\u2019s blare.\n Where the banners droop o\u2019erhead,\n There shall I be lying dead,\n Stricken by the musket\u2019s lead,\n Seamed by gashes rosy red,\n Trampled by the charger\u2019s tread.\u201d\n\nSomething of the spirit of the ancient Spartans lies in the Roumanian\u2019s\nidea of virtue and vice. Stealing and drunkenness are not considered\nto be intrinsically wrong, only the publicity which may attend these\nproceedings conveying any sense of shame to the offender. Thus a man is\nnot yet a thief because he has stolen; and whoever becomes accidentally\naware of the theft should, if he have no personal interest in the\nmatter, hold his peace, on the Shakespearian principle that\n\n \u201cHe that filches from me my good name\n Robs me of that which not enriches him,\n And makes me poor indeed.\u201d\n\nEven the injured party whose property has been abstracted is advised\nif possible to reckon alone with the thief, without drawing general\nattention to his fault.\n\nNeither is drunkenness necessarily degrading. On the contrary, every\ndecent man should get drunk on suitable occasions, such as weddings,\nchristenings, etc., and then go quietly to a barn or loft and sleep\noff his tipsiness. _Bea cat vrei apoi te calcu si dormi_ (drink thy\nfill and then lie down and sleep) says their proverb; but any man who\nhas been seen reeling drunk in the open street, hooted at by children\nand barked at by dogs, were it but once, is henceforward branded as a\ndrunkard. It is therefore the duty of each Roumanian who sees a drunken\nman to conduct him quietly to the nearest barn or loft.\n\nThere are some few villages where even the noblest inhabitants are not\nashamed to be seen drunk in the open street, but in such villages the\nmoral standard is a low one throughout.\n\nAnother curious side of the Roumanian\u2019s morality is the point of view\nfrom which he regards personal property, such as grain and fruit. In\ngeneral, whatever grows plentifully in the fields, or, as they term\nit, \u201cwhatever God has given,\u201d may be taken with impunity by whoever\npasses that way, but with this restriction, that he merely take so much\nas he can consume at the moment. This is but right and just, and the\nproprietor who makes complaint at having his vineyard or his plum-trees\nrifled in this manner only exposes himself to ridicule. Whoever carries\naway of the fruits with him is a thief, but, strictly speaking, only\nwhen he sells the stolen goods, not when he shares them quietly with\nhis own family.\n\nWith regard to fowls, geese, lambs, and sucking-pigs, the rule is more\nor less the same. Whoever steals only in order to treat himself to a\ngood dinner is not blamed, and may even boast of the feat on the sly;\nbut the man caught in the act is punished by having the stolen goods\ntied round his neck, and being led round the village to the sound of\nthe drum to proclaim his shame to the people. If, however, he has\nstolen from a stranger\u2014that is, some one of another village\u2014the\nculprit does not usually lose his good reputation; and he who robs a\nrich stranger is never considered base, but simply awkward to have\nexposed himself to the odium of discovery.\n\nThe Roumanian only looks at deeds and results, motives being absolutely\nindifferent to him. So the word passion he translates as _p\u00e2tima_,\nwhich really expresses weakness. Thus an _om p\u00e2tima_\u2014a weak man\u2014may\nbe either a consumptive invalid, a love-sick youth, or a furious\ndrunkard. Passion is a misfortune which should excite compassion, but\nnot resentment; and whoever commits a bad action is above all foolish,\nbecause it is sure to be found out sooner or later.\n\nAn anecdote which aptly characterizes the Roumanian\u2019s moral sense is\ntold by Mr. Patterson. Three peasants waylaid and murdered a traveller,\ndividing his spoils between them. Among his provisions they discovered\na cold roast fowl, which they did not eat, however, but gave to their\ndog, as, being a fast-day, they feared to commit sin by tasting flesh.\nThis was related by the murderers themselves when caught and driven to\nconfess the crime before justice.\n\nWhile on the subject of fasts, I may as well here mention that those\nprescribed by the Greek Church are numerous and severe; and it is a\nwell-ascertained fact that the largest average of crimes committed\nby Roumanians occurs during the seasons of Advent and Lent, when the\npeople are in a feverish and over-excited state from the unnatural\ndeprivation of food\u2014just as the Saxon peasants are most quarrelsome\nimmediately after the vintage.\n\nAnother English traveller, speaking disparagingly of the serf-like,\ncrouching demeanor of the Roumanians, remarked that \u201cperhaps nothing\nelse could be expected of people who are required to fast two hundred\nand twenty-six days in the year.\u201d\n\nThe inhabitants of each Roumanian village are divided into three\nclasses:\n\nFirst, the distinguished villagers\u2014front-men\u2014called _fruntasi_, or\n_oameni de frunta_.\n\nSecond, the middle-men\u2014_mylocasi_, or _oameni de mana adona_\u2014men of\nsecond-hand.\n\nThird, the hind-men, or _codas_ (tail-men).\n\nEach man, according to his family, personal gifts, reputation, and\nfortune, is ranged into one or other of these three classes, which have\neach their separate customs, rights, and privileges, which no member of\nanother class durst infringe upon.\n\nThus the codas may do much which would not be suitable for the other\ntwo classes. The mylocasi have, on the whole, the most difficult\nposition of the three, and are most severely judged, being alternately\naccused of presumption in imitating the behavior of the fruntas, and\nblamed for demeaning themselves by copying the irregular habits of\nthe codas. In short, it would seem to be all but impossible for an\nunfortunate middle-man to hit off the _juste milieu_, and succeed\nin combining in his person the precise proportions of dignity and\ndeference required of his state.\n\nNor is the position of the front-men entirely an easy one. Each one of\nthese has a separate party of hangers-on, friends and admirers, who\nprofess a blind faith and admiration for him\u2014endorsing his opinion on\nall occasions, and recognizing his authority in matters of dispute. His\ndress, his words, his actions are all strictly regulated on the axiom\n_noblesse oblige_; but woe to him if he be caught erring himself\u2014for\nonly in the case of the popa is it allowable for the practice to differ\nfrom the preaching. A fruntas may sit down to table with the codas of\nhis own village, whenever they are in his service helping him to bring\nin the harvest or to build a house; but he durst not, under pain of\nlosing caste, be equally familiar with any strange codas.\n\nThere are, moreover, whole districts which are reckoned as\ndistinguished, and whose codas take rank along with the mylocasi, or\neven the front-men, of less aristocratic villages. A single woman,\ncoming from one of these distinguished neighborhoods, may in a\nshort time transform the whole village into which she marries, the\ninhabitants eagerly studying and imitating her dress, manners, and\ngestures, down to the most insignificant details.\n\n * * * * *\n\nA distinctive quality of the Roumanian race is the touching affection\nwhich mostly unites all members of one family. Unlike the Saxon, who\nseeks to limit the number of his offspring, the poor Roumanian, even\nwhen plunged into the direst poverty, yet regards each addition to\nhis family as another gift of God; while to be a childless wife is\nconsidered as the greatest of misfortunes.\n\nNumerous instances are recorded of children of other nationalities,\nwho, deserted by their unnatural parents, have been taken in by poor\nRoumanians, themselves already burdened with a numerous family.\n\nThere is an ancient Roumanian legend which tells us how in olden\ntimes there used to prevail the custom of killing off all old men and\nuseless encumbrances, on the same principle as in Mr. Trollope\u2019s \u201cFixed\nPeriod.\u201d One young man, however, being much attached to his parent,\ncould not resign himself to executing this cruel order; but fearing the\nanger of his country-people, he concealed his father in an empty barrel\nin the cellar, where every day he secretly brought him food and drink.\n\nBut it came to pass that all arms-bearing men were summoned together\nto sally forth in quest of a terrible dragon which was devastating the\nland. The pious son, sorely puzzled to know how to provide his father\nwith nourishment during his absence, carried together all the victuals\nin the house, lamenting to him that possibly he might never return from\nthe expedition, in which case his beloved parent would be obliged to\ndie of hunger. The old man answered,\n\n\u201cIf in truth thou returnest not, then life has no more charms for me,\nand gladly will I let my weak body sink into the grave. But wouldst\nthou come back victorious out of the conflict with the dragon, listen\nto my words. The cavern inhabited by the monster has over a hundred\nsubterraneous passages and galleries which run like a labyrinth in\nevery direction, so that even if the enemy be killed the victors,\nunable to find the outlet, will perish miserably. Therefore take with\nthee our black mare which goes to pasture with a foal, and lead them\nboth to the mouth of the cavern. There kill and bury the foal, but take\nthe mother with thee, and when the struggle with the dragon is over,\nshe will safely lead thee back to the light of day.\u201d\n\nThe son then took leave of his father with many tears, and marched away\nwith his comrades, and when he reached the cavern he obeyed the given\ndirections, without, however, revealing the secret to any one.\n\nAfter a desperate struggle, the monster in the cavern was slain; but\nterror and dismay took possession of the warriors when it proved\nimpossible to find the outlet from this dreadful labyrinth. Then\nstepped forward the pious son with his black mare, and called upon\nthe others to follow him. The mare began to neigh for her foal, and,\nseeking the daylight, soon hit on the right track, which brought them\nsafely to the mouth of the cavern.\n\nThe warriors, seeing how their comrade had saved them all from certain\ndeath, now besought him to reveal to them how he chanced to have hit on\nthis cunning device. But he now took fright that if he spoke the truth,\nnot only his own life but that of his old father would be forfeited for\nhaving thus dared to disobey the law of the land. Only at last, when\nall had sworn to do him no injury, did he consent to unseal his lips\nand tell them how, in his cellar, there lived his father, an old and\nexperienced man, who, at parting, had given him this advice with regard\nto the mare.\n\nOn hearing this the warriors were mightily astonished, and one of them\ncalled out, \u201cOur ancestors did not do wisely in teaching us to kill\nthe old ones, for these are more experienced than we, and can often\nhelp the people with their sage counsels when mere strength of arm is\npowerless to conquer.\u201d\n\nAll applauded this sentiment, and the cruel law which demanded the\ndeath of the aged was henceforth abolished.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[20] The Roumanian peasant has a passion for white snowy linen. Usually\nit is his sweetheart on whom devolves the duty of keeping it clean, or,\nwhen he has no sweetheart, then his mother or sister.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nROUMANIAN LIFE.\n\n\nThe Roumanians seem to be a long-lived race, and it is no uncommon\nthing to come across peasants of ninety and upwards, in full possession\nof all their faculties. In 1882 an old Roumanian peasant, being called\nas witness in a court of justice in Transylvania, and desired to state\nhis age, was, like many people of his class, unable to name the year\nof his birth, and could only designate it approximately by saying,\n\u201cI remember that, when I was a boy, our emperor was a woman,\u201d which,\nas Maria Theresa died in 1780, could not have made him less than one\nhundred and ten years of age.\n\nMany people have supposed the Roumanians to be more productive than\nother races, but the truth will more likely be found to be that\nalthough the births are not more numerous than among many other\nraces, the mortality among infants is considerably less; the children\ninheriting the hardy resisting nature of the parents, and so to say,\ncoming into the world ready-seasoned to endure the hardships in store\nfor them.\n\nPerhaps it is because the Roumanian has himself so few wants that he\nfeels no anxiety about the future of his children, and therefore the\nrapid increase of his family occasions him no uneasiness. Having little\npersonal property, he is a stranger to the cares which accompany their\npossession. Like the lilies of the field, he neither sows nor reaps,\nand the whole programme of his life, of an admirable simplicity, may be\nthus summed up:\n\nIn early infancy the Roumanian babe is treated as a bundle, often\npacked in a little wooden oval box, and slung on its mother\u2019s back,\nthus carried about wherever she goes. If to work in the field, she\nattaches the box to the branch of a tree; and when sitting at market\nit can be stowed on the ground between a basket of eggs and a pair\nof cackling fowls. When after a very few months it outgrows the box,\nand crawls out of its cocoon, the baby begins to share its parents\u2019\nfood, and soon learns to manage for itself. The food of both children\nand adults chiefly consists of maize-corn flour, which, cooked with\nmilk, forms a sort of porridge called balmosch, or, if boiled with\nwater, becomes mamaliga\u2014first-cousin to the polenta of the Italians.\nThis latter preparation is eaten principally in Lent, when milk is\nprohibited altogether; and there are many families who, during the\nwhole Lenten season, nourish themselves exclusively on dried beans.\n\nWhen the Roumanian child has reached a reasonable age, it is old enough\nto be a help and comfort to its parents, and assist them in gaining an\nhonest livelihood. By a reasonable age may be understood five or six,\nand an honest livelihood, translated\u2014helping them to steal wood in the\nforest. Later on the boy is often bound over as swine or cow herd to\nsome Saxon landholder for a period of several years, on quitting whose\nservice he is entitled to the gift of a calf or pig from the master he\nis leaving.\n\nOnce in actual possession of a calf the Roumanian lad considers\nhimself to be a made man. He has no ground of his own; but such petty\nconsiderations not affecting him, he proceeds to build himself a\ndomicile, wherever best suits his purpose, on some waste piece of\nland. Stone hardly ever enters into the fabrication of his building;\nthe framework is roughly put together of wooden beams, and the walls\nclay-plastered and wattled, while the roof is covered with thatch of\nreeds or wooden shingles, according as he may happen to live nearest\nto a marsh or a forest. Yet, such as it is, the Roumanian\u2019s hut is\nhis castle, and he is as proud of its possession as the King can be\nof his finest palace. Each man\u2019s hut is regarded as his own special\nsanctuary, and however intimate a man may be with his neighbor, it is\nnot customary for him to step over the threshold, or even enter the\ncourt-yard, after dusk. Only in special and very pressing cases does\nthis rule admit of any exception.\n\nThe inside of a Roumanian hut is by no means so miserable as its\noutward appearance would lead us to suppose. The walls are all hung\nwith a profusion of holy pictures, mostly painted on glass and framed\nin wood; while the furniture is brightly painted in rough but not\ninartistic designs\u2014the passion these people have for ornamenting\nall their wood-work in this fashion leading them even to paint the\nyoke of their oxen and the handles of their tools. There is always a\nweaving-loom set up at one end of the room, and mostly a new-born baby\nswinging in a basket suspended from the rafters.\n\nThe products of the loom\u2014consisting in stuffs striped, chiefly blue,\nscarlet, and white, in Oriental designs, sometimes with gold or silver\nthreads introduced in the weaving\u2014are hung upon ropes or displayed\nalong the walls. These usually belong to the trousseau of the daughter\n(perhaps the self-same infant we see suspended from the ceiling), but\ncan occasionally be purchased after a little bargaining.\n\nEvery Roumanian woman spins, dyes, and weaves as a matter of course;\nand almost each village has its own set of colors and patterns,\naccording to its particular costume, which varies with the different\nlocalities, though all partake alike of the same general character,\nwhich, in the case of the women, is chiefly represented by a long\nalb-like under-garment of linen reaching to the feet, and above two\nstraight-cut Roman aprons front and back, which have the effect of a\ntunic slit up at the sides. The subject of Roumanian dress offers a\nmost bewildering field for description, and the _nuances_ and varieties\nto be found would lead one on _ad infinitum_ were I to attempt to\nenumerate all those I have come across.\n\n[Illustration: ROUMANIAN COSTUMES.]\n\nThus in one village the costume is all black and white, the cut and\nmake of an almost conventual simplicity, forming a _piquante_ contrast\nto the blooming faces and seductive glances of the beautiful wearers,\nwho thus give the impression of a band of light-hearted maidens\nmasquerading in nun\u2019s attire. In other hamlets I have visited blue or\nscarlet was the prevailing color; and a few steps over the Roumanian\nfrontier will show us glittering costumes covered with embroidery\nand spangles, rich and gaudy as the attire of some Oriental princess\nstepped straight out of the \u201cArabian Nights.\u201d\n\nThe Roman aprons, here called _c\u00e2trinte_, are in some districts\u2014as,\nfor instance, in the Banat\u2014composed of long scarlet fringes, fully\nthree-quarters of a yard in length, and depending from a very few\ninches of solid stuff at the top. The _r\u00e9sum\u00e9_ of this attire\u2014a\nlinen shirt and a little fringe as sole covering for a full-grown\nwoman\u2014may, in theory, be startling to our English sense of propriety,\nbut in practice the effect has nothing objectionable about it. Dress,\nafter all, is merely a matter of comparison, as we are told by a witty\nFrench writer. A Wallachian woman considers herself fully dressed with\na _chemise_, while a Hungarian thinks herself naked with only three\nskirts.\n\nThe head-dress varies much with the different districts; sometimes it\nis a brightly colored shawl or handkerchief, oftener a creamy filmy\nveil, embroidered or spangled, and worn with ever-varied effect;\noccasionally it is wound round the head turban fashion, now floating\ndown the back like a Spanish mantilla, or coquettishly drawn forward\nand concealing the lower part of the face, or again twisted up in\nSatanella-like horns, which give the wearer a slightly demoniacal\nappearance.\n\nWhatever is tight or strained-looking about the dress is considered\nunbeautiful; the folds must always flow downward in soft easy lines,\nthe sleeves should be full and bulging, and the skirt long enough to\nconceal the feet, so that in dancing only the toes are visible.\n\nThe men have also much variety in their dress for grand occasions,\nbut for ordinary wear they confine themselves to a plain coarse linen\nshirt, which hangs down over the trousers like a workman\u2019s blouse,\nconfined at the waist by a broad red or black leather belt, which\ncontains various receptacles for holding money, pistols, knife and\nfork, etc. The trousers, which fit rather tightly to the leg, are in\nsummer of linen, in winter of a coarse sort of white cloth. Of the same\ncloth is made the large overcoat which he wears in winter, sometimes\nreplaced by a sheepskin pelisse.\n\nBoth sexes wear on the feet a sort of sandal called _opintschen_, which\nconsists of an oval-shaped piece of leather drawn together by leather\nthongs, beneath which the feet are swaddled in wrappings of linen or\nwoollen rags.\n\nDress makes the man, according to the Roumanian\u2019s estimate, and rather\nthan want for handsome clothes a man should deprive himself of food\nand drink. _Stomacul nu are oglinda_ (the stomach has no mirror), says\ntheir proverb; therefore the man who has no fitting costume to wear on\nEaster Sunday should hide himself rather than appear at church shabbily\nattired.\n\n[Illustration: ROUMANIAN WOMEN.]\n\nTo be consistent with the Roumanian\u2019s notion of cleanliness, his\nclothes should by rights be spun, woven, and made at home. Sometimes\nhe may be obliged to purchase a cap or coat of a stranger, but in such\ncases he is careful to select a dealer of his own nationality.\n\nRoumanian women are very industrious, and they make far better domestic\nservants than either Hungarians or Saxons, the Germans living in towns\noften selecting them in preference to their own countrywomen. In some\nplaces you never see a Roumanian woman without her distaff; she even\ntakes it with her to market, and may frequently be seen trudging along\nthe high-road twirling the spindle as she goes.\n\nThe men do not seem to share this love of labor, having, on the\ncontrary, much of the Italian _lazzarone_ in their composition, and not\ntaking to any kind of manual labor unless driven to it by necessity.\nThe life of a shepherd is the only calling which the Roumanian embraces\n_con amore_, and his love for his sheep may truly be likened to the\nArab\u2019s love of his horse. A real Roumanian shepherd, bred and brought\nup to the life, has so completely identified himself with his calling\nthat everything about him\u2014food and dress, mind and matter\u2014has, so to\nsay, become completely \u201csheepified.\u201d Sheep\u2019s milk and cheese (called\n_brindza_) form the staple of his nourishment. His dress consists\nprincipally of sheepskin, four sheep furnishing him with the cloak\nwhich lasts him through life, one new-born lamb giving him the cap he\nwears; and when he dies the shepherd\u2019s grave is marked by a tuft of\nsnowy wool attached to the wooden cross above the mound. His whole\nmental faculties are concentrated on the study of his sheep, and so\nsharpened have his perceptions become in this one respect that he is\nable to divine and foretell to a nicety every change of the weather,\nmerely from observing the demeanor of his flock.\n\nForests have no charm for the shepherd, who, regarding everything\nfrom a pastoral point of view, sees in each tree an insolent intruder\ndepriving his sheep of their rightful nourishment; and he covertly\nseeks to increase his pasture by setting fire to the woods whenever he\ncan hope to do so with impunity. Whole tracts of noble forest have thus\nbeen laid waste, and it is much to be feared that half a century hence\nthe country will present a bleak and desolate appearance, unless some\nmeans can be discovered in order to prevent this abuse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\nROUMANIAN MARRIAGE AND MORALITY.\n\n\nMarriageable Roumanian girls often wear a head-dress richly embroidered\nwith pearls and coins; this is a sign that their trousseaus are ready,\nand that they only wait for a suitor. The preparation of the trousseau,\ninvolving as it does much spinning, weaving, and embroidering, in order\nto get ready the requisite number of shirts, towels, pillow-covers,\netc., considered indispensable, often keeps the girl and her family\nemployed for years beforehand. In some districts we are told that it is\ncustomary for the young man who is seeking a girl in marriage to make\nstraight for the painted wooden chest containing her dowry; and only\nwhen satisfied, by the appearance of the contents, of the skill and\nindustry of his intended, does he proceed to the formal demand of her\nhand. If, on the contrary, the coffer prove to be ill-furnished, he is\nat liberty to beat a retreat, and back out of the affair. The matter\nhas been still further simplified in one village, for there, during\nthe carnival-time, the mother of each marriageable daughter is in the\nhabit of organizing a sort of standing exhibition of the maiden\u2019s\neffects in the dwelling-room, where each article is displayed to the\nbest advantage, hung against the walls or spread out upon the benches.\nThe would-be suitor is thus enabled to review the situation merely by\npushing the door ajar, and need not even cross the threshold if the\ndisplay falls short of his expectations.\n\nIn some districts a pretty little piece of acting is still kept up\non the wedding-morning. The bridegroom, accompanied by his friends,\narrives on horseback at full gallop before the house of his intended,\nand roughly calls upon the father to give him his daughter. The old\nman denies having any daughter; but after some mock wrangling he goes\ninto the house and leads out an old toothless hag, who is received with\nshouts and clamors. Then, after a little more fencing, he goes in again\nand leads out the true bride dressed in her best clothes, and with his\nblessing gives her over to the bridegroom.[21]\n\nAn orthodox Roumanian wedding should last seven days and seven nights,\nneither less nor more; but as there are many who cannot afford this\nsacrifice of time, they circumvent the difficulty by interrupting the\nfestivities after the first day, and resuming them on the seventh.\n\nThe ceremony itself is accomplished with much gayety and rejoicing.\nThe parents of the bridegroom go to fetch the bride, in a cart\nharnessed with four oxen whose horns are wreathed with flower garlands;\nthe village musicians march in front, and the chest containing the\ntrousseau is placed on the cart. One of the bride\u2019s relations carries\nher dowry tied up in a handkerchief attached to the point of a long\npole.\n\nWhoever is invited to a Roumanian wedding is expected to bring\nnot only a cake and a bottle of wine, but also some other gift of\nless transitory nature\u2014a piece of linen, an embroidered towel, a\nhandkerchief, or such-like.\n\nIn some villages it is customary for the bride, after the\nwedding-feast, to step over the banqueting-table and upset a bucket of\nwater placed there for the purpose.[22] After this begins the dancing,\nat which it is usual for each guest to take a turn with the bride, and\nreceive from her a kiss in return for the civility.\n\nAn ancient custom, now fast dying out, was the _tergul de fete_\u2014the\nmaidens\u2019 market\u2014celebrated each year at the top of the Gaina mountain,\nat a height of nearly six thousand feet above the level of the sea,\nand where all the marriageable girls for miles around used to assemble\nto be courted on the 29th of June, Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul.\nThe trousseau, packed in a gayly decorated chest, was placed in a\ncart harnessed with the finest horses or the fattest oxen, and thus\nthe girl and her whole family proceeded to the place of rendezvous.\nSheep, calves, poultry, and even beehives, were likewise brought\nby way of decoration; and many people went the length of borrowing\nstrange cattle or furniture, in order to cut a better figure and lure\non the suitors\u2014although it was an understood thing that only a part\nof what was thus displayed really belonged to the maiden\u2019s dowry. The\ndestination being reached, each family having a girl to dispose of\nerected its tent, with the objects grouped around, and seated in front\nwas the head of the family, smoking his pipe and awaiting the suitors.\n\nThe young men on their side came also accompanied by their families,\nbringing part of their property with them, notably a broad leather belt\nwell stocked with gold and silver coins.\n\nWhen an agreement had been effected, then the betrothal took place on\nthe spot, with music, dancing, and singing, and it hardly ever happened\nthat a girl returned home unbetrothed from this meeting. But, to say\nthe truth, this was, latterly, only because each girl attending the\nfair went there virtually betrothed to some youth with whom all the\npreliminaries of courtship had already been gone through, and this was\nmerely the official way of celebrating the betrothal, the Roumanians\nin these parts believing that good-luck will attend only such couples\nas are affianced in this manner. Any girl who had not got a bridegroom\n_in spe_ rarely went there at all, or, if she went, did not take her\ntrousseau, but considered herself as a mere spectator.\n\nIn former days, however, this assemblage had a real signification,\nand was, moreover, dictated by a real necessity. There were fewer\nvillages, and a far larger proportion than now of the population\nled the wandering, nomadic life of mountain shepherds, cut off from\nintercourse with their fellow-creatures during the greater part of\nthe year, and with no opportunity of making choice of a consort. The\ncouples thus betrothed on the 29th of June could not be married till\nthe following spring, for immediately after this date the shepherds\nremove their flocks to higher pasturages, and, proceeding southward as\nthe year advances, do not return to that neighborhood till the Feast of\nSt. George.\n\nAnother curious custom in connection with the maidens\u2019 market was, that\non Holy Saturday each girl who had been betrothed on the preceding\n29th of June on the Gaina mountain came to a village of that district\ncalled Halmagy, dressed in her best clothes, and there offered a kiss\nto each respectable person of either sex she happened to meet on\nher way. The individual thus saluted was bound to give a present in\nreturn, even were it but a copper coin; and to decline or resist the\nembrace was regarded as the greatest affront. This custom, known as\nthe kiss market, seems to have originated at the time when all the\nnewly married young shepherdesses used to leave the neighborhood to\nfollow their husbands in their roving life, and this was their mode\nof bidding farewell to all friends and relations. This custom has now\nlikewise become almost extinct, for the conditions of daily life have\nbeen considerably modified during the last fifty years, and nowadays\nthe newly married shepherd, after a very brief honeymoon, goes away\nalone with his flock, leaving his wife established in the village, even\nthough his absence may extend over a year. Many Roumanian villages\nare thus virtually inhabited solely by women, and to a population of\nseveral thousand females we not unfrequently find but twenty or thirty\nmen, and these mostly old and decrepit, the real lords and masters only\nappearing from time to time on a short and flying visit. Szeliste, one\nof the largest Roumanian villages in the neighborhood of Hermanstadt,\nand celebrated for the good looks of its inhabitants, presents thus,\nduring the greater part of the year, a touching array of desolate\nPenelopes; and it is much to be feared that the score of feeble old\nmen left them as guardians are altogether insufficient to defend the\nwholesale amount of female virtue intrusted to their charge.\n\nThe Roumanian always regards marriage with a stranger as something\nopprobrious. The man who marries other than a Roumanian woman ceases\nto be a Roumanian in his people\u2019s eyes, and is henceforward regarded\nas unclean; and a popa whose wife was not a Roumanian would not be\naccepted by any congregation. Yet more severely condemned is the woman\nwho marries a stranger; the marriage itself is considered invalid, and\nno Roumanians who respect themselves would keep up acquaintance with\nsuch a person.\n\nAccording to their views a girl should remain in her own village, but\na man may, without losing caste, marry into another neighborhood. Any\nfather will consider it an honor to take a strange son-in-law into his\nhouse, and the greater the distance this latter has come, in the same\nproportion does the honor increase. But a man who gives his daughter in\nmarriage out of the village loses his prestige in exact proportion as\nshe goes farther away from home. \u201cHe has given his daughter away from\nhome\u201d is a reproach to which no man cares to expose himself.\n\nIn districts where Roumanians live together with other races professing\nthe Greek faith, these marriage laws have been somewhat modified. So\nunions in the Bukowina with Ruthenians and in the Banat with Serbs,\nthough still regarded as objectionable, are not so rare as they used to\nbe.\n\nNo respectable girl should leave her parents\u2019 house unless driven to\nit by necessity; and if she be obliged to go into service, it should\nonly be in the house of the popa, or in that of some particularly\ndistinguished native of the place. The Roumanian girls serving in\nthe towns are mostly such as have been obliged to leave their native\nvillage in consequence of a moral slip.\n\nMuch has been said about the lightness of behavior characterizing\nRoumanian girls\u2014Saxons in particular being fond of drawing attention\nto the comparative statistics of the two races, which show, it is true,\na very large balance of legitimate births in their own favor. If,\nhowever, we look at the matter somewhat more closely, we are forced to\nacknowledge that the words legitimate and illegitimate can only here\nbe taken in a very modified sense; for while the Saxon peasant marries\nand divorces with such culpable lightness as to render the marriage\ntie of little real value, the Roumanian has introduced a sort of\nregularity even into his irregular connections which goes far to excuse\nthem. Whatever, also, may be said of the loose conduct of many of the\nRoumanian married women, the same reproach cannot be applied to the\ngirls.\n\nIt happens frequently that among the Roumanians, who, like most\nSouthern races, attain manhood early, there are many young men who have\nchosen a partner for life long before the time they are called for\nmilitary conscription; and as it is here illegal for all such to marry\nbefore they have accomplished their three years\u2019 service as soldiers,\nand no parents could therefore be induced to give them their daughter,\na curious sort of elopement takes place. Two or more of the lover\u2019s\nfriends carry off the girl, after a mock resistance on her part, to\nsome other village, where he himself awaits her with his witnesses.\nThese latter receive the reciprocal declaration of the young couple\nthat they wish to be man and wife. The girl is then solemnly invested\nwith a head-kerchief, veil, or comb, whichever happens to be the sign\nof matronhood in her village; and from that moment she takes rank\nas a married woman, the lad as her husband, and their children are\nconsidered as legitimate as those born in regular wedlock. Three or\nfour years later, when the young man has served his time as a soldier,\nthe union is formally blessed by the priest in church; but in that case\nnone of the usual marriage festivities take place.\n\nIt is very rare that a man deserts the girl to whom he has been wedded\nin this irregular fashion; and in cases where he has been known to do\nso and take another wife, both he and she are tabooed by the neighbors,\nand the first wife is regarded as the real one.\n\nAs, however, all children originating from such unions are officially\nclassified as illegitimate, the barren figures would give an\nerroneously unfavorable idea of the Roumanian state of morality to\nthose unacquainted with these details; and it is therefore really no\nanomaly to say that illegitimate here is tantamount to three-quarters\nlegitimate, while the Saxons\u2019 legitimacy does not always quite deserve\nthat name.\n\nA jilted lover will revenge himself on his mistress by ostentatiously\ndancing with some other lass; and in order to do her some material\ninjury as well, he goes secretly at night and cuts down with a sickle\nthe unripe hemp and flax which were to have served for spinning her\nwedding-clothes. It is always an understood thing that the hemp belongs\nto the female members of the family, and there is a certain poetry\nin the idea of thus cutting off the faithless one\u2019s thread. Thus the\nfather, finding his hemp prematurely cut down, is at once aware that\nsomething has gone wrong about his daughter\u2019s love-affair.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[21] In Sweden, when the guests sit down to the bridal banquet,\nan old woman decked in a wreath of birch-bark, in which straw and\ngoose-feathers are interwoven, and grotesquely dressed up with jingling\nharness, is led in and presented to the bridegroom as his consort,\nwhile in a pompous speech her charms are expatiated upon. She is chased\naway with clamorous hooting, whereupon the bridesmen go out again, and\nafter a mock search they lead in the bride.\n\n[22] Supposed to denote fruitfulness.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII.\n\nTHE ROUMANIANS: DANCING, SONGS, MUSIC, STORIES, AND PROVERBS.\n\n\nThe dances habitual among the Roumanians may briefly be divided into\nthree sorts:\n\n1. _Caluseri_ and _Batuta_, ancient traditional dances performed by men\nonly, and often executed at fairs and public festivals. For these a\nfixed number of dancers is required, and a leader called the _vatav_.\nEach dancer is provided with a long staff, which he occasionally\nstrikes on the ground in time to the music.\n\n2. _Hora_ and _Bre\u00fbl_, round dances executed either by both sexes or by\nmen only.\n\n3. _Ardeleana_, _Lugojana_, _Marnteana_, _Pe-picior_, and _Hategeana_,\ndanced by both sexes together, and in which each man may have two or\nmore female partners.\n\nThese last-named dances rather resemble a minuet or quadrille, and are\nchiefly made up of a sort of swaying, balancing movement, alternately\nadvancing and retreating, with varied modes of expression and different\nrates of velocity. Thus the Ardeleana is slow, the Marnteana rather\nquicker but still dignified, and the Pe-picior is fastest of all. Also,\neach separate dance has two distinct measures, as in the Scotch reel\nor the Hungarian _csardas_\u2014the slow rhythm being called _domol_, or\nreflectively, and the fast one being danced _cu foc_, with fire.\n\nAll these dances are found in different districts with varied\nappellations.\n\nThere is also a very singular dance which I have not myself witnessed,\nbut which is said to be sometimes performed in front of the church in\norder to insure a good harvest\u2014one necessary condition of which is\nthat the people should dance till in a state of violent perspiration,\nfigurative of the rain which is required to make the corn grow; then\nthe arms must be held on high for the hops to grow, wild jumps in the\nair for the vines, and so on, each grain and fruit having a special\nmovement attributed to it, the dance being kept up till the dancers\nhave to give in from sheer fatigue.\n\nThe Roumanian does not say that a man is dancing with a girl, but that\n\u201che dances her,\u201d as you would talk of spinning a top. This conveys the\nright impression\u2014namely, that the man directs her dancing and disposes\nher attitudes, so as to show off her grace and charms to the best\nadvantage. Thus a good dancer here does not imply a man who dances well\nhimself, but rather one skilful at showing off two or three partners\nat a time. He acts, in fact, as a sort of showman to the assortment of\ngraces under his charge, to which he calls attention by appropriate\nrhymes and verses. Therefore the sharpest wit rather than the nimblest\nlegs is required for the post of _vatav flacailor_, or director of\ndances in the village.\n\nDancing usually takes place in the open air; and in villages where\nball-room etiquette is duly observed, the fair ones can only be\nconducted to the dance by the director himself, or by one of his\nappointed aides-de-camp. It is so arranged that after the leader has\nfor a time shown off several girls in the manner described\u2014so to\nsay, set them agoing\u2014he makes a sign to other young men to take them\noff his hands, while he himself repeats the proceeding with other\n_d\u00e9butantes_.\n\nThe music usually consists of bagpipes and violin, the latter sometimes\nreplaced by one or two flutes. The musicians, who are frequently blind\nmen or cripples, stand in the centre, the dancers revolving around\nthem. Tzigane-players are rarely made use of for Roumanian dances, as\nthey do not interpret the Roumanian music correctly, and are accused of\nimparting a bold, licentious character to it.\n\nThere are many occasions on which music is prescribed, and on all such\nit should not be wanting; but it is considered unseemly for music to\nplay without special motive, and when the Roumanian hears music he\ninvariably asks, \u201cLa ce c\u00e2nt\u00e0?\u201d\u2014for whom do they play?\n\nFully as many matrons as maidens figure at the village merrymakings,\nfor, unlike the Saxon, the Roumanian woman does not dream of giving\nup dancing at her marriage. Wedlock is to her an emancipation, not a\nbondage, and she only begins really to enjoy her life from the moment\nshe becomes a wife. For instance, it is considered quite correct for a\nmarried woman, especially if she has got children, to suffer herself to\nbe publicly kissed and embraced by her dancer, and no one present would\nthink of taking umbrage at such harmless liberties.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn reciting or making a speech, the Roumanian is careful to speak\nslowly and distinctly, with dignity and deliberation, and to avoid much\ngesticulation, which is regarded as ridiculous. It is also considered\ndistinguished to speak rather obscurely, and veil the meaning under\nfigures of speech\u2014a man who says his meaning plainly in so many words\nbeing considered as wanting in breeding.\n\nAs in Italy, the _recitatore_ (story-teller), called here\n_provestitore_, holds an important place among the Roumanians. The\nstories recited usually belong to the class of ogre and fairy tale, and\nwould seem rather adapted to a nursery audience than to a circle of\nfull-grown men and women. Sometimes in verse, sometimes in prose, these\nstories oftenest set forth the adventures of some prince subjected to\nthe cruel persecutions of a giant or sorcerer. The hero has usually a\nseries of tasks allotted to him, or difficulties to be overcome, before\nhe is permitted to enjoy his father\u2019s throne in peace and lead home\nthe beautiful princess to whom he is attached. The tasks dealt out to\nhim must be three at least, sometimes six, seven, nine, or twelve; but\nnever more than this last number, which indeed is quite sufficient for\nthe endurance even of a fairy prince. When the tasks are nine or twelve\nin number they are then grouped together in batches of three, each\nbatch being finished off with some stereotyped phrase, such as, \u201cBut\nour hero\u2019s trials were not yet over by any means, and much remains\nstill to be told.\u201d As a matter of course, these trials must always be\narranged _crescendo_, advancing in horror and difficulty towards the\nend.\n\nThe story invariably opens with the words,\n\n\u201cA fost ce a fost; dac\u00e0 n\u2019ar fi fost nici nu s\u2019ar povesti,\u201d which,\ncorresponding to our \u201conce upon a time,\u201d may be thus translated: \u201cIt\nwas what once took place, and if it had never been, it would not now\nbe related;\u201d and the concluding phrase is often this one, \u201cAnd if they\nhave not died, they are all yet alive.\u201d\n\nIt is not every one who can relate a story correctly according to the\nRoumanian\u2019s mode of thinking. He is most particular as to the precise\ninflections of voice, which must alternately be slow and impressive, or\nimpetuous and hurried, according to the requirements of the narrative.\nIf the story winds up with a wedding, the narrator is careful to\nobserve that he also was present on the occasion, in proof of which\nhe enumerates at great length the names of the guests invited and the\ndishes which formed part of the banquet; and according to the fertility\nof imagination he displays in describing these details he will be\nclassed by his audience as a _provestitore_ of first, second, or third\nrank.\n\nThe Roumanians have a vast _r\u00e9pertoire_ of songs and rhymes for\nparticular occasions, and many of these people seem to possess great\nnatural fluency for expressing themselves in verse, assisted, no\ndoubt, by the rich choice of rhymes offered by their language. Some\npeople would seem to talk as easily in verse as in prose, and there\nare districts where it is not considered seemly to court a girl\notherwise than in rhymed speech. All these rhymes, as well as most of\ntheir songs and ballads, are moulded in four feet verse, which best\nadapts itself to the fundamental measure of Roumanian music. Among the\nprincipal forms of song prevalent in the country are the _Doina_, the\n_Ballad_, the _Kolinda_, the _Cantece de Irogi_, the _Cantece de Stea_,\nthe _Plugul_, the _Cantece de Paparuga_, the _Cantece de Nunta_, the\n_Descantece_, and the _Bocete_.\n\n1. The _Doina_ is a lyrical poem, mostly of a mournful, monotonous\ncharacter, much resembling the gloomy _Dumkas_ of the Ruthenians, and\nfrom which, perhaps, its name is derived; and this is all the more\nprobable, as many of the songs sung by the Roumanians of the Bukowina\nare identical with those to be heard sung by their countrymen living\nin the Hungarian Banat. Thus it is of curious effect to hear the\ncelebrated song of the Dniester, \u201cNistrule riu blestemal\u201d (Dniester,\ncursed river), in which lament is made over the women carried off by\nthe Tartars, sung on the plains of Hungary, so many hundred miles away\nfrom the scenes which originated it.\n\n2. The _Ballad_, also called _Cantece_, or song proper, its title\nusually specifying whose particular song it is; for instance, \u201cCantecul\nlui Horia\u201d\u2014the song of Hora, or more literally, Hora, his song\u2014lui\nJancu, lui Marko, etc.\n\nThese ballads are sung to the accompaniment of a shepherd\u2019s pipe or\nflute, but are oftener merely recited, it not being considered good\nform to have them sung except by blind or crippled beggars, such as go\nabout at markets or fairs.[23]\n\n3. The _Kolinda_, or Christmas song, the name derived from a heathen\ngoddess, Lada.[24] These consist of songs and dialogues, oftenest\nof a mythological character, and bearing no sort of allusion to the\nChristian festival. The performers go about from house to house\nknocking at each door, with the usual formula, \u201cFlorile s\u2019dalbe, buna\nsara lui Cracinim\u201d\u2014white is the flower, a happy Christmas-night to you.\n\nThe _Turca_, or _Brezaia_, also belongs to the same category as\nthe _Kolinda_, but is of a somewhat more boisterous character, and\nis performed by young men, who, all following a leader grotesquely\nattired in a long cloak and mask (oftenest representing the long beak\nof a stork, or a bull\u2019s head, hence the name), go about the villages\nnight and day as long as the Christmas festivities last, pursuing\nthe girls and terrifying the children. A certain amount of odium is\nattached to the personification of the Turca himself, and the man who\nhas acted this part is regarded as unclean or bewitched by the devil\nduring a period of six weeks, and may not enter a church nor approach a\nsacrament till this time has elapsed.\n\nIn the Bukowina the Turca, or _Tur_, goes by the name of the _Capra_,\nand is called _Cleampa_ in the east of Transylvania.\n\n4. The _Cantece de Irogi_ is the name given to the text of many\ncarnival games and dialogues in which _Rahula_ (Rachel) and her child,\na shepherd, a Jew, a Roumanian popa, and the devil appear in somewhat\nunintelligible companionship.\n\n5. The _Cantece de Stea_\u2014songs of the star\u2014are likewise sung at this\nperiod by children, who go about with a tinsel star at the end of a\nstick.\n\n6. The _Plugul_\u2014song of the plough\u2014a set of verses sung on New-year\u2019s\nDay by young men fantastically dressed up, and with manifold little\nbells attached to feet and legs. They proceed noisily through the\nstreets of towns and villages, cracking long whips as though urging on\na team of oxen at the plough.\n\n7. The _Cantece de Paparuga_ are songs which are sung on the third\nSunday after Easter, or in cases of prolonged drought.\n\n8. The _Cantece de Nunta_ are the wedding songs, of which there are a\ngreat number. These are, however, rarely sung, but oftener recited.\nThey take various forms, such as that of invitation, health-drinking,\ncongratulations, etc. To these may be added the _Cantece de Cumetrie_\nand the _Cantecul ursitelor_, which express rejoicings over a new-born\ninfant.\n\n9. The _Descantece_, or descantations, are very numerous. They consist\nin secret charms or spells expressed in rhyme, which, in order to\nbe efficacious, must be imparted to children or grandchildren only\nwhen the parent is lying on his death-bed. These oftenest relate to\nillnesses of man or beast, to love or to life; and each separate\ncontingency has its own set formula, which is thus transmitted from\ngeneration to generation.\n\n10. The _Bocete_ are songs of mourning, usually sung over the corpse by\npaid mourners.\n\nOn the principle that the character of a people is best demonstrated by\nits proverbs, a few specimens of those most current among Roumanians\nmay be here quoted:\n\n\u201cA man without enemies is of little value.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is easier to keep guard over a bush full of live hares than over\none woman.\u201d\n\n\u201cA hen which cackles overnight lays no egg in the morning.\u201d\n\n\u201cA wise enemy is better than a foolish friend.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn the daytime he runs away from the buffalo, but in the night he\nseizes the devil by the horn.\u201d[25]\n\n\u201cCarry your wife your whole life on your back, but, if once you set her\ndown, she will say, \u2018I am tired.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cThe just man always goes about with a bruised head.\u201d\n\n\u201cSit crooked, but speak straight.\u201d\n\n\u201cFather and mother you will never find again, but wives as many as you\nlist.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe blessing of many children has broken no man\u2019s roof as yet.\u201d\n\n\u201cBetter an egg to-day than an ox next year.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo one throws a stone at a fruitless tree.\u201d\n\n\u201cPatience and silence give the grapes time to grow sweet.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you seek for a faultless friend you will be friendless all your\nlife.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere where you cannot catch anything, do not stretch out your hand.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho runs after two hares will not even catch one.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe dog does not run away from a whole forest of trees, but a single\nstick will make him run.\u201d\n\n\u201cA real Jew will never pause to eat until he has cheated you.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou cannot carry two melons in one hand.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho has been bitten by a snake is afraid of a lizard.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[23] There is a story told of a village (but whether Hungarian or\nRoumanian I am unable to say) which, up to the year 1536, used to be\ninhabited by cripples, hunchbacks, lame, maimed, and blind men only,\nand which went by the name of the \u201cRepublic of Cripples.\u201d No well-grown\nand healthy persons were ever suffered to settle here, for fear of\nspoiling the deformity of their race, and all new-born children unlucky\nenough to enter the world with normally organized frames were instantly\nmutilated.\n\nThe inhabitants of this village, turning these infirmities to account,\nmade a play of wandering over the country begging and singing at all\nfairs and markets, and trading on the compassion excited by their\nwretched appearance. They had also their own language, called the\nlanguage of the blind, and were in so far privileged above the useful\nand industrious citizens as to be exempted from all taxes.\n\n[24] The Council of Constantinople, 869, forbade the members of the\nOriental Church to keep the feast of the pagan goddess Kolinda, or\nLada, occurring on the shortest day. These Kolinda songs appear to\nbe of Slav origin, since we find the Koleda among the Bohemians,\nSerbs, and Slavonians, the Koleda among Poles, and the Kolad with the\nRussians. Yet further proof of this would seem to be that unmistakable\nresemblance to the Slav words _Kaulo_, _Kul_, _Kolo_, a round\ndance\u2014applying, no doubt, to the rotation of the sun, which on this\nday begins afresh. Grimm, however, in his Mythology, makes out the name\nto be derived from the Latin _Calend\u00e6_.\n\n[25] The meaning of this I take to be, that the dangers we recognize\nand run away from are smaller than those we encounter without knowing\nit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII.\n\nROUMANIAN POETRY.\n\n\nIt is hardly necessary to remark that the history of Roumanian\nliterature must needs be a scanty one as yet. Considering the past\nhistory of these people on either side of the frontier, and the manner\nin which they have been oppressed and persecuted, the wonder is\nrather to find them to-day so far advanced on the road that leads to\nimmortality.\n\nThe first Roumanian book (a collection of psalms, probably translated\nfrom the Greek) was printed at Kronstadt in 1577, and was succeeded by\nmany other similar works, all printed in Cyrillian characters.\n\nAs historians and chroniclers, the names of Ureki, Miron Kostin,\nDosithei, and of Prince Dimetrie Kantemir, all hold honorable positions\nbetween the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the eighteenth\ncentury. Political events then stemmed the current of progress for\na time, and made of the rest of the eighteenth century a period of\nintellectual stagnation for all Roumanians, whether of Wallachia,\nMoldavia, or Transylvania. It was from the latter country that about\nthe year 1820 was given the first impulse towards resurrection,\nconnected with which we read the names of Lazar, Majorescu, Assaki,\nMikul, Petru Major, Cipariu, Bolinteanu, Balcescu, Constantin Negruzzi,\nand Cogalnitscheanu.\n\nIt was only after the middle of the present century that Latin\ncharacters began to be adopted in place of Cyrillian ones, and indeed\nit is not easy to understand why the Cyrillian alphabet ever came to\nbe used at all. On this subject Stanley, writing in 1856, speaks as\nfollows:\n\n \u201cThe Latinity of Rouman is, however, sadly disguised under the\n Cyrillic alphabet, in which it has hitherto been habited. This\n alphabet was adopted about 1400 A.D., after an attempt by one of\n the popes to unite the Roumans to the Catholic Church. The priests\n then burned the books in the Roman or European letters, and the\n Russians have opposed all the attempts made latterly to cast off\n the Slavonic alphabet, by which the Rouman language is enchained\n and bound to the Slavonic dialects.... The difficulty of coming\n to an agreement among the men of letters, as to the system to be\n adopted for rendering the Cyrillic letters by Roman type, has\n retarded this movement as much, perhaps, as political opposition.\u201d\n\nThe first Roumanian political newspaper was issued by Georg Baritiu in\n1838. At present several Roumanian newspapers appear in Transylvania,\nof which the _Observatorul_ and the _Telegraful Roman_ are the\nprincipal ones. There are in the country two Greek Catholic seminaries\nfor priests, and one Greek Oriental one, a commercial school at\nKronstadt, four upper gymnasiums, and numerous primary schools, all of\nwhich are self-supporting, and receive no assistance from the Hungarian\nGovernment.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSome portion of the rich store of folk songs which from time immemorial\nhave been sung in the country by wandering minstrels, called _cantari_,\nhas been rescued from oblivion by the efforts of Alexandri, and after\nhim Torceanu, who, going about from village to village, have written\ndown all they could learn from the lips of the peasants. One of the\nmost beautiful and pathetic of the ballads thus collected by Alexandri\nis that of Curte d\u2019Arghisch, an ancient and well-known Roumanian\nlegend, the greater part of which I have here endeavored to reproduce\nin an English version. These ballads are, however, exceedingly\ndifficult to translate at all characteristically, our language neither\npossessing that abundant choice of rhyme, so apt to drive a translator\nto envious despair, nor yet the harmonious current of sound which lends\na peculiar charm to the loose and rambling metre in which these songs\nare mostly written.\n\n\nCLOISTER ARGHISCH.\n\n\nI.\n\n By the Arghisch river,\n By the bonny brim,\n Goes the Voyvod Negru,[26]\n Other ten with him.\n Nine of these his comrades,\n Master masons be,\n And the tenth is Manoll,\n Masters\u2019 master he.\n And the ten are questing,\n Where along the tide\n They shall build the minster,\n And their fame beside.\n Then as on they stray,\n Meets them on the way\n A shepherd lad, that ditty sad\n Upon his pipe doth play.\n\n \u201cShepherd lad, dear shepherd lad,\n Mournful ditty playing,\n Up the river has thy flock\n And hast thou been straying?\n Down have strayed both thou and they,\n Down along the river?\n In thy wanderings where hast been,\n Say, hast thou a building seen\n Standing by the river,\n Built of moss-grown ancient stone,\n All unfinished and alone,\n Where the hazels, green and lank,\n Shoot amid the copsewood dank?\u201d\n\n \u201cAy, my master, that have I\n Sighted as I wandered by;\n Sooth, a wall doth on the strand\n Lonely and unfinished stand,\n At whose sight my hounds in haste\n Howling fled across the waste!\u201d\n\n When this word the prince had heard,\n Joyful man was he:\n \u201cHaste away! come, no delay,\n Haste thee instantly;\n These, my master masons nine,\n Lead unto yon wall,\n And Manoll the tenth, that is\n Master of them all.\u201d\n\n \u201cSee ye yonder wall of mine?\n Know that here the spot I name\n For the sacred cloister\u2019s shrine,\n For my everlasting fame.\n Now, ye mighty masters all,\n Fellows of the builder\u2019s craft,\n Haste away! night and day\n Raise ye, build ye, roof and wall.\n Build a cloister worthy me,\n Such as never men did see;\n Fail to build it as I say,\n I will build you instantly,\n Build you living, every one,\n \u2019Neath the pile\u2019s foundation-stone.\u201d\n\n\nII.\n\n Hastily with line and rule\n Work they out the cloister\u2019s plan;\n Hastily with eager tool\n Delve foundations in the sod,\n Where shall stand the house of God.\n Never resting night or day,\n Building, ever building, they\n Hurry on the work alway.\n But what in the day has grown,\n In the night is overthrown.\n Next day, next, and next again,\n What within the hours of light\n They have reared with toil and pain,\n Falls to ruin in the night,\n And all labor is in vain;\n For the pile will not remain,\n Falling nightly down again.\n\n Wondering and wrathful then\n Doth the prince the builders call,\n Raging, threatens once again\n He will build them, build them all,\n Build them in beneath the wall.\n And the master builders nine,\n Thus, their wretched lives at stake,\n Quaking toil, and toiling quake,\n All throughout the summer light,\n Till the day gives way to night.\n\n But Manoll upon a day\n Puts the irksome task away,\n Lays him down to sleep, and thus\n Dream he dreameth marvellous,\n Which, awak\u2019ning from repose,\n Straightway doth he then disclose:\n\n \u201cHear my story, masters mine,\n Ye my fellow-craftsmen nine;\n Hearken to me while I tell\n Dream in sleep that me befell:\n From the height of heaven clear\n Was it borne upon my ear.\n Ever we shall build in vain,\n Crumbling still our work again,\n Till together swear we all\n To immure within the wall\n Her who at the peep of day\n Chances first to come this way\n Hither, who is sent by fate,\n Bearing food for swain or mate,\n Wife or sweetheart though it be,\n Maid or matron equally.\n Therefore listen, comrades mine:\n Would you build this holy shrine\u2014\n Would you to enduring fame\n Evermore transmit your name\u2014\n Vow we all a solemn vow,\n As we stand together now,\n Whosoever it shall be\n That his lov\u00e8d one shall see,\n Chancing here her way to take\n When the morrow\u2019s light doth break,\n Will as victim bid her fall,\n Buried living in the wall!\u201d\n\n\nIII.\n\n Smiling doth the morning break;\n With the dawn Manoll, awake,\n Scaling the enclosure\u2019s bound,\n Mounts the scaffold; all around,\n Hill and dale, with glance of fear,\n Anxious searcheth far and near.\n What is this that greets his eyes?\n Who is it that hither hies?\n \u2019Tis his wife he doth behold,\n Sweetest blossom of the wold;\n She it is that hasteth here,\n Bringing for her husband dear\n Meat and wine his heart to cheer.\n\n Sure too awful is the sight!\n Can his senses witness right?\n Leaps his heart and reels his brain\n In an agony of pain.\n Then on bended knees he falls,\n Desperate on Heaven calls:\n\n \u201cO Lord my God,\n That rul\u2019st on high,\n Ope thou the flood-gates\n Of the sky;\n Down upon earth\n Thy torrents pour,\n Till brook and river\n Rise and roar,\n Till raging floods\n My wife shall stay,\n Shall turn her back\n The homeward way!\u201d\n\n Lo! in pity God has hearkened\u2014\n That which he has asked is done;\n Clouds the heaven\u2019s face have darkened,\n They have blotted out the sun;\n Down the rains in torrents pour,\n Brook and river rage and roar.\n But nor storm nor flood can stay\n Manoll\u2019s wife upon her way;\n Pressing onward, halting never,\n Plunging through the foaming river,\n Knowing naught of doubt or fear,\n Near she hasteth, and more near.\n\nThe poem goes on to say how Manoll a second time implores the Creator\nto send a hurricane which shall ravage the face of nature and impede\nher progress. Once more his prayer is granted, and a mighty wind, which,\n\n Sighing loud and moaning,\n Thundering and droning,\n Down the plane-trees bending,\n And the pines uprending,\n\nrages over the land.\n\n But no earthly force\n Checks her steady course,\n And all vainly passed\n By the furious blast,\n In the storm she quavers,\n But yet never wavers,\n And, oh, hapless lot!\n Soon has reached the spot.\n\nThe fourth canto relates how the nine master masons are filled with joy\nat sight of this heaven-sent victim. Manoll alone is sad, as, kissing\nhis wife, he takes her in his arms and carries her up the scaffolding.\nThere he places her in a niche, explaining that they are going to\npretend to build her in merely as a joke; while the poor young wife,\nscenting no danger, claps her hands in childish pleasure at the idea.\n\n But her spouse, with gloomy face,\n Speaks no word, and works apace;\n Of his dream he thinks alone,\n As they pile up stone on stone.\n And the church walls upward shoot,\n Cover soon her dainty foot,\n Reaching then above the knee;\n Where is vanished all her glee?\n As, becoming deadly pale,\n Thus the wife begins to wail:\n\n \u201cManolli, dear Manolli!\n Master, master Manolli!\n Prithee, now this joking cease,\n And thy wife from here release;\n See, the wall is closing fast,\n In its grip am I compassed.\n Manolli, dear Manolli!\n Master, master Manolli!\u201d\n\n But Manoll makes no reply,\n Works with restless energy.\n Higher and yet higher\n Grows the wall entire,\n Grows with lightning haste,\n Reaches soon her waist,\n Reaches soon her breast;\n She no more can jest,\n Hardly can she speak,\n With voice faint and weak:\n\n \u201cManolli, dear Manolli!\n Master, master Manolli!\n Stop this joke and set me free\u2014\n Soon a mother shall I be;\n See, the wall is crushing me,\n These hard stones my babe will kill;\n With salt tears my bosom fill.\u201d\n\n But Manoll makes no reply,\n Works with restless energy.\n Higher and yet higher\n Grows the wall entire;\n O\u2019er her dainty foot\n Fast the church walls shoot;\n Fair Annika\u2019s knee\n Soon no more they see,\n Building on in haste\n To her lithesome waist;\n Hidden is her breast,\n By the stones compressed;\n Hidden now her eye,\n As the wall grows high;\n Building on apace,\n Hidden soon her face!\n And the hapless woman, she\n Laughs no longer now in glee,\n But from out the cruel wall\n Still the feeble voice doth call:\n\n \u201cManolli, dear Manolli!\n Master, master Manolli!\n See the wall is closing quite,\n Vanished the last ray of light.\u201d\n\nThere is still a fifth canto to this ballad, but of such decidedly\ninferior merit as to suggest the idea that it is a piece of patchwork\nadded on at a later period. The prince, delighted at the success of the\nbuilding, asks the master masons whether they could undertake to raise\na second church of yet nobler, loftier proportions than the first. This\nquestion being answered in the affirmative, the tyrannical Voyvod,\nprobably afraid of their embellishing some other country with the work\nof their genius, orders the ladders and scaffolding to be removed from\nthe building, so that the ten illustrious architects are left standing\non the roof, there to perish of starvation. Hoping to escape this doom,\neach of the master masons constructs for himself a pair of artificial\nwings, or rather a sort of parachute, out of light wooden shingles,\nand by means of which he hopes safely to reach the ground. But the\nparachutes are a miserable failure, and crashing down with violence,\nthe nine master masons are turned into as many stones. Manoll, the last\nto descend, and distracted at hearing the wailing voice of his dying\nwife calling upon him, falls likewise; but the tears welling up from\nhis breast cause him to be transformed into a spring of crystal water\nflowing near the church, and to this day known by the name of Manolli\u2019s\nwell.\n\n\u201cMiora,\u201d or \u201cThe Lamb,\u201d is another popular ballad, which, sung\nand recited throughout Roumania and Transylvania, is gracefully\nillustrative of the idyllic bond by which shepherd and flock are united:\n\n\nMIORA.\n\n Where the mountains open, there\n Runs a path-way passing fair,\n And along this flowery way\n Shepherds came one summer day.\n Snowy flocks were three,\n Led by shepherds three.\n One from Magyarland had come,\n Wrantscha was another\u2019s home,\n From Moldavia one had come;\n But the one from Magyarland,\n And from Wrantscha\u2014hand in hand,\n\n Council held they secretly,\n And resolved deceitfully,\n When behind the hill\n Sank the sun, to kill\n The Moldavian herd, for he\n Was the richest of the three.\n Strongest were his rams,\n Fattest were his dams,\n Whitest were his lambs,\n And his dogs the fiercest,\n And his horse the fleetest.\n\n But a lambkin white,\n With eyes soft and bright,\n Since the break of day\n Bleats so piteously,\n Does not cease to bleat,\n No more grass will eat.\n\n \u201cLittle lambkin white,\n Thou my favorite,\n Why since break of day\n Bleat so piteously?\n Never cease to bleat,\n No more grass wiltst eat,\n O my lambkin sweet,\n Wherefore dost complain?\n Say, dost suffer pain?\u201d\n\n \u201cGentle shepherd, master dear,\n Prithee but my warning hear;\n Lead away thy flock of sheep\n Where the woodland shades are deep;\n There in peace can we abide\u2014\n Forests dense there are to hide.\n Shepherd, shepherd! list to me;\n Call thy dog to follow thee;\n Choose the fiercest one of all,\n Ear most watchful to thy call,\n For the other herds have sworn\n Thou shalt die before the morn!\u201d\n\n \u201cLittle lamb, if true dost say,\n Hast the gift to prophesy,\n And if it must come to pass\n That I thus shall die, alas!\n Is it written that my life\n Thus shall end a cruel knife,\n Tell the shepherds where to lay\n My cold body in the clay.\n Near unto my sheep\n Would I wish to sleep,\n From the grave to hark\n When the sheep-dogs bark.\n On the mound I pray\n Three new flutes to lay:\n One of beech-wood fine be made,\n Sings of love that cannot fade;\n One carved out of whitest bone,\n For my broken heart makes moan;\n One of elder-wood let be,\n For its tones are proud and free.\n When at evenfall\n \u2019Gin the winds to call,\n List\u2019ning to the sound,\n Gather then around\n All my faithful sheep,\n Bloody tears to weep.\n But that I am dead\n Let no word be said:\n Tell them that a queen\n Passing fair was seen,\n Took me for her mate;\n That we sit in state\n On a lofty throne;\n That the sun and moon\n Held the golden crown,\n And a star fell down\n Straight above my head.\n Say, when I was wed,\n Oak-tree, beech, and pine,\n All were guests of mine\n At the wedding-feast;\n And the holy priest\n Was a mountain high.\n Made sweet melody\n Thousand birds from near and far,\n Every torch a golden star.\n But if thou shouldst meet,\n Oh, if thou shouldst meet,\n A poor haggard matron,\n Torn her scarlet apron,\n Wet with tears her eyes,\n Hoarse with choking sighs,\n \u2019Tis my mother old,\n Running o\u2019er the wold,\n Asking every one,\n \u2018Have you seen my son?\n In the whole land none\n Other was so fair,\n With such raven hair,\n Soft to feel as silk;\n Like the purest milk,\n None had skin so white;\n None had eyes so bright,\n As a pair of sloes.\n And where\u2019er he goes,\n Shepherd none there be\n Half so fair as he!\u2019\n Lamb, oh pity take,\n Else her heart will break.\n Tell her that a queen\n Passing fair was seen,\n Took me for her mate;\n That we sit in state\n On a lofty throne;\n That the sun and moon\n Held the golden crown,\n And a star fell down\n Straight above my head.\n Say, when I was wed,\n Oak-tree, beech, and pine,\n All were guests of mine\n At the wedding-feast;\n And the holy priest\n Was a mountain high.\n Made sweet melody\n Thousand birds from near and far,\n Every torch a golden star.\u201d[27]\n\nThe third and last of those folk songs which limited space permits me\nhere to quote is one I have selected as being peculiarly characteristic\nof the tender and clinging affection these people bear to their\nprogeny. Devoid of poetical merit it may perhaps be, but surely the\nunsatisfied yearnings of a childless woman have seldom been more\npathetically rendered.\n\n\nTHE ROUMANIAN\u2019S DESIRE.\n\n Would it but th\u2019 Almighty please\n This my yearning heart to ease,\n But to send a little son,\n Little cherub for mine own.\n\n All the day and all the night\n Would I rock my angel bright;\n Gently shielded it should rest\n Ever on my happy breast.\n\n I would feed it, I would tend it,\n From each peril I\u2019d defend it;\n Whisp\u2019ring with the voice of love,\n Suck, my chick, my lamb, my dove.\n\n Did but Heaven hear my voice,\n Evermore would I rejoice;\n Golden gifts so bright and rare,\n Little baby soft and fair.\n\n Love that on him I\u2019d bestow,\n Other child did never know;\n Such his loveliness and worth,\n Ne\u2019er was like him child on earth.\n\n Lips like coral, skin like snow,\n Eyes like those of mountain roe;\n And the roses on his cheek\n Elsewhere you in vain would seek.\n\n Mouth so sweet, and eyes so bright,\n Would I kiss from morn to night;\n Kiss his cheek and kiss his hair,\n Singing, \u201cHow my child is fair!\u201d\n\n Every holy prayer I know\n Should secure my child from woe;\n Every magic herb I\u2019d pluck,\n For to bring him endless luck.[28]\n\n Surely, then, he\u2019d grow apace,\n Strong of limb and fair of face,\n And a hero such as he\n Earth before did never see!\n\nIt is not easy to classify the cultivated Roumanian writers of the\npresent day, still less so is it to select appropriate specimens from\ntheir works. Roumanian literature is in a transition state at present,\nand, despite much talent and energy on the part of its representatives,\nhas not as yet regained any fixed national character. Perhaps, indeed,\nit would be more correct to say that precisely the talent and energy of\nsome of the most gifted writers have harmed Roumanian literature more\nthan they have assisted it, by dragging into fashion a dozen different\nmodes utterly incongruous with one another, and with the mainsprings\nof Roumanian thought and feeling. No doubt the custom of sending their\nchildren to be educated outside the country is much to blame for this;\nand, naturally enough, French poets have been imported into the land\nalong with Parisian fashions.\n\nB\u00e9ranger and Musset, along with Shakespeare, Goethe, Byron, and Heine,\nhave all been abused in this manner by men who should have understood\nthat the strength of any literature does not lie in the successful\nimitation of foreign models, however excellent, but rather in the\nintelligent exploitation of its own historical and artistic treasures.\nEven Basil Alexandri, the first and most national of Roumanian poets,\nsometimes falls unconsciously into this error, still more perceptible\nin the works of Rosetti, Negruzzi, and Cornea.\n\nOdobescu, Gane, Alexi, and Dunca have acquired some fame as writers\nof fiction; and Joan Slavici in particular may here be cited for his\ncharming sketches of rural life, which have something of the force and\ndelicacy of Turguenief\u2019s hand.\n\n\nFET LOGOFET[29] (_literally_, YOUNG FOOLHARDY).\n\n Thou radiant young knight,\n With glance full of light,\n With golden-locked hair,\n Oh, turn thy proud steed;\n Of the forest take heed\u2014\n The dragon lies there.\n\n Thou fairest of maids,\n With silken-like braids,\n So slender thy zone,\n My good sword will pierce\n The monster so fierce,\n And fear I have none.\n\n Thou wrestler, thou ranger,\n Thou seeker of danger,\n With eyes flashing fire;\n Thy fate will be dolesome;\n The dragon is loathsome,\n And fearful his ire.\n\n Thou coaxer, thou pleader,\n Thou sweet interceder,\n My star silver bright!\n Both dragon and drake,\n Before me they quake,\n And fly at my sight.\n\n Thou stealer of hearts,\n With golden-tipped darts,\n Yet list to my cry!\n Thou canst not escape,\n His open jaws gape,\n Turn water to sky!\n\n Thou angel-like child,\n With blue eyes so mild,\n Yet needst not to sigh;\n For this my good steed\n The wind can outspeed,\n And rear heaven-high!\n\n Oh, radiant young knight,\n With eyes full of light,\n That masterful shine;\n Oh, hark to my prayer,\n And do not go there\u2014\n My heart it is thine!\n\n Yet needs I must ride\n To win as my bride\n Thou, maiden most sweet;\n I must gain renown\u2014\n Either death or a crown\u2014\n To lay at thy feet.\n\n\nTHE FAULT IS NOT THINE.[30]\n\n Full oft hast thou sworn that on this side the grave\n Thy love and thy heart should forever be mine;\n But thou hast forgotten, and I\u2014I forgave,\n For such is the world, and the fault is not thine.\n\n And again was thy cry, \u201cThou beloved of my heart,\n In heaven itself, without thee I\u2019d pine!\u201d\n On earth still we dwell\u2014yet dwell we apart;\n \u2019Tis the fault of our age, and the fault is not thine.\n\n My arms they embraced thee, I drank with delight\n The dew from thy lips like a nectar divine;\n But the dew turned to venom, its freshness to blight,\n For such is thy sex, and the fault is not thine.\n\n Thy love and thine honor, thy virtue and troth,\n Given now to another, were yesterday mine;\n Thou knowest not Love! then why should I be wroth?\n \u2019Tis the fault of thy race, and the fault is not thine.\n\n Far stronger than Love were both riches and pride,\n And swiftly and surely thy faith did decline;\n Thy wounds they are healed, thy tears they are dried,\n Thou couldst not remember\u2014the fault is not thine.\n\n Yet though thou art faithless, and falsely hast left me,\n My eyes can see naught but an angel divine;\n My heart flutters wildly whenever I see thee\u2014\n \u2019Tis the fault of my love, and the fault is not mine!\n\nI do not suppose that any one with the slightest knowledge of Roumania\nand Roumanians can fail to detect an alien note in both these\ncompositions, despite the grace of the originals; nor can one help\nfeeling that these authors should have been capable of far better\nthings.\n\nAnd surely far better and grander things will come ere long from this\nnation, at once so old and so young! when, having regained its lost\nself-confidence, it comes to understand that more evil than good is\nengendered by a blind conformity to foreign fashions.\n\nAlready a step in the right direction has been taken in the matter\nof national dress, which, thanks to the praiseworthy example of the\nRoumanian queen, has lately received much attention. And as in dress,\nso in literature, does Carmen Sylva take the lead, and endeavor\nto teach her people to value national productions above foreign\nimportations.\n\nWhen, therefore, Roumanian writers begin to see that their force lies\nnot in the servile imitation of Western models, but in working out the\nrich vein of their own folk-lore, and in bridging over the space which\ntakes them back to ancient pagan traditions, then, doubtless, a new\nera will set in for the literature of the country. Let Roumanian poets\nleave B\u00e9ranger and Musset to moulder on their book-shelves, and consign\nto oblivion Heinrich Heine, whose exquisitely morbid sentimentality is\nfar too fragile an article to bear importation; let them cease from\nwandering abroad, and assuredly they will discover in their own forests\nand mountains better and more vigorous material than Paris or Germany\ncan offer: the old stones around them will begin to speak, and the old\ngods will let themselves be lured from out their hiding-places. Then\nwill it be seen that Apollo\u2019s lyre has not ceased to vibrate, and the\nlays of ancient Rome will arise and develop to new life.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[26] The Hospodar Negru, or Nyagou as he is sometimes called, reigned\nfrom 1513 to 1521. Long detained as hostage at the Court of Sultan\nSelim I., he had the opportunity of studying Oriental architecture,\nand himself directed the building of a celebrated mosque which had,\nwe are told, no less than 999 windows and 366 minarets. This edifice\nso delighted the Sultan that he set Nyagou at liberty, presenting him\nwith all the rich materials remaining over from the building of the\nmosque, in order to erect a church in his native country. Returning\nthither, he is said to have brought with him the celebrated architect\nManoll, or Manolli, by birth a Phanariot, who, with his wife Annika, is\nimmortalized in this ballad.\n\n[27] A prose translation of this poem appeared in Stanley\u2019s \u201cRouman\nAnthology,\u201d 1856.\n\n[28] This allusion to prayer and magic in the same breath is thoroughly\ncharacteristic of the Roumanian\u2019s religion.\n\n[29] By B. Alexandri.\n\n[30] By K. A. Rosetti.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV.\n\nTHE ROUMANIANS: NATIONALITY AND ATROCITIES.\n\n\nThe Roumanians have often been called slavish and cringing, but,\nconsidering their past history, it is not possible that they should be\notherwise, oppressed and trampled on, persecuted, and treated as vermin\nby the surrounding races; and it should rather be matter for surprise\nthat they have been able to continue existing at all under such a\ncombination of adverse circumstances, which would assuredly have worn\nout a less powerful nature.\n\nUntil little more than a century ago, it was illegal for any Wallachian\nchild to frequent a German or Hungarian school; while at that same\nperiod the Wallachian clergy were compelled to carry the Calvinistic\nbishop on their shoulders to and from his church, whenever he\nthought fit to exact their services. Still more inhuman was a law\nwhich continued in force up to the end of the sixteenth century,\nordaining that each Wallachian out of the district of Poplaka, in the\nneighborhood of Hermanstadt, who injured a tree, if only by peeling\noff the bark, was to be forthwith hung up to the same tree. \u201cShould,\nhowever, the culprit remain undiscovered,\u201d prescribes the law, \u201cthen\nshall the community of Poplaka be bound to deliver up for execution\nsome other Wallachian in his place.\u201d\n\nThe faults of the Roumanians are the faults of all slaves. Like all\nserfs, they are lazy, not being yet accustomed to work for themselves,\nnor caring to work for a master; they have acquired cunning and\ndeceit as the only weapons wherewith to meet tyranny and oppression.\nSometimes, when goaded to passion, the Roumanian forgets himself, and\nhis eyes flash fiercely on his tormentor; but the gaze is instantly\ncorrected, and the eyes lowered again to their habitual expression of\nabject humility.\n\nOccasionally they have cast off the yoke and taken cruel revenge on\ntheir real or imaginary oppressors, as in 1848, when, instigated\nand stirred up by Austrian agents, they rose against their masters\nthe Hungarian noblemen, and perpetrated atrocities as numerous as\ndisgusting. They pillaged the country houses, setting everything\non fire, and put the nobles to death with many torturing devices,\ncrucifying some and burying others up to the neck, cutting off tongues\nand plucking out eyes, as a diabolical fancy suggested.\n\nThis was all the more surprising, as the bond between serfs and masters\nhad always been of a most peaceful and patriarchal character, and it\nwas to his Hungarian landlord that the Wallachian had been always\naccustomed to turn for counsel or assistance. True, the serf was forced\nto pay certain tithes to his master; but in return, whenever the crops\nfailed, the master himself was obliged to sustain the serf, and provide\nhim with corn out of his own granaries.\n\nA Hungarian lady related to me a very horrible instance of cruelty\nwhich had happened on the property of a near relation of her own in the\nrevolution of 1848. This gentleman, one of the most generous and humane\nlandlords, did not usually reside at his country place, but had spent\nmuch time in foreign travel, and was unknown to most of his people,\nwhich, however, did not prevent them from resolving on his death.\nHearing of the riots which had broken out on his estate, the nobleman\nwas hastening to the spot; and the excited peasantry, informed of his\nimpending arrival, prepared to receive him with scythes and pickaxes.\n\nThe servants of the household had all fled the neighborhood at\nthe first alarm; but there remained behind at the chateau the\nfoster-daughter of the gentleman, a girl of sixteen, who, brought\nup with the family, was warmly attached to her benefactor, whom she\ncalled father. Shutting herself up in a turret-room, she tremblingly\nawaited the _d\u00e9nouement_ of the fearful drama which was being enacted\naround her. From her window she could overlook the road by which her\nfoster-father was expected to arrive, and she stood thus all day at her\npost, straining her eyes for what she feared to see, and praying God to\nkeep her benefactor away.\n\nTwilight had set in, and the moon began to rise, when a solitary rider\nwas at last descried coming down the neighboring hill. The poor girl\u2019s\nheart sank within her, for she knew that this could be no other than\nher father; and even had she doubted it, the wild-beast roar which\nbroke from the peasants at the sight of their long-expected prey\ndestroyed all remnant of hope. As in a horrible nightmare, she saw\nthem advance towards the horseman in a black, heaving mass, like a\ncrawling thunder-cloud, broken here and there by the sinister gleam\nof a sharpened scythe. Paralyzed with horror, she yet was unable to\nlook away, and no merciful fainting-fit came to spare her the sight of\nany of the horrible details which followed: how the hapless rider was\nsurrounded and speedily overpowered; how a dreadful scuffle ensued;\nand after an interval which seemed like an eternity, how something was\nhoisted up at the end of a long pole\u2014something round in shape and\nghastly in hue\u2014the head of her beloved benefactor!\n\nBy-and-by she was roused from her grief by the loud voices of rioters\napproaching, and presently the front door being shaken and forced in\nwith a resounding crash, the bloody wretches proceeded to overrun the\nhouse, and ransack the larders and cellar, laying hands on whatever\nviands they could discover. In the large vaulted hall they began the\ncarouse, seated round the banqueting-table, and on a platter in the\ncentre was placed the head of their victim.\n\nTwo of the peasants who had been searching the upper apartments now\nappeared on the scene, dragging between them a convulsively trembling\ngirl, who looked ready to die with terror. \u201cThey had found her\nup-stairs in the turret,\u201d they explained, \u201csobbing like a fool, and\ncalling out for her father, like a suckling whelp that has lost its\ndam.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe old man\u2019s daughter!\u201d shouted one of the revellers; \u201clet us cut off\nher head as well\u2014they will look fine together on the platter!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said another; \u201cshe is not worth killing, she is half dead\nalready. Let her look at her dear father, since it is for him she is\ncrying;\u201d and raising the dish from the table, he held it in horrible\nproximity to her shrinking face.\n\nThe poor girl tightly closed her eyes in order to escape the dreadful\nsight, but her persecutors were not inclined to let her off so easily.\nMaddened alike by blood and drink, they grasped her roughly, and\nseizing her long black eyelashes on either side, by main force they\ncompelled her to raise her eyelids and fix her swimming eyes on the\ngory head.\n\nAt first she could distinguish nothing for the blinding tears which\nobscured her vision, but suddenly the mist cleared away, and the cry\nshe then uttered was so sharp and piercing that it re-echoed again from\nthe vaulted roof, and caused the drinkers to pause for a minute, glass\nin hand. Lucky it was for her and hers that the dull ear of the tipsy\nmurderers had failed to distinguish the meaning of that cry aright;\nfor in moments of intense emotion widely different feelings are apt\nto resemble each other in expression, so that joy may be mistaken for\ngrief, and hope for despair\u2014and it was hope, not despair, which had\ngiven that piercing sharpness to her voice, for the ghastly grinning\nhead before her was the head of a stranger!\n\nThe joyful exclamation rising to her lips was checked just in time, as\nher dazed brain began to recognize the urgency of the situation. She\nmust not undeceive these men, who were exulting over the death of their\nlandlord. Her father was not dead, it is true, but neither was the\ndanger yet past, and his safety might depend on keeping up the delusion\na little longer. By good-luck her confusion passed unnoticed by the\nsemi-tipsy revellers, who presently had no more thought but for their\nbumpers, so that the young girl, enabled to creep away unobserved,\nwas ultimately the means of saving the nobleman\u2019s life by sending a\nmessenger to warn him of his danger.\n\nThe man who had been executed in his place turned out to be a gentleman\nfrom some neighboring district, who in the dusk had taken a wrong turn\non the road, thus occasioning the mistake which cost him his life.\n\n * * * * *\n\nMany such instances of cruelty, of which the Roumanians made themselves\nguilty in the year \u201948, have deprived them of the sympathy to which\nthey might have laid claim as a suffering and oppressed race; but\npeople who have a thorough knowledge of the Roumanian character, and\nare able to estimate correctly all the influences brought to bear on\nthem at that time, do not hesitate to affirm that these people were\nfar more sinned against than sinning, and cannot be held responsible\nfor the atrocities they perpetrated. Even Hungarian nobles, themselves\nthe greatest sufferers by all that occurred during the revolution,\nare wont to speak of them with a sort of pitying commiseration, as of\npoor misguided creatures led astray by unscrupulous agents, and wholly\nincapable of comprehending the heinousness of their behavior.\n\nAn amusing illustration has been given of the ignorance of these\nrevolutionary peasants in 1848. Some of them, having broken into a\nnobleman\u2019s mansion, discovered a packet of old letters in a drawer, and\nbelieving these to be patents of nobility, they proceeded to burn them\nin front of the portrait of one of the family ancestors, exclaiming,\ntauntingly, \u201cSee, proud lord, how thy family becomes once more as\nignoble as we ourselves are!\u201d\n\nFew races possess in such a marked degree the blind and immovable\nsense of nationality which characterizes the Roumanians: they hardly\never mingle with the surrounding races, far less adopt manners and\ncustoms foreign to their own; and it is a remarkable fact that the\nseemingly stronger-minded and more manly Hungarians are absolutely\npowerless to influence them even in cases of intermarriage. Thus the\nHungarian woman who weds a Roumanian husband will necessarily adopt\nthe dress and manners of his people, and her children will be as good\nRoumanians as though they had no drop of Magyar blood in their veins;\nwhile the Magyar who takes a Roumanian girl for his wife will not\nonly fail to convert her to his ideas, but himself, subdued by her\ninfluence, will imperceptibly begin to lose his nationality. This is\na fact well known and much lamented by the Hungarians themselves, who\nlive in anticipated apprehension of seeing their people ultimately\ndissolving into Roumanians. This singular tenacity of the Roumanians\nto their own manners and customs is doubtless due to the influence of\ntheir religion, which teaches them that any deviation from their own\nestablished rules is sinful\u2014which, as I have said before, is the whole\npivot of Roumanian thought and action.\n\nIn some districts where an attempt was made in the time of Maria\nTheresa to replace the Greek popas by other clergymen belonging to\nthe united faith, the inhabitants simply absented themselves from\nall church attendance or reception of the sacraments; and there are\ninstances on record of villages whose churches remained closed for over\nthirty years, because the people could not be induced to accept the\nchange.\n\nAs to that portion of the Transylvanian Roumanians which in 1698\nconsented to embrace the united faith, their separation from their\nschismatic brethren is but a skin-deep one after all, having no\ninfluence whatsoever on their customs and superstitions, or on the\nstrong bond of nationality which holds them all together.\n\nIt is a notable fact that among all Oriental races the ideas of\nreligion and nationality are inextricably bound together. So with the\nRoumanians, whose language has no other word wherewith to express\nreligion or confession but _lege_, law\u2014obviously derived from the\nLatin _lex_.\n\nThe deeply inrooted sense of Roumanian nationality has, moreover,\nreceived fresh stimulus in the comprehension which of late years has\nbeen slowly but surely dawning on the minds of these people\u2014that\nthey are a nation like other nations, with a right to be governed\nby a monarch of their own choice, instead of being bandied about,\nbackward and forward, changing masters at each European treaty. There\nis no doubt that the bulk of Roumanians living to-day in Hungary\nand Transylvania consider themselves to be serving in bondage, and\ncovertly gaze over the frontier for their real monarch; and who can\nblame them for so doing? In the many Roumanian hovels I have visited\nin Transylvania, I have frequently come across the portrait of the\nKing of Roumania hung up in the place of honor, but never once that\nof his Austrian Majesty. Old wood-cuts representing Michel the Brave,\nthe great hero of the Roumanians, and of the rebel Hora,[31] are\nalso pretty sure to be found adorning the walls of many a hut. It is\nlikewise by no means uncommon to see village taverns bearing such\ntitles as, \u201cTo the King of Roumania,\u201d or \u201cTo the United Roumanian\nKingdom,\u201d etc.\n\nA little incident which, taking place under my eyes, impressed me very\nstrongly at the time, helped me to understand this feeling more clearly\nthan I had done before. Two Roumanian generals engaged in some business\nregarding the regulation of the frontier, being at Hermanstadt for a\nfew days, paid visits to the principal Austrian military authorities,\nand were the object of much courteous attention. One evening the\nAustrian commanding general had ordered the military band to play in\nhonor of his Roumanian _confr\u00e8res_, and seated along with them on the\npromenade, we were listening to the music. Presently two or three\nprivate soldiers passing by stopped in front of us to stare at the\nforeign uniforms. Apparently their curiosity was not easily satisfied,\nfor after five minutes had elapsed they still remained standing, as\nthough rooted to the spot, and other soldiers had joined them as well,\ntill the group soon numbered above a dozen heads.\n\nBeing engaged in conversation, I did not at the moment pay much\nattention to this circumstance, but happening to turn round again some\nminutes later, I was surprised to see that the spectators had become\ndoubled and quadrupled in the mean time, and were steadily increasing\nevery minute. Little short of a hundred soldiers were now standing in\nfront of us, all gazing intently. Why were they staring thus strangely?\nwhat were they looking at? I asked myself confusedly, but luckily\nchecked the question rising to my lips, when it suddenly struck me\nthat _all_ these men had swarthy complexions, and _each_ one of them a\npair of dark eyes, and simultaneously I remembered that the infantry\nregiment whose uniform they wore was recruited from Roumanian villages\nround Hermanstadt.\n\nThey were perfectly quiet and submissive-looking, betraying no sign of\noutward excitement or insubordination; but their expression was not\nto be mistaken, and no attentive observer could have failed to read\nits meaning aright. It was at _their own generals_ they were gazing in\nthat hungry, longing manner; and deep down in every dusky eye, piercing\nthrough a thick layer of patience, stupidity, apathy, and military\ndiscipline, there smouldered a spark of something vague and intangible,\nthe germ of a sort of fire which has often kindled revolutions and\nsometimes overturned kingdoms.\n\nHeaven alone knows what was passing in the clouded brain of these poor\nignorant men as they stood thus gaping and staring, in the intensity of\ntheir rapt attention! Visions of glory and freedom perchance, dreams\nof peace and of prosperity; dim far-off pictures of unattainable\nhappiness, of a golden age to come, and an Arcadian state of things no\nmore to be found on the dull surface of this weary world!\n\nThe Austrian generals tried not to look annoyed, the Roumanian generals\nstrove not to look elated, and the English looker-on endeavored (I\ntrust somewhat more successfully) to conceal her amusement at the\nserio-comicality of the situation, which one and all we tacitly ignored\nwith that exquisite hypocrisy characterizing well-bred persons of every\nnation.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[31] The real name of this celebrated Wallachian rebel, born in 1740,\nwas Nykulaj Urszu. Under the reign of the Emperor Joseph II. he became\nthe chief instigator of a revolution among the sorely oppressed\nTransylvanian Wallachs, who, rising to the number of thirty thousand\nmen, proceeded to murder the Hungarian nobles, and plunder, sack, and\nburn their possessions. Hora\u2019s project was to raise himself to the\nposition of sovereign, and he had already adopted the title of King of\nDacia when he was captured, and, together with his confederate Kloska,\nvery cruelly put to death at Karlsburg in 1785.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV.\n\nTHE ROUMANIANS: DEATH AND BURIAL\u2014VAMPIRES AND WERE-WOLVES.\n\n\nNowhere does the inherent superstition of the Roumanian peasant find\nstronger expression than in his mourning and funeral rites, which are\nbased upon a totally original conception of death.\n\nAmong the various omens of approaching death are the groundless barking\nof a dog, the shriek of an owl, the falling down of a picture from the\nwall, and the crowing of a black hen. The influence of this latter may,\nhowever, be annulled, and the catastrophe averted, if the bird be put\nin a sack and carried sunwise thrice round the dwelling-house.\n\nIt is likewise prognostic of death to break off the smaller portion of\na fowl\u2019s merry-thought, to dream of troubled water or of teeth falling\nout,[32] or to be merry without apparent reason.\n\nA falling star always denotes that a soul is leaving the earth\u2014for,\naccording to Lithuanian mythology, to each star is attached the thread\nof some man\u2019s life, which, breaking at his death, causes the star to\nfall. In some places it is considered unsafe to point at a falling star.\n\nA dying man may be restored to life if he be laid on Holy Saturday\noutside the church-door, where the priest passing with the procession\nmay step over him; or else let him eat of a root which has been\ndug up from the church-yard on Good Friday; but if these and other\nremedies prove inefficient, then must the doomed man be given a burning\ncandle into his hand, for it is considered to be the greatest of all\nmisfortunes if a man die without a light\u2014a favor the Roumanian durst\nnot refuse to his deadliest enemy.\n\nThe corpse must be washed immediately after death, and the dirt, if\nnecessary, scraped off with knives, because the dead man will be\nmore likely to find favor above if he appear in a clean state before\nthe Creator. Then he is attired in his best clothes, in doing which\ngreat care must be taken not to tie anything in a knot, for that would\ndisturb his rest by keeping him bound down to the earth. Nor must he be\nsuffered to carry away any particle of iron about his person, such as\nbuttons, boot-nails, etc., for that would assuredly prevent him from\nreaching Paradise, the road to which is long, and, moreover, divided\noff by several tolls or ferries. To enable the soul to pass through\nthese a piece of money must be laid in the hand, under the pillow, or\nbeneath the tongue of the corpse. In the neighborhood of Forgaras,\nwhere the ferries or toll-bars are supposed to amount to twenty-five,\nthe hair of the defunct is divided into as many plaits, and a piece of\nmoney secured in each. Likewise a small provision of needles, thread,\npins, etc., is put into the coffin, to enable the pilgrim to repair any\ndamages his clothes may receive on the way.\n\nThe family must also be careful not to leave a knife lying with the\nsharpened edge uppermost as long as the corpse remains in the house, or\nelse the soul will be forced to ride on the blade.\n\nThe mourning songs, called _Bocete_, usually performed by paid\nmourners, are directly addressed to the corpse, and sung into his ear\non either side. This is the last attempt made by the survivors to\nwake the dead man to life by reminding him of all he is leaving, and\nurging him to make a final effort to arouse his dormant faculties\u2014the\nthought which underlies these proceedings being that the dead man hears\nand sees all that goes on around him, and that it only requires the\ndetermined effort of a strong will in order to restore elasticity to\nthe stiffened limbs, and cause the torpid blood to flow anew in the\nveins.\n\nHere is a fragment of one of these mourning songs, which are often very\npathetic and fanciful:\n\n \u201cMother dear, arise, arise,\n Dry the tearful household\u2019s eyes!\n Waken, waken from thy trance,\n Speak a word or cast a glance!\n Pity thou thy children\u2019s lot!\n Rise, O mother, leave us not!\n Death triumphant, woe is me,\n From thy children snatcheth thee!\n To the wall hast turned thee now,\n Son nor daughter heedest thou.\n Laid the church-yard sod beneath,\n Thou shalt feel no breeze\u2019s breath\n On the surface of thy grave;\n From thy brow shall grasses wave,\n From those eyes so mild and true\n Nodding harebells take their blue.\u201d\n\nWomen alone are allowed to take part in these lamentations, and all\nwomen related to the deceased by ties of blood or friendship are bound\nto assist as mourners; likewise, those whose families have been on\nunfriendly terms with the dead man now appear to ask his forgiveness.\n\nThe corpse must remain exposed a full day and night in the chamber of\ndeath, and during that time must never be left alone, nor should the\nlamentations be suffered to cease for a single moment. For this reason\nit is customary to have hired women to act the part of mourners, by\nrelieving each other at intervals in singing the mourning songs. Often\nthe deceased himself, in his last testamentary disposition, has ordered\nthe details of his funeral, and fixed the payment\u2014sometimes very\nconsiderable\u2014which the mourning women are to receive.\n\nThe men related to the deceased are also bound to spend the night in\nthe house, keeping watch over the corpse. This is called keeping the\n_privegghia_, which, however, has not necessarily a mournful character,\nas they mostly pass the time with various games, or else seated at\ntable with food and wine.\n\nBefore the funeral the priest is called in, who, reciting the words of\nthe fiftieth psalm, pours wine over the corpse. After this the coffin\nis closed, and must not be reopened unless the deceased be suspected\nto have died of a violent death, in which case the man accused of the\ncrime is confronted with the corpse of his supposed victim, whose\nwounds will, at his sight, begin to bleed afresh.\n\nIn many places two openings corresponding to the ears of the deceased\nare cut in the wood of the coffin, to enable him to hear the songs of\nmourning which are sung on either side of him as he is carried to the\ngrave. This singing into the ears has passed into a proverb, and when\nthe Roumanian says, \u201c_I-a-cantat la urechia_\u201d (they have sung into his\near), it is tantamount to saying that prayer, advice, and remonstrance\nhave all been used in vain.\n\nWhoever dies unmarried must not be carried by married bearers to\nthe grave: a married man or woman is carried by married men, and a\nyouth by other youths, while a maiden is carried by other maidens\nwith hanging, dishevelled hair. In every case the rank of the bearer\nshould correspond to that of the deceased, and a fruntas can as little\nbe carried by mylocasi as the bearers of a codas may be higher than\nhimself in rank.\n\nIn many villages no funeral takes place in the forenoon, as the people\nbelieve that the soul will reach its destination more easily by\nfollowing the march of the sinking sun.\n\nThe mass for the departed soul should, if possible, be said in the\nopen air; and when the coffin is lowered into the grave, the earthen\njar containing the water in which the corpse has been washed must be\nshattered to atoms on the spot.\n\nA thunder-storm during the funeral denotes that another death will\nshortly follow.\n\nIt is often customary to place bread and wine on the fresh grave-mound;\nand in the case of young people, small fir-trees or gay-colored flags\nare placed beside the cross, to which in the case of a shepherd a tuft\nof wool is always attached.\n\nSeven copper coins, and seven loaves of bread with a lighted candle\nsticking in each, are often distributed to seven poor people at the\ngrave. This also is intended to signify the tolls to be cleared on the\nway to heaven.\n\nIn some places it is usual for the procession returning from a funeral\nto take its way through a river or stream of running water, sometimes\ngoing a mile or two out of their way to avoid all bridges, thus making\nsure that the vagrant soul of the beloved deceased will not follow them\nback to the house.\n\nEarth taken from a fresh grave-mound and laid behind the neck at night\nwill bring pleasant dreams; it may also serve as a cure for fever if\nmade use of in the following manner: The person afflicted with fever\nrepairs to the grave of some beloved relative, where, calling upon the\ndefunct in the most tender terms, he begs of him or her the loan of a\nwinding-sheet for a strange and unwelcome guest. Taking, then, from the\ngrave a handful of earth, which he is careful to tie up tightly and\nplace inside his shirt, the sick man goes away, and for three days and\nnights he carries this talisman about with him wherever he goes. On the\nfourth day he returns to the grave by a different route, and replacing\nthe earth on the mound, thanks the dead man for the service rendered.\n\nA still more efficacious remedy for fever is to lay a string or\nthread the exact length of your own body into the coffin of some one\nnewly deceased, saying these words, \u201cMay I shiver only when this dead\nman shivers.\u201d Sore eyes may be cured by anointing them with the dew\ngathered off the grass of the grave of a just man on a fine evening in\nearly spring; and a bone taken from the deceased\u2019s right arm will cure\nboils and sores by its touch. Whoever would keep sparrows off his field\nmust between eleven o\u2019clock and midnight collect earth from off seven\ndifferent graves and scatter it over his field; while the same earth,\nif thrown over a dog addicted to hunting, will cure him of this defect.\n\nThe _pomeana_, or funeral feast, is invariably held after the funeral,\nfor much of the peace of the defunct depends upon the strict observance\nof this ancient custom. All the favorite dishes of the dead man are\nserved at this banquet, and each guest receives a cake, a jug of wine,\nand a wax candle in his memory. Similar pomeanas are repeated after a\nfortnight, six weeks, and on each anniversary of the death for the next\nseven years. On the first anniversary it is usual to bring bread and\nwine to the church-yard. The bread is distributed to the poor, and the\nwine poured down through the earth into the grave.\n\nDuring six weeks after the funeral the women of the family let their\nhair hang uncombed and unplaited in sign of mourning. It is, moreover,\nno uncommon thing for Roumanians to bind themselves down to a mourning\nof ten or twenty years, or even for life, in memory of some beloved\ndeceased one. Thus in one of the villages there still lived, two years\nago, an old man who for the last forty years had worn no head-covering,\nsummer or winter, in memory of his only son, who had died in early\nyouth.\n\nIn the case of a man who has died a violent death, or in general of\nall such as have expired without a light, none of these ceremonies\ntake place. Such a man has neither right to bocete, privegghia, mass,\nor pomeana, nor is his body laid in consecrated ground. He is buried\nwherever the body may be found, on the bleak hill-side or in the heart\nof the forest where he met his death, his last resting-place only\nmarked by a heap of dry branches, to which each passer-by is expected\nto add by throwing a handful of twigs\u2014usually a thorny branch\u2014on the\nspot. This handful of thorns\u2014_o m\u00e2n\u00e2 de spini_, as the Roumanian calls\nit\u2014being the only mark of attention to which the deceased can lay\nclaim, therefore to the mind of this people no thought is so dreadful\nas that of dying deprived of light.\n\nThe attentions due to such as have received orthodox burial often\nextend even beyond the first seven years after death; for whenever the\ndefunct appears in a dream to any of the family, this likewise calls\nfor another pomeana, and when this condition is not complied with,\nthe soul thus neglected is apt to wander complaining about the earth,\nunable to find rest.\n\nThis restlessness on the part of the defunct may either be caused by\nhis having concealed treasures during his lifetime, in which case he\nis doomed to haunt the place where he has hidden his riches until they\nare discovered; or else he may have died with some secret sin on his\nconscience\u2014such, for instance, as having removed the boundary stone\nfrom a neighbor\u2019s field in order to enlarge his own. He will then\nprobably be compelled to pilger about with a sack of the stolen earth\non his back until he has succeeded in selling the whole of it to the\npeople he meets in his nightly wanderings.\n\nThese restless spirits, called _strigoi_, are not malicious, but their\nappearance bodes no good, and may be regarded as omens of sickness or\nmisfortune.\n\nMore decidedly evil is the _nosferatu_, or vampire, in which every\nRoumanian peasant believes as firmly as he does in heaven or hell.\nThere are two sorts of vampires, living and dead. The living vampire is\ngenerally the illegitimate offspring of two illegitimate persons; but\neven a flawless pedigree will not insure any one against the intrusion\nof a vampire into their family vault, since every person killed by a\nnosferatu becomes likewise a vampire after death, and will continue\nto suck the blood of other innocent persons till the spirit has been\nexorcised by opening the grave of the suspected person, and either\ndriving a stake through the corpse, or else firing a pistol-shot into\nthe coffin. To walk smoking round the grave on each anniversary of\nthe death is also supposed to be effective in confining the vampire.\nIn very obstinate cases of vampirism it is recommended to cut off the\nhead, and replace it in the coffin with the mouth filled with garlic,\nor to extract the heart and burn it, strewing its ashes over the grave.\n\nThat such remedies are often resorted to even now is a well-attested\nfact, and there are probably few Roumanian villages where such have\nnot taken place within memory of the inhabitants. There is likewise\nno Roumanian village which does not count among its inhabitants some\nold woman (usually a midwife) versed in the precautions to be taken\nin order to counteract vampires, and who makes of this science a\nflourishing trade. She is frequently called in by the family who has\nlost a member, and requested to \u201csettle\u201d the corpse securely in its\ncoffin, so as to insure it against wandering. The means by which she\nendeavors to counteract any vampire-like instincts which may be lurking\nare various. Sometimes she drives a nail through the forehead of the\ndeceased, or else rubs the body with the fat of a pig which has been\nkilled on the Feast of St. Ignatius, five days before Christmas. It is\nalso very usual to lay the thorny branch of a wild-rose bush across the\nbody to prevent it leaving the coffin.\n\nFirst-cousin to the vampire, the long-exploded were-wolf of the\nGermans, is here to be found lingering under the name of _prikolitsch_.\nSometimes it is a dog instead of a wolf whose form a man has taken,\nor been compelled to take, as penance for his sins. In one village\na story is still told\u2014and believed\u2014of such a man, who, driving\nhome one Sunday with his wife, suddenly felt that the time for his\ntransformation had come. He therefore gave over the reins to her and\nstepped aside into the bushes, where, murmuring the mystic formula, he\nturned three somersaults over a ditch. Soon after, the woman, waiting\nvainly for her husband, was attacked by a furious dog, which rushed\nbarking out of the bushes and succeeded in biting her severely as well\nas tearing her dress. When, an hour or two later, the woman reached\nhome after giving up her husband as lost, she was surprised to see him\ncome smiling to meet her; but when between his teeth she caught sight\nof the shreds of her dress bitten out by the dog, the horror of this\ndiscovery caused her to faint away.\n\nAnother man used gravely to assert that for several years he had gone\nabout in the form of a wolf, leading on a troop of these animals, till\na hunter, in striking off his head, restored him to his natural shape.\n\nThis superstition once proved nearly fatal to a harmless botanist, who,\nwhile collecting plants on a hill-side many years ago, was observed by\nsome peasants, and, in consequence of his crouching attitude, mistaken\nfor a wolf. Before they had time to reach him, however, he had risen to\nhis feet and disclosed himself in the form of a man; but this in the\nminds of the Roumanians, who now regarded him as an aggravated case of\nwolf, was but additional motive for attacking him. They were quite sure\nthat he must be a prikolitsch, for only such could change his shape in\nthis unaccountable manner; and in another minute they were all in full\ncry after the wretched victim of science, who might have fared badly\nindeed had he not succeeded in gaining a carriage on the high-road\nbefore his pursuers came up.\n\nI once inquired of an old Saxon woman, whom I had visited with a view\nto extracting various pieces of superstitious information, whether she\nhad ever come across a prikolitsch herself.\n\n\u201cBless you!\u201d she said, \u201cwhen I was young there was no village without\ntwo or three of them at least, but now there seem to be fewer.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo there is no prikolitsch in this village?\u201d I asked, feeling\nparticularly anxious to make the acquaintance of a real live were-wolf.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she answered, doubtfully, \u201cnot that I know of for certain,\nthough of course there is no saying with those Roumanians. But close\nby here in the next street, round the corner, there lives the widow\nof a prikolitsch whom I knew. She is still a young woman, and lost\nher husband five or six years ago. In ordinary life he was a quiet\nenough fellow, rather weak and sickly-looking; but sometimes he used to\ndisappear for a week or ten days at a time, and though his wife tried\nto deceive people by telling them that her husband was lying drunk in\nthe loft, of course we knew better, for those were the times when he\nused to be away _wolving_ in the mountains.\u201d\n\nThinking that the relict of a were-wolf was the next best thing to\nthe were-wolf himself, I determined on paying my respects to the\ninteresting widow; but on reaching her house the door was closed, and\nI had the cruel disappointment of learning that Madame Prikolitsch was\nnot at home.\n\nWe do not require to go far for the explanation of the extraordinary\ntenacity of the were-wolf legend in a country like Transylvania, where\nreal wolves still abound. Every winter here brings fresh proof of the\nboldness and cunning of these terrible animals, whose attacks on flocks\nand farms are often conducted with a skill which would do honor to\na human intellect. Sometimes a whole village is kept in trepidation\nfor weeks together by some particularly audacious leader of a flock\nof wolves, to whom the peasants not unnaturally attribute a more\nthan animal nature; and it is safe to prophesy that as long as the\nflesh-and-blood wolf continues to haunt the Transylvanian forests, so\nlong will his spectre brother survive in the minds of the people.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[32] Both Greeks and Romans attached an ominous meaning to a dream of\nfalling-out teeth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI.\n\nROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION: DAYS AND HOURS.\n\n\nGrimm has said that \u201csuperstition in all its multifariousness\nconstitutes a species of religion applicable to all the common\nhousehold necessities of daily life;\u201d[33] and if we view it as such,\nparticular forms of superstition may very well serve as guide to\nthe character and habits of the particular nation in which they are\nprevalent. In Transylvania, however, the task of classifying all the\nsuperstitions that come under our notice is a peculiarly hard one,\nfor perhaps nowhere else does this curious crooked plant of delusion\nflourish so persistently and in such bewildering variety as in the land\nbeyond the forest; and it would almost seem as though the whole species\nof demons, pixies, witches, and hobgoblins, driven from the rest of\nEurope by the wand of science, had taken refuge within this mountain\nrampart, aware that here they would find secure lurking-places whence\nto defy their persecutors yet a while.\n\nThere are many reasons why such fabulous beings should retain an\nabnormally firm hold on the soil of these parts, and looking at\nthe matter closely, we find no less than three distinct sources of\nsuperstition:\n\nFirst, there is what may be called the indigenous superstition of the\ncountry, the scenery of which is particularly adapted to serve as\nbackground to all sorts of supernatural beings. There are innumerable\ncaverns whose depths seem made to harbor whole legions of evil\nspirits; forest glades, fit only for fairy folk on moonlight nights;\nsolitary lakes, which instinctively call up visions of water-sprites;\ngolden treasures lying hidden in mountain chasms\u2014all of which\nthings have gradually insinuated themselves into the minds of the\noldest inhabitants, the Roumanians, so that these people, by nature\nimaginative and poetically inclined, have built up for themselves, out\nof the surrounding materials, a whole code of fanciful superstition,\nto which they adhere as closely as to their religion itself.\n\nSecondly, there is here the imported superstition\u2014that is to say, the\nold German customs and beliefs brought hither by the Saxon colonists\nfrom their native land, and, like many other things, preserved here in\ngreater perfection than in the original country.\n\nThirdly, there is the influence of the wandering superstition of the\ngypsy tribes, themselves a race of fortune-tellers and witches, whose\nambulatory caravans cover the country as with a net-work, and whose\nless vagrant members fill up the suburbs of towns and villages.\n\nAll these kinds of superstition have twined and intermingled, acted\nand reacted upon each other, so that in many cases it becomes a\ndifficult matter to determine the exact parentage of some particular\nbelief or custom; but in a general way the three sources I have named\nmay be admitted as a rough sort of classification in dealing with the\nprincipal superstitions here afloat.\n\n * * * * *\n\nFew races offer such an interesting field for research in their\nfolk-lore as the Roumanians, in whose traditions we find side by side\nelements of Celtic, Slav, and Roman mythology\u2014a subject well worth a\ncloser attention than it has hitherto received. The existence of the\nCeltic element has been explained by the assumption (believed by many\nhistorians to be well founded), that as the present Roumanians are a\nmixed race originating in the fusion of Romans with Dacians, so were\nthese latter themselves a complex nationality composed of Slav and\nCeltic ingredients.\n\nThe spirit of evil\u2014or, not to put too fine a point on it, the\ndevil\u2014plays a conspicuous part in the Roumanian code of superstition,\nand such designations as _Gaura Draculuj_[34] (devil\u2019s hole), _Gregyna\nDraculuj_ (devil\u2019s garden), _Jadu Draculuj_ (devil\u2019s abyss), frequently\nfound attached to rocks, caverns, and heights, attest that these people\nbelieve themselves to be surrounded on all sides by whole legions\nof evil spirits. These devils are furthermore assisted by _ismejus_\n(another sort of dragon), witches, and goblins, and to each of these\ndangerous beings are ascribed particular powers on particular days and\nat certain places. Many and curious are therefore the means by which\nthe Roumanians endeavor to counteract these baleful influences; and\na whole complicated study, about as laborious as the mastering of an\nunknown language, is required in order to teach an unfortunate peasant\nto steer clear of the dangers by which he supposes himself to be beset\non all sides. The bringing up of a common domestic cow is apparently\nas difficult a task as the rearing of any \u201cdear gazelle,\u201d and even the\nwell-doing of a simple turnip or potato about as precarious as that of\nthe most tender exotic plant.\n\nOf the seven days of the week, Wednesday (Miercuri) and Friday (Vinere)\nare considered suspicious days, on which it is not allowed to use\nneedle or scissors, or to bake bread; neither is it wise to sow flax on\nthese days. No bargain should ever be concluded on a Friday; and Venus\n(here called Paraschiva), to whom the Friday is sacred, punishes all\ninfractions of this rule by causing conflagrations.\n\nTuesday, however\u2014or Marti, named from Mars, the bloody god of war\u2014is\na decidedly unlucky day, on which spinning is utterly prohibited; and\neven such seemingly harmless actions as washing the hands and combing\nthe hair are not unattended by danger. About sunset on Tuesday the evil\nspirit of that day is at its fullest force, and many people refrain\nfrom leaving their huts between sunset and midnight. \u201cMay the _mar\nsara_ (spirit of Tuesday evening) carry you off!\u201d is here equivalent to\nsaying, \u201cMay the devil take you!\u201d\n\nIt must not, however, be supposed that Monday, Thursday, and Saturday\nare unconditionally lucky days, on which the Roumanian is at liberty to\ndo as he pleases. Thus every well-informed Roumanian matron knows that\nshe may wash on Thursday and spin on Saturday, but that it would be a\nfatal mistake to reverse the order of these proceedings; and though\nThursday is a lucky day for marriage,[35] and is on that account mostly\nchosen for weddings, it is proportionately unfavorable to agriculture.\nIn many places it is considered unsafe to work in the fields on all\nThursdays between Easter and Pentecost, for it is believed that if\nthese days be not kept as days of rest, ravaging hail-storms will be\nthe inevitable consequence. Many of the more enlightened Roumanian\npopas have preached in vain against this belief; and some years ago\nthe inhabitants of a village presented an official complaint to the\nbishop, requesting the removal of their popa, on the ground that he not\nonly gave scandal by working on the prohibited days, but had actually\ncaused them serious material damage by the hail-storms his sinful\nbehavior had provoked. This respect of the Thursday would seem to be\nthe result of a deeply rooted, though now unconscious, worship of\nJupiter (Joi), who gives his name to the day.\n\nTo different hours of the day are likewise ascribed different\ninfluences, favorable or the reverse. Thus it is always considered\nunlucky to look at one\u2019s self in the mirror after sunset; neither is\nit wise to sweep dust over the threshold in the evening, or to restore\na whip borrowed of a neighbor. The exact hour of noon is precarious,\nbecause of the evil spirit _Pripolniza_;[36] and so is midnight,\nbecause of the _miase nopte_ (night spirit); and it is safer to remain\nin-doors at these hours. If, however, some misguided peasant does\nhappen to leave his home at midnight, and espies (as very likely he\nmay) a flaming dragon in the sky, he need not necessarily give himself\nup as lost, for if he have the presence of mind to stick a fork\ninto the ground alongside of him, the fiery monster will thereby be\nprevented from carrying him off.\n\nThe advent of the new moon is always more or less fraught with danger,\nand nothing may be sown or planted at that time.\n\nThe Oriental Church has an abnormal number of feast-days, to each of\nwhich peculiar customs and superstitions are attached, a few of which\nmay here find place.\n\nOn New-year\u2019s Day it is customary for the Roumanian to interrogate his\nfate by placing a leaf of evergreen on the freshly swept and heated\nhearth-stone. If the leaf takes a gyratory movement, he will be lucky;\nbut if it shrivels up where it lies, then he may expect misfortune\nduring the coming year.[37] To insure the welfare of the cattle, it is\nadvisable to place a gold or silver piece in the water-trough out of\nwhich they drink for the first time on New-year\u2019s morning.\n\nThe Feast of the Epiphany, or Three Kings (_tre crai_), is one of the\noldest festivals, and was solemnized by the Oriental Church as early\nas the second century. On this day, which popular belief regards as the\ncoldest in the winter, the blessing of the waters, known as the Feast\nof the _Jordan_ or _Bobetasu_ (baptism), takes place. The priests,\nattired in full vestments, proceed to the shore of the nearest river\nor lake, and there bless the waters, which have been unclosed by\ncutting a Greek cross, some six to eight feet long, in the ice. Every\npious Roumanian is careful to fill a bottle with this consecrated\nwater before the surface freezes over again, and keeps it tightly\ncorked and sealed up, as a remedy in case of illness. On this day the\nprincipal food in most Roumanian houses consists of a sort of jelly;\nand in the evening the popa, coming to each house in order to bless the\ncattle, which he does by sprinkling holy-water with a bunch of wild\nbasil-weed,[38] finds a table with food and drink awaiting him, from\nwhich a dish of boiled plums must never be wanting.\n\nHe who dies on that day is considered particularly lucky, for he will\nbe sure to go straight to heaven, the gate of which is believed to\nstand open all day, in memory of the descent of the Holy Ghost at the\nbaptism of Christ.\n\nThe Feast of St. Theodore, January 11th (corresponding to our 23d of\nJanuary), is a day of rest for the girls, those transgressing this rule\nbeing liable to be carried off by the saint, who sometimes appears\nin the shape of a beautiful youth, sometimes in that of a terrible\nmonster. No decent girl should leave her house unescorted on this\nday, for fear of the terrible Theodore.[39] In some districts youths\nand maidens choose this day for swearing friendship, which bonds are\ninaugurated by a tree being hung over with little circular cakes, and\ndanced round with songs and music, after which each cake is broken in\ntwo and divided between a youth and a maiden.[40]\n\nOn the Wednesday in Holy Week the Easter loaves and cakes are baked,\nwhich next day are blessed, and some of the hallowed crumbs mixed up\nwith the cows\u2019 fodder. Woe to the woman who indulges in a nap to-day;\nfor the whole year she will not be able to shake off her drowsiness. In\nthe evening the young men bind as many wreaths as there are persons in\ntheir family, and each of these, marked with the name of an individual,\nis thrown up on the roof, the wreaths which fall to the ground\nindicating those who will die that year.\n\nSkin diseases are cured by taking a bath on Good Friday in a stream\nor river which flows towards the east. This will not only cure the\npatient, but prevent the disease recurring within the year.[41]\n\nIn the night preceding Easter Sunday witches and demons are abroad, and\nhidden treasures are said to betray their site by a glowing flame. No\nGod-fearing peasant will, however, allow himself to be tempted by the\nhope of such riches, which he cannot on that day appropriate without\nsin. He must not omit to attend the midnight church-service, and his\ndevotion will be rewarded by the mystic qualities attached to the wax\ncandle he has carried in his hand, and which, when lighted hereafter\nduring a thunder-storm, will keep the lightning from striking his house.\n\nThe greatest luck which can befall a mortal is to be born on Easter\nSunday, and this luck is increased if the birth take place at mid-day\nwhen the bells are ringing; but it is not lucky to die on that day.\n\nEgg-shells are glued up against the doors in memory of the Israelites,\nwho anointed the door-posts with the lambs\u2019 blood at their flight\nfrom Egypt; and the wooden spoon with which the Easter eggs have\nbeen removed from the boiling pot is carefully treasured up by each\nshepherd, for, worn in his belt, it gives him the power to distinguish\nthe witches who seek to molest his flocks. Witches may also be descried\nby the man who on Easter Monday takes up his stand on a bridge above\nrunning water, remaining there from sunrise to sunset.\n\nPerhaps the most important day in the Roumanian\u2019s year is that of St.\nGeorge, April 24th (May 6th), the eve of which is said to be still\nfrequently kept up by occult meetings taking place at night in lonely\ncaverns or within ruined walls, and where all the ceremonies usual to\nthe celebration of a witches\u2019 Sabbath are put into practice. This night\nis the great one to beware of witches, to counteract whose influence\nsquare-cut blocks of turf (to which are sometimes added thorny\nbranches) are placed in front of each door and window.[42] This is\nsupposed effectually to bar their entrance to house or stables; but for\nstill greater precaution it is usual for the peasants to keep watch all\nnight near the sleeping cattle. This same night is likewise the best\none for seeking treasures.\n\nThe Feast of St. George, being the day when most flocks are first\ndriven out to pasture, is in a special manner the feast of all\nshepherds and cow-herds, and on this day only is it allowed for the\nRoumanian shepherd to count his flocks and assure himself of the exact\nnumber of sheep\u2014these numbers being, in general, but approximately\nguessed at and vaguely described. Thus, when interrogated as to the\nnumber of his master\u2019s sheep, the Roumanian shepherd will probably\ninform you that they are as numerous as the stars of heaven, or as the\ndaisies which dot the meadows.\n\nThe custom of throwing up wreaths on to the roof, as described above,\nis in some districts practised on the Feast of St. John the Baptist,\nJune 24th (July 6th), instead of on the Wednesday in Holy Week. This is\nthe day when the sun, having reached its zenith, begins its backward\ncourse (according to the people) with a trembling, dancing movement, in\nthe same way as the sun is said to dance on Easter Sunday. The gate-way\nof each house is decorated with a wreath of field-flowers; and at night\nfires lighted on the mountain heights are supposed to keep away evil\nspirits from the flocks. This custom of the St. John fires is, however,\nto be found in many other countries, and is undoubtedly a remnant of\nthe old sun-worship practised by Greeks, Romans, Scandinavians, Celts,\nSlavs, Indians, Parsees, etc.\n\nThe Feast of St. Elias, July 20th (August 1st), is a very unlucky day,\non which the lightning may be expected to strike.[43] Every year\u2014so we\nare told in an ancient legend\u2014St. Elias appears in heaven before the\nthrone of the Almighty, and humbly inquires when his feast-day is to\nbe. He is invariably put off with divers excuses, being sometimes told\nthat his feast-day has not yet come, sometimes that the date for it is\nalready past. At this the saint grows angry, and wishing to punish the\nhuman race for thus forgetting him, he hurls down his thunderbolts upon\nthe earth.\n\nThe Feast of St. Spiridion, December 13th (January 24th), is an ominous\nday, especially for housewives; and this saint often destroys those who\ndesecrate his feast by manual labor.\n\nThat the cattle are endowed with speech during the Christmas night is\na general belief, but it is not considered wise to pry upon them, or\ntry to overhear what they say, as the listener will rarely overhear\nany good. This night is likewise favorable to the discovery of hidden\ntreasures, and the man who has courage to conjure up the evil one will\nbe sure to see him if he call upon him at midnight. Three burning coals\nplaced on the threshold will prevent the devil from carrying him off.\n\nA round cake baked at Christmas goes by the name of the _rota_ (wheel),\nand is probably symbolic of the sun\u2019s rotation.\n\nThe girl whose thoughts are turned towards love and matrimony has many\napproved methods of testing her fate on the new-year\u2019s night. First of\nall, she may, by cracking her finger-joints, accurately ascertain the\nnumber of her admirers; also a fresh-laid egg broken into a glass of\nwater will give much clew to the events in store for her by the shape\nit assumes; and a swine\u2019s bristle stuck in a straw and thrown on the\nheated hearth-stone is reliable as a talisman which disperses love or\njealousy.[44] To form a conjecture as to the figure and build of her\nfuture husband, she is recommended to throw an armful of firewood as\nfar as she can backward over her shoulder; the piece which has gone\nfarthest will be the image of her intended, according as the stick\nhappens to be long or short, broad or slender, straight or crooked.\n\nAnother such game is to place on the table a row of earthen pots\nupside down. Under each of these is concealed something different\u2014as\ncorn, salt, wool, coals, or money\u2014and the girl is desired to make her\nchoice; thus money stands for a rich husband, and wool for an old one;\ncorn signifies an agriculturist, and salt connubial happiness; but\ncoals are prophetic of misfortune.\n\nIf these general indications do not suffice, and the maiden desire to\nsee the reflection of her bridegroom\u2019s face in the water, she has only\nto step naked at midnight into the nearest lake or river; or if she\nnot unnaturally shrink from this chilly oracle, let her take her stand\non the more congenial dunghill, with a piece of Christmas cake in her\nmouth, and, as the clock strikes twelve, listen attentively for the\nfirst sound of a dog\u2019s bark which reaches her ear. From whichever side\nit proceeds will also come the expected suitor.\n\nIt is likewise on the last day of the year that the agriculturist seeks\na prognostic of the weather for the coming year, by making what is\ncalled the onion calendar, which consists in putting salt into twelve\nhollowed-out onions and giving to each the name of a month. Those\nonions in which the salt has melted by the following morning will be\nrainy months.[45]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[33] \u201cDer Aberglaube in seiner bunten Mannigfaltigkeit bildet\ngewissermassen eine Religion f\u00fcr den ganzen neideren Hausbedarf.\u201d\n\n[34] _Dracu_, which in Roumanian does duty for the word devil, really\nmeans dragon; as for devil proper the word is wanting.\n\nOne writer, speaking of the Roumanians, observes that they swear by the\ndragon, which gives their oaths a painful sense of unreality.\n\n[35] This would seem to suggest a German or Scandinavian element\u2014the\nthunder-god Donar, or Thor, who with his hammer confirms unions.\n\n[36] This spirit corresponds to the Polednice of the Bohemians and the\nPoludnica of Poles and Russians. Grimm, in speaking of the Russians\nin his \u201cGerman Mythology,\u201d quotes from Boschorn\u2019s \u201cResp. Moscov.:\u201d\n\u201cD\u00e6monem quoque meridianum Moscovit\u00e6 et colunt.\u201d\n\n[37] Also practised by the Saxons.\n\n[38] This plant, _Ocimum basilicum_, is much used by the Roumanians,\nwho ascribe to it both medicinal and magic properties.\n\n[39] The Serbs have also a corresponding day, called the Theodor\nSaturday (_Todoroma Sumbota_), on which no work is done, on account of\nthe sintotere, a monster, half man half horse, who rides upon whoever\nfalls in his power.\n\n[40] Similar customs exist among the Hindoos, Slavs, and Serbs.\n\n[41] Also believed by most Slav races.\n\n[42] Also usual in Moldavia.\n\n[43] St. Elias is also known in Serbia as \u201cThunderer;\u201d Bohemians and\nRussians have a thunder-god named Perum; the Poles, Piorun; the old\nRussians had Perkun, and the Lithuanians Perkunos\u2014all of which may be\nassumed to be derived from the Indian sun-god, Surjar, or Mihirar, who,\nas personification of fire, is also named Perus.\n\n[44] Swine have been regarded as sacred animals by various people,\nwhich is probably the explanation of the German expression of\n_saugl\u00fcck_ (sow\u2019s luck), and of the _gl\u00fcckschweinchen_ (little\nluck-pigs) which have lately become fashionable as charms to hang to\nthe watch-chain.\n\n[45] Also practised by the Saxons.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII.\n\nROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION\u2014CONTINUED: ANIMALS, WEATHER, MIXED\nSUPERSTITIONS, SPIRITS, SHADOWS, ETC.\n\n\nOf the household animals the sheep is the most highly prized by the\nRoumanian, who makes of it his companion, and frequently his oracle, as\nby its bearing it is often supposed to give warning when danger is near.\n\nThe swallows here, as elsewhere, are luck-bringing birds, and go by\nthe name of _galinele lui Dieu_\u2014fowls of the Lord. There is always a\ntreasure to be found where the first swallow has been espied.\n\nThe crow, on the contrary, is a bird of evil omen, and is particularly\nominous when it flies straight over the head of any man.[46]\n\nThe magpie, when perched on a roof, gives notice of the approach of\nguests,[47] but a shrieking magpie meeting or accompanying a traveller\ndenotes death.\n\nThe cuckoo is an oracle to be consulted in manifold contingencies. This\nbird plays a great part in Roumanian poetry, and is frequently supposed\nto be the spirit of an unfortunate lover.\n\nIt is never permissible to kill a spider, but a toad taking up its\nresidence in a cow-byre should be stoned to death, as assuredly\nstanding in the service of a witch, and sent there to purloin the milk.\n\nThe same liberty must not, however, be taken with the equally\npernicious weasel, and when these animals are found to inhabit a barn\nor stable, the peasant endeavors to render them harmless by diverting\ntheir thoughts into a safer channel. To this end a tiny thrashing-flail\nis prepared for the male weasel, and a distaff for his female partner,\nand these are laid at some place the animals are known to frequent.\n\nThose houses which can boast of a house-snake are particularly\nlucky.[48] Food is regularly placed for it near the hole; and killing\nit would entail dire misfortune to the family.\n\nThe skull of a horse placed over the gate of the court-yard,[49] or the\nbones of fallen animals buried under the door-step, are preservatives\nagainst ghosts.\n\nThe place where a horse has rolled on the ground is unwholesome, and\nthe man who steps upon it will be visited by eruptions, boils, or other\nskin diseases.\n\nBlack fowls are always viewed with suspicion, as possibly standing in\nthe service of a witch; and the Brahmapootra fowl is, curiously enough,\nbelieved to be the offspring of the devil and a Jewish girl.\n\nThe best remedy for a murrain among the cattle is with an axe to behead\na living pig, hoisting up its head on the end of a long pole at the\nvillage entrance. This, however, is only efficacious when it is the\ncattle or sheep which are thus afflicted; and should an illness have\nbroken out among the swine themselves, the only remedy for it will be\nfor the herd, divested of his clothes, to lead his drove to pasture in\nthe early morning.[50]\n\nThe skull of a ram is often stuck up at the boundary of a parish, and\nif turned towards the east is supposed to be efficacious in keeping off\ncattle diseases.\n\nA cow that has wandered can be insured against wolves if the owner\nrecollect to stick a pair of scissors in the centre cross-beam of the\ndwelling-room.\n\nA whirlwind always denotes that the devil is dancing with a witch, and\nwhoever approaches too near to the dangerous circle may be carried off\nbodily to hell, and sometimes only barely escapes by losing his cap.\n\nAs a matter of course, such places as church-yards, gallows-trees, and\ncross-roads are to be avoided; but even the left bank of a river may,\nunder circumstances, become equally dangerous.\n\nThe finger which points at a rainbow will be seized by a gnawing\ndisease, and a rainbow appearing in December always bodes misfortune.\nPointing at an approaching thunder-storm is also considered unsafe, and\nwhoever stands over-long gazing at the summer lightning will go mad.\n\nIf a house struck by lightning begins to burn, it is not allowed to put\nout the flames, because God has lit the fire, and it were presumption\nfor man to dare meddle with his work.[51] In some places it is supposed\nthat a fire kindled by lightning can only be extinguished with milk.\n\nAn approved method for averting the lightning from striking a house is\nto form a top by sticking a knife through a loaf of bread, and spin it\non the floor of the loft while the storm lasts. The ringing of bells\nis also efficacious in dispersing a storm, provided, however, that the\nbell in question has been cast under a perfectly cloudless sky.\n\nAs I am on the subject of thunder-storms, I may as well here mention\nthe _scholomance_, or school, supposed to exist somewhere in the\nheart of the mountains, and where the secrets of nature, the language\nof animals, and all magic spells are taught by the devil in person.\nOnly ten scholars are admitted at a time, and when the course of\nlearning has expired, and nine of them are released to return to\ntheir homes, the tenth scholar is detained by the devil as payment,\nand, mounted upon an _ismeju_, or dragon, becomes henceforward the\ndevil\u2019s aide-de-camp, and assists him in \u201cmaking the weather\u201d\u2014that is,\npreparing the thunder-bolts.\n\nA small lake, immeasurably deep, and lying high up in the mountains\nto the south of Hermanstadt, is supposed to be the caldron where is\nbrewed the thunder, under whose water the dragon lies sleeping in fair\nweather. Roumanian peasants anxiously warn the traveller to beware of\nthrowing a stone into this lake, lest it should wake the dragon and\nprovoke a thunder-storm. It is, however, no mere superstition that\nin summer there occur almost daily thunder-storms at this spot, and\nnumerous stone cairns on the shores attest the fact that many people\nhave here found their death by lightning. On this account the place is\nshunned, and no true Roumanian will venture to rest here at the hour of\nnoon.\n\nWhoever turns three somersaults the first time he hears the thunder\nwill be free from pains in the back during a twelvemonth; and the man\nwho wishes to be insured against headache has only to rub his forehead\nwith a piece of iron or stone on that same occasion.\n\nA comet is sign of war; and an earthquake denotes that the fish on\nwhich the earth is supposed to rest has moved. Another version informs\nus that originally the world was balanced on the backs of four fishes,\none of which was drowned in the flood, so that the earth, now lacking\nsupport at one corner, has sunk down and is covered by the sea.\n\nThe Slav custom of decking out a girl at harvest-time with a wreath of\ncorn-ears, and leading her in procession to the house of the priest or\nthe landed proprietor, is likewise practised here, with the difference\nthat, instead of the songs customary in Poland, the girl is here\nfollowed by loud shouts of _Prihu! Prihu!_ or else _Priku!_[52] and\nthat whoever meets her on the way is bound to sprinkle her with water.\nIf this detail be neglected, the next year\u2019s crops will assuredly fail.\nIt is also customary to keep the wreaths till next sowing-time, when\nthe corn, if shaken out and mingled with the grain to be sown afresh,\nwill insure a rich harvest.\n\nEvery fresh-baked loaf of wheaten bread is sacred, and should a piece\ninadvertently fall to the ground, it is hastily picked up, carefully\nwiped and kissed, and if soiled thrown into the fire\u2014partly as an\noffering to the dead, and partly because it were a heavy sin to throw\naway or tread upon any particle of it.\n\nIt is unfortunate to meet an old woman or a Roumanian popa, but the\nmeeting of a Catholic or Protestant clergyman is indifferent, and\nbrings neither good nor evil.\n\nTo be met by a gypsy the first thing in the morning is particularly\nlucky.\n\nIt is bad-luck if your path be traversed by a hare, but a fox or wolf\ncrossing the way is a good omen.\n\nLikewise, it is lucky to meet a woman with a jugful of water, while an\nempty jug or pail is unlucky; therefore the Roumanian maiden meeting\nyou on the way back from the well will smilingly display her brimming\npitcher as she passes, with a pleased consciousness of bringing\ngood-luck; while the girl whose pitcher is empty will slink past\nshamefacedly, as though she had a crime to conceal.\n\nThe Roumanian is always very particular about the exact way he meets\nany one. If he happens to be placed to the right of the comer, he will\nbe careful not to cross over to the left, or _vice versa_. Should,\nhowever, his way lead him straight across the path of another higher\nin rank, he will stop and wait till the latter has passed. These\nprecautions are taken in order not to cut or disturb the thread of a\nperson\u2019s good-luck.\n\nEvery orthodox Roumanian woman is careful to do homage to the _wodna\nzena_, or _zona_, residing in each spring, by spilling a few drops\non the ground after she has filled her jug, and it is regarded as\nan insult to offer drink to a Roumanian without observing this\nceremony. She will never venture to draw water against the current,\nfor that would strike the spirit home and provoke her anger, nor is\nit allowable, without very special necessity, to draw water in the\nnight-time; and whoever is obliged to do so should nowise neglect to\nblow three times over the brimming jug to undo all evil spells, as well\nas to pour a few drops on to the glowing embers.\n\nThe vicinity of deep pools of water, more especially whirlpools, is\nto be avoided, for here resides the dreadful _balaur_, or the _wodna\nmuz_\u2014the cruel waterman who lies in wait for human victims.\n\nEach forest has likewise its own particular spirit, its _mama\npadura_,[53] or forest mother. This fairy is generally supposed to be\ngood-natured, especially towards children who have lost their way in\nthe wood.\n\nLess to be trusted is _Panusch_,[54] who haunts the forest glades and\nlies in wait for helpless maidens.\n\nIn deep forests and wild mountain-gorges there wanders about a wild\nhuntsman of superhuman size and mysterious personality, but rarely\nseen by living eyes. Oftenest he is met by huntsmen, to whom he has\nfrequently given good advice. He once appeared to a peasant who had\nalready shot ninety-nine bears, and warned him now to desist, for no\nman can shoot the hundredth bear. But the passion for sport was too\nstrong within the peasant; so, disregarding the advice, he shot at\nthe next bear he met, and missing his aim, was torn to pieces by the\ninfuriated animal. Another hunter to whom he appeared learned from him\nthe secret that if he loaded his gun on New-year\u2019s night with a live\nadder, the whole of that year he would never miss a shot.\n\nAnother and more malevolent forest-spectre is the wild man\u2014or, as\nthe Roumanian calls him, the _om ren_\u2014usually seen in winter, when\nhe is the terror of all hunters and shepherds. Whoever may be found\ndead in the forest is supposed to have fallen a prey to his vengeance,\nwhich pursues all such as venture to chase his deer and wild-boar,\nor approach too near the cavern where he resides. His rage sometimes\ntakes the form of uprooting pine-trees, with which to strike dead the\nintruder; or else he throws his victims down a precipice, or rolls down\nmassive rocks on the top of them.\n\n_Oameni micuti_ (small men), as the Roumanian calls them, are\ngray-bearded dwarfs, who, attired like miners, with axe and lantern,\nhaunt the Transylvanian gold and silver mines. They seldom do harm\nto a miner, but give warning to his wife when he has perished by\nthree knocks on her door. They are, however, very quarrelsome among\nthemselves, and may often be heard hitting at one another with their\nsharp axes, or blowing their horns as signal of battle.\n\nAlso the mountain monk plays a great part in mining districts, but is\nto be classed among the malevolent spirits. He delights in kicking over\nwater-pails, putting out lamps, and breaking tools, and will sometimes\neven strangle or suffocate workmen to whom he has taken aversion.\nOccasionally, but rarely, he has been known to help distressed miners\nin replenishing the oil in their lamps, or guiding those who have lost\ntheir way; but woe to the man who relates these circumstances, for he\nwill be sure to suffer for it.\n\nThe _gana_ is the name of a beautiful but malicious witch who presides\nover the evil spirits holding their meetings on the eve of the first\nof May. Gana is said to have been the mistress of Transylvania before\nthe Christian era. Her beauty bewitched many; but whoever succumbed to\nher charms, and let himself be lured into quaffing mead from her ure-ox\ndrinking-horn, was doomed. Once the handsome Maldovan, the Roumanian\nnational hero, when riding home from visiting his bride, waylaid by the\nsiren, and beguiled into drinking from the horn, reached his mountain\nfortress a sick and dying man, and was a corpse before next morning.\n\nRavaging diseases like the pest, cholera, etc., are attributed to a\nspirit called the _dschuma_, to whom is sometimes given the shape of\na toothless old hag, sometimes that of a fierce virgin, only to be\nappeased by the gift of clothing of some sort. Oftenest the spirit is\nsupposed to be naked and suffering from cold, and its complaining voice\nmay be heard at night crying out for clothing whenever the disease is\nat its highest. When this voice is heard, the inhabitants of a village\nhasten to comply with its summons by preparing the required clothing.\nSometimes it is seven old women who are to spin, weave, and sew a\nscarlet shirt all in one night, and without breaking silence; sometimes\nthe maidens are to make garments and hang them out at the entrance of\nthe afflicted village. Mr. Paget mentions having once seen a coarse\nlinen pair of trousers suspended by means of a rope straight across the\nroad where he was driving, and on inquiring being informed that this\nwas to pacify the cholera spirit.\n\nSome places, moreover, can boast of a perpetually naked spirit, who\nrequires a new suit of clothes every year. These are furnished by the\ninhabitants, who on each New-year\u2019s night lay them out in readiness\nnear some place supposed to be haunted by the spirit.\n\nIn a Wallachian village in the county of Bihar, during the prevalence\nof the cholera in 1866, the following precautions were taken to protect\nthe village from the epidemic: six maidens and six unmarried youths,\nhaving first laid aside their clothes, with a new ploughshare traced a\nfurrow round the village, thus forming a charmed circle, over which the\ncholera demon was supposed to be unable to pass.\n\nWhen the land is suffering from protracted and obstinate droughts, the\nRoumanian not unfrequently ascribes the evil to the Tziganes, who by\noccult means procure the dry weather in order to favor their own trade\nof brickmaking. In such cases, when the necessary rain has not been\nproduced by soundly beating the guilty Tziganes, the peasants sometimes\nresort to the _papaluga_, or rain-maiden. This is done by stripping a\nyoung Tzigane girl quite naked, and dressing her up with garlands of\nflowers and leaves, which entirely cover her, leaving only the head\nvisible. Thus adorned, the papaluga is conducted round the village to\nthe sound of music, each person hastening to pour water over her as\nshe passes. The part of the papaluga may also be enacted by Roumanian\nmaidens, when there is no particular reason to suspect the Tziganes of\nbeing concerned in the drought. The custom of the rain-maiden is also\nto be found in Serbia, and I believe in Croatia.\n\nKilling a frog is sometimes effectual in bringing on rain; but if this\nalso fails in the desired effect, then the evil must evidently be of\ndeeper nature, and is to be attributed to a vampire, who must be sought\nout and destroyed, as before described.\n\nThe body of a drowned man can be recovered only by sticking a lighted\ncandle into a hollowed-out loaf of bread, and setting it afloat\nat night on the lake or river: there, where the light comes to a\nstand-still, the corpse will be found. Till this has been done the\nwater will continue to rise and the rain to fall.\n\nAt the birth of a child each one present takes a stone and throws it\nbehind him, saying, \u201cThis into the jaws of the strigoi\u201d\u2014a custom which\nwould seem to suggest Saturn and the swaddled-up stones. As long as the\nchild is unbaptized it must be carefully watched over for fear of being\nchanged or harmed by a witch. A piece of iron or a broom laid beneath\nthe pillow will keep spirits away.\n\nEven the Roumanian\u2019s wedding-day is darkened by the shadow of\nsuperstition. He can never be sure of his affection for his bride\nbeing a natural, spontaneous feeling, since it may just as well have\nbeen caused by the influence of a witch; and he lives in anticipated\ndread lest the devil, in shape of a fiery comet, may appear any day\nto make love to his wife. Likewise at church, when the priest offers\nthe blessed bread to the new-made couple, he will tremblingly compare\nthe relative sizes of the two pieces, for whoever chances to get the\nsmaller one will inevitably be the first to die.\n\nAlthough it has been said of the Roumanian that his whole life is\ntaken up in devising talismans against the devil, yet he does not\nalways endeavor to keep the evil one at arm\u2019s-length\u2014sometimes, on\nthe contrary, directly invoking his aid, and entering into a regular\ncompact with him.\n\nSupposing, for instance, that a man wishes to insure a flock, garden,\nor field against thieves, wild beasts, or bad weather, the matter is\nvery simple. He has only to repair to a cross-road, at the junction\nof which he takes his stand in the centre of a circle traced on the\nground. Here, after depositing a copper coin as payment, he summons the\ndemon with the following words:\n\n\u201cSatan, I give thee over my flock [garden, or field] to keep till \u2014\u2014\n[such and such a term], that thou mayst defend and protect it for me,\nand be my servant till this time has expired.\u201d\n\nHe must, however, be careful to keep within the circle traced until\nthe devil, who may very likely have chosen to appear in the shape of a\ngoat, crow, toad, or serpent, has completely disappeared, otherwise the\nunfortunate man is irretrievably lost. He is equally sure to lose his\nsoul if he die before the time of the contract has elapsed.\n\nAs long as the contract lasts, the peasant may be sure of the\ndevil\u2019s services, who for the time being will put a particular\nspirit\u2014_spiridusui_\u2014at his disposal. This spirit will serve him\nfaithfully in every contingency; but in return he expects to be given\nthe first mouthful of every dish partaken of by his master.[55]\n\nApothecaries in the towns say that they are often applied to for an\nunknown magic potion called _spiridusch_ (that is, I suppose, a potion\ncompelling the services of the demon _spiridusui_), said to have the\nproperty of disclosing hidden treasures to its lucky possessor. While I\nwas at Hermanstadt, an apothecary there received the following letter,\npublished in a local paper, and which I here give as literally as\npossible:\n\n WORTHY SIR,\u2014I wish to ask you of something I have been told by\n others\u2014that is, that you have got for sale a thing they call\n _spiridusch_, but which, to speak more plainly, is the devil\n himself; and if this be true, I beg you to tell me if it be really\n true, and how much it costs, for my poverty is so great that I must\n ask the devil himself to help me. Those who told me were weak,\n silly fellows, and were afraid; but I have no fear, and have seen\n many things in my life\u2014therefore I pray you to write me this, and\n to take the greeting of an unknown and unhappy man.\n\n N. N.\n\nBesides the tale of the Arghisch monastery which I have quoted in a\nformer chapter, there are many other Roumanian legends which tell us\nhow every new church, or otherwise important building, became a human\ngrave, as it was thought indispensable to its stability to wall in\na living man or woman, whose spirit henceforth haunted the place.\nIn later times, people having become less cruel, or more probably\nbecause murder is now attended with greater inconvenience to those\nconcerned, this custom underwent some modifications, and it became\nusual, in place of a living man, to wall in his shadow. This is done by\nmeasuring the shadow of a person with a long piece of cord, or a tape\nmade of strips of reed fastened together, and interring this measure\ninstead of the person himself, who, unconscious victim of the spell\nthus cast upon him, will pine away and die within forty days. It is,\nhowever, an indispensable condition to the success of this proceeding\nthat the chosen victim be ignorant of the part he is playing, wherefore\ncareless passers-by near a building in process of erection may chance\nto hear the warning cry, \u201cBeware lest they take thy shadow!\u201d So deeply\ningrained is this superstition that not long ago there were still\nprofessional shadow-traders, who made it their business to provide\narchitects with the victims necessary for securing their walls. \u201cOf\ncourse the man whose shadow is thus interred must die,\u201d argues the\nRoumanian, \u201cbut being unaware of his doom, he feels neither pain nor\nanxiety, so it is less cruel than to wall in a living man.\u201d\n\nSimilar to the legend of the Arghisch monastery is that told of\nthe fortress of Deva, in Transylvania, which twelve architects had\nundertaken to build for the price of half a quarter of silver and half\na quarter of gold. They set to work, but what they built each morning\nfell in before sunset, and what they built overnight was in ruins by\nnext morning. Then they held counsel as to what was to be done in order\nto give strength to the building; and so it was resolved to seize the\nfirst of their wives who should come to visit her husband, and, burning\nher alive, mix up her ashes with the mortar to be used in building.\n\nSoon after this the wife of Kelemen, the architect, resolving to visit\nher husband, ordered the carriage to be got ready. On the way she is\novertaken by a heavy thunder-storm, and the coachman, an old family\nservant, warns her against proceeding, for he has had an ominous dream\nregarding her. She, however, persists in her resolve, and soon comes in\nsight of the building. Her husband, on seeing her, prays to God that\nthe carriage might break down or the horses fall lame, in order to\nhinder her arrival; but all is in vain, and the carriage soon reaches\nits destination. The sorrowing husband now reveals to his wife the\nterrible fate in store for her, to which she resigns herself, only\nbegging leave to say farewell to her little son and her friends. This\nfavor is granted, and returning the following day, she is burned.\n\nHer ashes mixed with the mortar give solidity to the walls; the\nbuilding is completed, and the architects obtain the high price for\nwhich they had contracted.\n\nMeanwhile the unhappy widower, returning home, is questioned by his\nlittle son as to where his mother stays so long. At first the father is\nevasive, but subsequently confesses the truth, on learning which the\nchild falls dead of a broken heart.\n\nAlso, at Hermanstadt we are shown a point in the old town wall where a\nlive student, dressed in _ampel_ and _toga_, the costume of those days,\nwas walled in, in order to \u201cmake fast\u201d the fortified wall.\n\nIf we compare these legends with the traditions of other countries we\nfind many instances of a like belief: so at Arta, in Albania, where,\naccording to Grimm, a thousand masons labored in vain at a bridge,\nwhose walls invariably crumbled away overnight. There was heard the\nvoice of an archangel saying, \u201cIf ye do not wall in a living person the\nbridge will never stand; neither an orphan nor yet a stranger shall it\nbe, but the own wife of the master builder.\u201d The master loves his wife,\nbut yet stronger is his ambition to see his name made famous by the\nbridge; so when his wife comes to the spot he pretends to have dropped\na ring in the foundations, and asks her to seek for it, in doing which\nshe is seized upon and walled up. In dying she speaks a curse upon the\nbridge, that it may ever tremble like the head of a flower on its stalk.\n\nIn Serbia there is a similar legend of the fortress Skoda; and at\nMagdeburg, in Germany, the same is told of Margaretha, bondwoman of\nthe Empress Editha, wife of the Emperor Otto, who voluntarily gave up\nher illegitimate child to be walled up in the gate-way of the newly\nfortified town. Fifty years later, devoured by remorse, Margaretha\nappears before the judges to confess her crime, and crave Christian\nburial for the bones of her child. The wall being now opened at the\nplace she indicates, there steps forth a small wizened figure with\nlong, tangled gray beard and shrunken limbs\u2014no other than the child\nwho, walled up here for half a century, had been miraculously kept\nalive by the birds of the air bringing him food through an opening in\nhis narrow prison.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSometimes, indeed, the Roumanian seeks covertly to compass the death\nof a fellow-creature without the excuse of public benefit, and merely\nfrom motives of personal revenge. In such cases it is recommended to\nsend gifts of unleavened bread to nine different churches to be used\nsimultaneously on the same Sunday at mass. This will insure the death\nof the victim.\n\nTo the hand of a man who has committed murder from revenge is ascribed\nthe virtue of healing pains in the side.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[46] Likewise in Bavaria.\n\n[47] Believed by most Slav races.\n\n[48] Likewise in Poland.\n\n[49] The original signification of this seems to have gone astray, but\nwas probably based on some former worship of the horse, long regarded\nas a sacred animal by Indians, Parsees, Arabs, and Germans.\n\n[50] See \u201cSaxon Superstition,\u201d chap. xxix.\n\n[51] Also believed by most Slav races.\n\n[52] Arch\u00e6ologists have derived this word from _Pri_, which in Sanscrit\nmeans fruitful, and _Hu_, the god of the Celtic deluge tradition, and\nlikewise regarded as the personification of fruitful nature.\n\n[53] So in India the Matris, known also among Egyptians, Chaldeans, and\nMexicans. A corresponding spirit is likewise found in Scandinavian and\nLithuanian mythology; in the latter, under the name of the _medziajna_.\n\n[54] Surely a corruption of \u201cgreat Pan,\u201d who, it would seem, is not\ndead after all, but merely banished to the land beyond the forest.\n\n[55] The ancients used likewise to cook for their household demons\n(_c\u00e6na d\u00e6monum_).\u2014Plaut. Pseudol. Also, the Hindoos prepared food for\nthe house-spirit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII.\n\nSAXON SUPERSTITION: REMEDIES, WITCHES, WEATHER-MAKERS.\n\n\nThe superstitions afloat among Saxon peasants are of less poetical\ncharacter than those _en vogue_ with the Roumanians; there is more\nof the quack and less of the romantic element here to be found, and\nthe invisible spiritual world plays less part in their beliefs, which\noftenest relate to household matters, such as the well-being of cattle\nand poultry, the cure of diseases, and the success of harvest and\nvintage.\n\nInnumerable are the recipes for curing the ague, or _fr\u012br_ as it is\ntermed in Saxon dialect. So, for instance:\n\n1. To cover up the patient during his shivering-fit with nine articles\nof clothing, each of a different color and material.\n\n2. To go into an inn or public-house, and after having drunk a glass\nof wine go out again without breaking silence or paying, but leaving\nbehind some article of clothing which is of greater value than the wine\ntaken.\n\n3. Drinking in turn out of nine different wells.\n\n4. To go into the garden when no one is looking, shake a young tree,\nand return to the house without glancing back. The fever will then have\npassed into the tree.\n\n5. Any article of clothing purposely dropped on the ground will\nconvey the fever to whoever finds it. This method is, however, to\nbe distrusted, we are told by village authorities, for the finder\nmay avert the spell by thrice spitting on the article in question.\nAccording to Saxon notions, you can apparently never go wrong in\nspitting on each and every occasion, this being a prime recipe for\naverting evil of all sorts. \u201cWhen in doubt, play trumps,\u201d we are told\nin the rules for whist; and in the same way the Saxon would seem to\nsay, \u201cWhen in doubt, spit.\u201d\n\n6. A spoonful of mortar taken from three different corner houses in\nthe village, and, dissolved in vinegar, given to the patient to drink\nbefore the paroxysm.\n\n7. If it be a child that is suffering from the fever, it may be rolled\nat sunrise over the grave-mounds in the church-yard, particular\nformulas being murmured the while.\n\n8. The first three corn-ears seen in spring will, if gathered and\neaten, keep off the ague during that whole year.\n\n9. Take a kreuzer (farthing), an egg, and a handful of salt, and with\nthese walk backward to the nearest cross-way, without looking back or\nbreaking silence, and laying them down at the place where the roads\njoin, speak the following words: \u201cWhen these three things return to me,\nthen may likewise the fever come back.\u201d\n\n10. Or else go to a stream or river, and throw something into it over\nthe shoulder without looking back.\n\nThe intermittent fever recurring on every third day is here called the\n_schweins-fieber_ (swine-fever), and for recovery it is recommended to\neat with the pigs out of their trough, and to lie down on the threshold\nof the pigsty, where the swine may walk over the prostrate body.\n\nTo shake off drowsiness, it is advised to swallow some drops of the\nwater which falls back from the horses\u2019 mouths when they drink at the\ntrough.\n\nA person afflicted with warts can take as many dried peas as there are\nwarts, and, standing before the fire, count backward, thus: \u201cFive,\nfour, three, two, one, none,\u201d and with the last word throw all the peas\non to the glowing embers, running away quickly, so as not to hear the\ncrackling sound of the bursting peas, which would counteract the spell.\n\nAnother method is to lay a piece of bacon on the top of a hedge or\npaling, saying these words:\n\n \u201cThis meat I give to the crow,\n That away the warts may go.\u201d\n\nRheumatism is cured by wearing a little bag filled with garlic and\nincense, or putting a knife under the pillow; and water taken from the\nspot where two ditches cross is good for sore eyes.\n\nAn approved love-charm is to take the two hind-legs of a green\ntree-frog, bury these in an ant-hill till all the flesh is removed,\nthen securely tie up the bones in a linen cloth. Whoever then touches\nthis cloth will be at once seized with love for its owner.\n\nStill more infallible is it to procure a piece of stocking or shoe-lace\nof the person you desire to captivate, boil it in water, and wear this\ntoken night and day against your heart. This recipe has passed into\na proverb, for it is here said of any man known to be desperately in\nlove, that \u201cshe must have secretly boiled his stockings.\u201d\n\nIt is usually considered lucky to dream of pigs, except in some\nvillages, where there is a prevalent belief that such a dream is\nprognostic of a death in the family.\n\nTo avert any illnesses which may occur to the pigs, it is still\ncustomary in some places for the swine-herd to dispense with his\nclothes the first time he drives out his pigs to pasture in spring. A\nnewly elected Saxon pastor, regarding this practice as immoral, tried\nto prohibit it in his parish, but was sternly asked by the village Hann\nwhether he were prepared to pay for all the pigs which would assuredly\ndie that year in consequence of the omission.\n\nThe same absence of costume is recommended to women assisting a cow to\ncalve for the first time.\n\nWhen the cows are first driven to pasture in spring they should be made\nto step over a ploughshare placed across the threshold of the byre.\nThree new-laid eggs, deposited each at the junction of a different\ncross-road, will likewise bring luck to the herd.\n\nIf a swallow flies under a cow feeding in the meadow it is believed\nthat the milk will turn bloody. In some villages the skin of a weasel\nis kept in every byre, with which to rub the udder when the milk is\nbloody.\n\nThe ancient belief that certain old village matrons have the power\nsurreptitiously to purloin their neighbors\u2019 milk is prevalent\nthroughout Transylvania, as I have had occasion over and over again to\nlearn. \u201cThey mostly do it out of revenge,\u201d I was informed by a village\noracle, to whom I owe much information on this and other subjects, \u201cand\nare apt to molest those houses whose children have mocked at or played\ntricks upon them; but just leave them alone, and they are not likely to\ndo you any harm.\u201d\n\nIn former days, however, people in Transylvania were by no means\ninclined to \u201cleave alone\u201d those suspected of such occult proficiency,\nand witch-burning was a thing of quite every-day occurrence. In the\nneighborhood of Reps alone, in the seventeenth century, the number\nof unfortunates who thus perished in the flames was upwards of\ntwenty-five; and in 1697, Michael Hirling, member of the Sch\u00e4ssburg\nCouncil, has, with significant brevity, noted down in his diary under\nsuch and such a date, \u201cWent to Keisd, burned a witch,\u201d just as a\nsportsman of to-day might note down in his game-book that he shot a\nhare or a pheasant.\n\nThe widow of the Saxon Comes and Royal Judge Valentin Seraphim had a\nsimilar fate in 1659 at Hermanstadt, and there is mention of another\nwitch destroyed in 1669 in the same town. The very last witch-burning\nin Transylvania took place at Maros-Vasharhely in 1752.\n\nThe following is an extract from the account of a witch\u2019s trial at\nM\u00fchlbach in the last century:\n\n\u201cA woman had engaged two laborers by the day to assist her in working\nin the vineyard. After the mid-day meal all three lay down to rest a\nlittle, as is customary. An hour later the workmen got up and wanted to\nwake the woman, who lay there immovable on her back, with open mouth;\nbut their efforts to rouse her were all in vain, for she neither seemed\nto feel them when they shook her, nor to hear them shouting in her\near. So the men let her lie, and went about their work. Coming back\nto the spot about sunset, they found the woman still lying as they\nhad left her, like a corpse. And as they gazed at her wonderingly, a\nbig fly came buzzing past, which one of the men caught and shut up\nin his leathern pouch. Then they renewed their attempts to awake the\nwoman, but with no better success than before. After about an hour they\nreleased the fly, which straightway flew into the mouth of the sleeping\nwoman, who immediately woke up and opened her eyes. On seeing this the\ntwo workmen had no further doubt that she was a witch.\u201d\n\nAlso, in the year 1734, an Austrian officer who had been in\nTransylvania related the following story as authentic: Once when the\nroll was called on Sunday morning a soldier was missing. The corporal\nbeing sent to fetch him, the soldier called down from the window of\nthe house where he was billeted, \u201cI cannot go to church, for I have\nonly one boot.\u201d Hereupon the corporal went up-stairs, and the soldier\nexplained how, seeking for something wherewith to grease his boots in\nthe absence of the Saxon housewife, he had found some ointment in an\nold broken pot concealed in a corner; but scarcely had he rubbed the\nfirst boot with it, when the boot flew out of his hand and straight up\nthe chimney. In the corporal\u2019s presence the soldier now proceeded to\ngrease the second boot, which disappeared in the same way as the first.\n\nThe corporal reported these circumstances to his officer, \u201cwho had no\ndifficulty in discerning the Saxon housewife to be a dangerous and\nmalignant witch, of whom there are but too many in the land.\u201d\n\nThe woman, called to account, consented to pay for new boots for the\nsoldier, but warned the officer against prosecuting her, \u201celse he\nshould repent it.\u201d\n\nAnother class of sorcerers, the _wettermacher_ (weather-makers), are\nthose who have power to conjure up thunder and hail storms at will or\nto disperse them.\n\nMy old village oracle told me many stories about a man she had known,\nwho used to go about the country with a small black bag in which were\na book, a little stick, and a bunch of herbs. Whenever a storm was\nbrewing he was to be seen standing on some rising piece of ground, and\nrepeating his formulas against the gathering clouds. \u201cPeople used to\nabuse him,\u201d she said, \u201cand to say that he was in league with the devil;\nbut I never saw him do any harm, and now that he is dead there are many\nwho regret him, for since then we have had heavier hail-storms than\never were known in his time.\u201d[56]\n\nWe are also told that many years ago, in the village of Wermesch, there\nlived a peasant who, whenever a thunder-storm was seen approaching,\nused to take his stand in front of it armed with an axe, by which\nmeans he always turned the storm aside. One day, when an unusually\nheavy storm was seen approaching, the weather-maker, as usual, placed\nhimself in front of it, and hurled the axe up into the clouds. The\nstorm passed by, but the axe did not fall down to the earth again. Many\nyears later, the same peasant, taking a journey farther into the land,\nentered the hut of a Wallachian, and there to his astonishment found\nthe axe he had thrown into the thunder-clouds several years previously.\nThis Wallachian was a still greater sorcerer in weather-making than the\nWermesch peasant, and had therefore succeeded in getting the axe down\nagain from the sky.\n\nThere are many old formulas and incantations bearing on this subject\nto be found in ancient chronicles, of which the following one bears a\ndate of the sixteenth century:\n\n\nFORMULA.\n\nAnd the Lord went forth down a long and ancient road, and there was\nmet by an exceeding large black cloud; and the Lord spoke thus to it,\n\u201cWhere goest thou, thou large black cloud? Where dost thou go?\u201d Then\nspoke the cloud, \u201cI am sent to do an injury to the poor man\u2014to wash\naway the roots of his corn and to throw down the corn-ears; also to\nwash away the roots of his vines, and to overthrow the grapes.\u201d But the\nLord spoke, \u201cTurn back, turn back, thou big black cloud, and do not\nwander forth to do an injury to the poor man, but go to the wild forest\nand wash away the roots of the big oak-tree and overthrow its leaves.\nSt. Peter, do thou draw thy sharp sword and cut in twain the big black\ncloud, that it may not go forth to do an injury to the poor men.\u201d\n\nUnderneath this incantation the writer has put the following\nmemorandum, \u201cProbatum an sit me latet probet quicunque vult.\u201d\n\nIn many houses it is still customary to burn juniper-berries during\na thunder-storm, or to stick a knife in the ground before the house.\nLike the Roumanian, the Saxon also considers it unsafe to point at an\napproaching thunder-storm; but this is a belief shared by many people,\nI understand.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[56] Instances of weather-makers are also common in Germany. We are\ntold that there used to live in Suabia long ago a pastor renowned for\nhis proficiency in exorcising the weather, and whenever a thunder-storm\ncame on he would stand at the open window invoking the clouds till they\nhad all dispersed. But the work was heavy and difficult to do, and the\npastor used frequently to be so exhausted after dispersing a storm that\nlarge drops of perspiration would trickle down his face.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX.\n\nSAXON SUPERSTITION\u2014CONTINUED: ANIMALS, PLANTS, DAYS.\n\n\nThe cat, dedicated to Frouma, Frezja, or Holda, in old German times,\nstill plays a considerable part in Saxon superstition. Thus, to render\nfruitful a tree which refuses to bear, it will suffice to bury a cat\namong its roots.[57] Epileptic people may be cured by cutting off the\nears of a cat and anointing them with the blood; and an eruption at the\nmouth is healed by passing the cat\u2019s tail between the lips.\n\nWhen the cat washes its face visitors may be expected, and as long as\nthe cat is healthy and in good looks the cattle will likewise prosper.\n\nA runaway cat, when recovered, must be swung three times round the\nhearth to attach it to the dwelling; and the same is done to a stolen\ncat by the thief who would retain it. In entering a new house, it is\nrecommended to throw in a cat (sometimes also a dog) before any member\nof the family step over the threshold, else one of them will die.\n\nThe dog is of less importance than the cat, except for its power of\ngiving warning of approaching death by unnatural howling.\n\nHere are some other Saxon superstitions of mixed character:\n\n1. Who can blow back the flame into a candle will become pastor.\n\n2. New servants must be suffered to eat freely the first day they enter\nservice, else their hunger will never be stilled.\n\n3. Who visits a neighbor\u2019s house must sit down, even were it but for\na moment, or he will deprive the inhabitants of their sleep. (Why,\nthen, do Saxon peasants never offer one a chair? or is a stranger too\ninsignificant to have the power of destroying sleep?)\n\n4. It is dangerous to stare down long into a well, for the well-dame\nwho dwells at the bottom of each is easily offended. But children are\noften curious, and, hoping to get a look at her face, they bend over\nthe edge, calling out mockingly, \u201cBrannefr\u00e0, Brannefr\u00e0, zieh mich \u00e4n de\nBr\u00e4nnen\u201d (Dame of the well, pull me down into the well); but quickly\nthey draw back their heads, afraid of their own audacity, lest their\nwish be in truth realized.\n\n5. It is not good to count the beehives, or the loaves when they are\nput in the oven.\n\n6. Neither is it good to whitewash the house when the moon is\ndecreasing, for that produces bugs.\n\n7. Who eats mouldy bread will live long.\n\n8. Licking the platter clean at table brings fine weather.\n\n9. On the occasion of each merrymaking, such as weddings, christenings,\netc., some piece of glass or crockery must be broken to avert\nmisfortune.[58]\n\n10. Salt thrown on the back of a departing guest will prevent him from\ncarrying away the luck of the house. Neither salt nor garlic should\never be given away, as with them the luck goes.\n\n11. A broom put upside down behind the door will keep off the witches.\n\n12. It is bad-luck to lay a loaf on the table upside down.\n\n13. When foxes and wolves meet in the market-place, their prices will\nrise (of course, as these animals could only be thus bold during the\nseverest cold, when prices of eggs, butter, etc., are at their highest).\n\n14. A piece of bread found lying in the field or road should never be\neaten by the finder; nor should he untie a knotted-up cloth or a rag he\nchances to discover, for the knot perhaps contains an illness.\n\n15. Whoever has been robbed of anything, and wishes to discover the\nthief, must select a black hen, and for nine consecutive Fridays must,\ntogether with his hen, abstain from all food. The thief will then\neither die or bring back the stolen goods. This is called taking up the\nblack fast against a person.\n\nOn this last subject an anecdote is told of a peasant of the village\nof Petersdorf, who returned one day from the town of Bistritz, bearing\ntwo hundred florins, which he had received as the price for a team of\noxen. Reaching home in a somewhat inebriated state, he wished to sleep\noff his tipsiness, and laid himself down behind the stove, but took the\nprecaution of first hiding the money in a hole in the kitchen wall.\nNext morning, on waking up, the peasant searched for his money, but\nwas unable to find it, having completely forgotten where he had put it\nin his intoxication; so, in the firm belief that some one had stolen\nthe two hundred florins, he went to consult an old Wallachian versed\nin magic, and begged him to take up the black fast against the man who\nhad abstracted the money. Before long people began to notice how the\npeasant himself grew daily weaker and seemed to pine away. At last,\nby some chance, he hit upon the place where the money was hidden, and\njoyfully hurried to the Wallachian to counter-order the black fast. But\nit was now too late, for the charm had already worked, and before long\nthe man was dead.\n\nThere is also a whole set of rhymes and formulas for exorcising\nthieves, and forcing them to return whatever they have taken; but these\nwould be too lengthy to record here.\n\nOf the plants which play a part in Saxon superstition, first and\nforemost is the fulsome garlic\u2014not only employed against witches, but\nlikewise regarded as a remedy in manifold illnesses and as an antidote\nagainst poison. Garlic put into the money-bag will prevent the witches\nfrom getting at it, and in the stables will keep the milk from being\nabstracted, while rubbed over the body it will defend a person against\nthe pest.\n\nTo the lime-tree are also attached magic qualities, and in some\nvillages it is usual to plant a lime-tree before the house to keep\nwitches from entering.\n\nMuch prized is the lilac-bush. Its blossoms, made into tea, are good\nfor the fever; and the bush itself is often reverently saluted with\nbent knee and uncovered head. Many of the formulas against sickness are\ndirected to be recited while walking thrice round a bush of lilac.\n\nThe first strawberry-blossom, if swallowed by whoever finds it, will\nkeep him free from sickness during that year.\n\nThe four-leaved shamrock here, as elsewhere, is considered to confer\nparticular luck on the finder, but only when he carries it home without\nhaving to cross over water of any sort. Laid in the prayer-book, a\nfour-leaved shamrock will enable its possessor to distinguish witches\nin church.\n\nThe common houseleek, here called _donnerkraut_ (thunder-herb), will\nprotect from lightning the roof on which it grows.\n\nAnimals beaten with a switch of privet or dog-wood will die or fall\nsick.\n\nLarkspur hung over the stable door will keep witches from entering.\n\nThe _Atropa belladonna_ (called here _buchert_) renders mad whoever\ntastes of it, and in his madness he will be compelled blindly to obey\nthe will of whoever has given him of this herb to eat; therefore it\nis here said of a man who behaves insanely that \u201che must have eaten\nbuchert.\u201d\n\nWhoever kills an adder under a white-hazel bush, plants a pea in the\nhead of this adder, and then buries it in the earth so that the pea can\nstrike root, has only to gather the first flower which grows from the\npea and wear it in his cap in order henceforward to have power over\nall witches in the neighborhood. But let him beware of the witches,\nwho, knowing this, are ever on the lookout to catch him without the\npea-flower and to do him an injury.\n\nA particular growth of vine-leaf, whose exact definition I have not\nsucceeded in rightly ascertaining, is eagerly sought for by Saxon girls\nin some villages. Whoever finds it sticks it in her hair, and thus\ndecorated she has the right to kiss the first man she meets on her\nhomeward way. This will insure her speedy marriage. A story is related\nof a girl who, meeting a nobleman driving in a handsome four-in-hand\ncarriage, stopped the horses, and begged leave to kiss him, to the\ngentleman\u2019s no small astonishment. He resigned himself, however, with\na good grace when he had grasped the situation, and gave the kiss as\nwell as a golden piece to the fair suppliant. The proper romantic\n_d\u00e9nouement_ of this episode would have been for the gentleman to lead\nhome as bride the maiden thus cast in his path by fate, but we are not\ntold that he pushed his complacence quite so far.\n\nA whole volume might be written on the subject of agrarian\nsuperstition, of which let a few examples here suffice.\n\nIn many villages it is customary for the ploughman, going to work for\nthe first time that year in the field, to drive his plough over a\nbroomstick laid on the threshold of the court-yard.\n\nThe first person who sows each year will have meagre crops. During the\nwhole sowing-time no one should give a kindling out of the house. It is\nnever allowable to sow in Holy Week.\n\nTo insure the wheat against being eaten by birds, the sowing should be\ndone in silence before sunrise, and without looking over the shoulder.\nAlso earth taken from the church-yard will keep birds off the field.\n\nWhoever lies down to sleep in a new-ploughed furrow will fall ill; nor\nmust the women be allowed to sew or spin in the cornfield, for that\nwould occasion thunder-storms; while washing the hands in the field\nwill cause the house to burn.\n\nIn obstinate droughts it is customary in some places for several girls,\nled by an old woman, and all of them absolutely naked, to repair at\nmidnight to the court-yard of some neighboring peasant, whose harrow\nthey must steal, and with it proceed across the field to the nearest\nstream, where the harrow is put afloat with a burning light on each\ncorner.\n\nThe harvest will be bad if the cuckoo comes into the village and cries\nthere.\n\nIn bringing in the corn a few heads of garlic bound up in the first\nsheaf will keep off witches.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe most important days in Saxon superstition are Sunday, Tuesday, and\nFriday.\n\nWhoever wears a shirt sewed by his mother on a Sunday will die.\nAccording to another version, however, a shirt which has been spun,\nwoven, and sewed entirely on Sundays is a powerful talisman, which will\nrender all enemies powerless against the wearer, and bring him safely\nthrough every battle.\n\nWood cut on a Sunday serves to heat the fire of hell. Sunday children\nare lucky, and can discover hidden treasures.\n\nIn some districts no cow or swine herd would lead his animals to\npasture on any other day but a Tuesday.[59]\n\nThursday is in many places the luckiest day for marriages, also for\nmarkets.\n\nOn Friday the weather is apt to change. It is a good day for sowing\nand for making vinegar, but a bad one for baking, or for starting on a\njourney. In some places it is considered unsafe to comb the hair on a\nFriday\u2014therefore the village school on that day presents a somewhat\nrough and unkempt appearance.\n\nRain upon Good Friday is a favorable omen.\n\nOn Easter Monday the lads run about the towns and villages sprinkling\nwith water all the girls and women they meet. This is supposed to\ninsure the flax growing well. On the following day the girls return the\nattention by watering the boys.[60]\n\nOn Easter Monday the cruel sport of cock-shooting is still kept up in\nmany Saxon villages. The cock is tied to a post and shot at till it\ndies a horrible lingering death. Sometimes the sport is diversified by\nblindfolding the actors, who strike at their victim with wooden clubs.\n\nBetween Easter and Pentecost none should either marry or change their\ndomicile.\n\nOn Pentecost Monday it is sometimes customary to elect three of the\ngirls as queens, who, dressed up in their finest clothes, preside at\nchurch and at the afternoon dance.\n\nIn one village it is usual on Pentecost Sunday at mid-day, when the\nbells are ringing, to encircle each fruit-tree with a rope made of\ntwisted straw.\n\nThe fires on St. John\u2019s Day, and the belief that hidden treasures are\nto be found, are also prevalent among the Saxons.\n\nNo one should bathe or wade into a river on the 29th of June, Feast of\nSS. Peter and Paul, for fear of drowning, it being supposed that this\nday requires the sacrifice of a human victim.\n\nBefore the 24th of August no corn should be garnered, because only\nafter that date do the thunder-storms cease, or as the people say, \u201cthe\nthunder-clouds go home.\u201d\n\nThe night of St. Thomas (December 21st), popularly considered to\nbe the longest night in the year, is the date consecrated by Saxon\nsuperstition to the celebration of the games which elsewhere are usual\non All-Halloween. Every girl puts her fate to the test on that evening,\nand there are various ways of so doing, with onions, flowers, shoes,\netc.\n\nOne way of interrogating Fate is with a sharp knife to cut an apple in\ntwo. If in doing so no seed has been split, then the wish of your heart\nwill be fulfilled.\n\nSimilar games are also practised on Sylvester night (December 31st),\nwhich night is also otherwise prophetic of what is to happen during\nthe coming year. If it be clear, then the fowls will lay many eggs\nthat year, and bright moonlight means full granaries. A red dawn on\nNew-year\u2019s Day means war, and wind is significant of the pest or\ncholera.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[57] An old German saying, \u201cHier liegt der Hund begraben\u201d\u2014and which\nis equivalent to saying, That now we penetrate the true meaning of\nsomething not previously understood\u2014has been explained in the same way\nin B\u00fcchner\u2019s \u201cGefl\u00fcgelte Worte:\u201d There the dog lies buried; that is why\nthe tree bears fruit.\n\n[58] The Greeks also observed this at their banquets in order to\nappease the gods.\n\n[59] In the Harz and Westphalia Tuesday is considered the luckiest day\nfor entering on a new service.\n\n[60] This custom, which appears to be a very old one, is also prevalent\namong various Slav peoples, Poles, Serbs, etc. In Poland it used to be\n_de rigueur_ that the water be poured over a girl who was still asleep;\nso in each house a victim, usually a servant-maid, was selected, who\nhad to feign sleep, and patiently receive the cold shower-bath which\nwas to insure the luck of the family during that year. The custom\nhas now become modified to suit a more delicate age, and instead of\nformidable horse-buckets of water, dainty little perfume-squirts have\ncome to be used in many places.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX.\n\nSAXON CUSTOMS AND DRAMAS.\n\n\nSome of the Saxon customs are peculiarly interesting, as being\nobviously remnants of paganism, and offer curious proof of the force of\nverbal tradition, which in this case has not only borne transmigration\nfrom a distant country, but likewise weathered the storm of two\nsuccessive changes of religion.\n\nIt speaks strongly for the tenacity of pagan habits and trains of\nthought, that although at the time these Saxon colonists appeared in\nTransylvania they had already belonged to the Christian Church for\nover three hundred years, yet many points of the landscape in their\nnew country received from them pagan appellations. Thus we find the\n_G\u00f6tzenberg_, or mountain of the gods,[61] which rises above the\nvillage of Heltau; and the _Wodesch_ and _Wolenk_ applied to woods and\nplains, both evidently derived from Woden.\n\nAnother remnant of paganism is the _feurix_ or _feuriswolf_, which\nyet lingers in the minds of these people. According to ancient German\nmythology, the feuriswolf is a monster which on the last day is to\nopen his mouth so wide that the upper jaw will touch the sky and the\nlower one the earth; and not long ago a Saxon woman bitterly complained\nin a court of justice that her husband had cursed her over-strongly\nin saying, \u201cDer W\u00e4rlthangd saul dich frieszen!\u201d\u2014literally, \u201cMay the\nworld-dog swallow thee!\u201d\n\nMany old pagan ceremonies are likewise still clearly to be\ndistinguished through the flimsy shrouding of a later period\u2014their\norigin piercing unmistakably through the surface-varnish of\nChristianity, thought necessary to adapt them to newer circumstances,\nand, like a clumsily remodelled garment, the original cut asserting\nitself despite the fashionable trimmings now adorning it. Thus, for\ninstance, in many popular rhymes and dialogues it has been clearly\nproved that those parts now assigned to the Saviour and St. Peter\noriginally belonged to the old gods Thor and Loki, while the faithless\napostle Judas has had thrust upon him the personification of a whole\nhorde of German demons. As to St. Elias, who in some parts of Hungary,\nas well as in Roumania, Serbia, and Croatia, is supposed to have the\nworking of the thunder-bolts, there can be little doubt that he is\nverily no other than the old thunder-god Thor under a Christian mask.\n\nOne of the most striking of the aforementioned Christianized dramas is\nthe _Tod-Austragen_, or throwing out the Death\u2014a custom still extant\nin several Transylvanian villages, and which may likewise still be\nfound existing in some remote parts of Germany.\n\nThe Feast of the Ascension is the day on which this ceremony takes\nplace in a village near Hermanstadt, and it is conducted in the\nfollowing manner:\n\nAfter forenoon church on that day all the school-girls repair to the\nhouse of one of their companions, and there proceed to dress up the\n\u201cDeath.\u201d This is done by tying up a thrashed-out corn-sheaf into the\nrough semblance of a head and body, while the arms are simulated by a\nbroomstick stuck horizontally. This being done, the figure is dressed\nin the Sunday clothes of a young village matron, and the head adorned\nwith the customary cap and veil, fastened by silver pins. Two large\nblack beads or black-headed pins represent the eyes; and thus equipped\nthe figure is displayed at the open window, in order that all people\nmay see it on their way to afternoon church. The conclusion of the\nvespers is the signal for the girls to seize on the figure and open\nthe procession round the village. Two of the eldest school-girls hold\nthe \u201cDeath\u201d between them; the others follow in regular order, two and\ntwo, singing a Church hymn. The boys are excluded from the procession,\nand must content themselves with admiring the _Sch\u00f6ner Tod_ (beautiful\nDeath) from a distance. When the whole village has been traversed in\nthis manner from end to end, the girls repair to another house, whose\ndoor is locked against the besieging troop of boys. The figure of Death\nis here stripped of its gaudy attire, and the naked straw bundle thrown\nout of the window, whereupon it is seized by the boys and carried off\nin triumph, to be thrown into the nearest stream or river.\n\nThis is the first part of the drama; while the second consists in one\nof the girls being solemnly invested with the clothes and ornaments\npreviously worn by the figure, and, like it, being led in procession\nround the village to the singing of the same hymns as before. The\nceremony terminates by a feast at the house of the parents whose\ndaughter has acted the principal part, and from which, as before, the\nboys are excluded.\n\nAccording to popular belief, it is allowed to eat fruit only after\nthis day, as now the \u201cDeath\u201d\u2014that is, the unwholesomeness\u2014has been\nexpelled from them. Also, the river in which the Death has been drowned\nmay now be considered fit for public bathing.\n\nIf this ceremony be ever neglected in the village where it is\ncustomary, such neglect is supposed to entail death to one of the young\npeople, or loss of virtue to a girl.\n\nThis same custom may, as I have said, be found still lingering in\nvarious other parts, everywhere with slight variations. Thus there\nare places where the figure is burned instead of drowned; and Passion\nSunday (often called the Dead Sunday), or else the 25th of March, is\nthe day sometimes fixed for its accomplishment.\n\n[Illustration: SAXON GIRL IN FULL DRESS.]\n\nIn some places it was usual for the figure to be attired in the shirt\nof the last person who had died, and with the veil of the most recent\nbride on its head. Also, the figure is occasionally pelted with\nstones by the youths of both sexes\u2014those who succeed in hitting it\nbeing secured against death for the coming year.\n\nAt Nuremberg little girls dressed in white used to go in procession\nthrough the town, carrying a small open coffin in which a doll was laid\nout in state, or sometimes only a stick dressed up, and with an apple\nto represent the head.\n\nIn most of these places the rhymes sung apply to the departure of\nwinter and the advent of summer, such as the following:\n\n \u201cAnd now we have chased the Death away,\n And brought in the summer so warm and gay\u2014\n The summer and the month of May.\n We bring sweet flowers full many a one,\n We bring the rays of the golden sun,\n For the dreary Death at last is gone.\u201d\n\nOr else:\n\n \u201cCome all of you and do not tarry,\n The evil Death away to carry;\n Come, spring, once more, with us to dwell\u2014\n Welcome, O spring, in wood and dell!\u201d\n\nAnd there is no doubt that similar rhymes used also to be sung in\nTransylvania, until they were replaced by Lutheran hymns after the\nReformation.\n\nSome German arch\u00e6ologists have attempted to prove the Death in these\ngames to be of more recent introduction, and to have replaced the\nwinter of former times, so as to give the ceremony a more Christian\ncoloring by the allusion to the triumph of Christ over death on\nhis resurrection and ascension into heaven. Without presuming to\ncontradict the many well-known authorities who have taken this view\nof the question, I cannot help thinking that it hardly requires such\nexplanation to account for the presence of Death in these dramas.\nNowadays, when civilization and luxury have done so much towards\nequalizing all seasons, so that we can never be deprived of flowers\nin winter nor want for ice in summer, it is difficult to realize the\nenormous gulf which in olden times separated winter from summer. In\nwinter not only were all means of communication cut off for a large\nproportion of people, but their very existence was, so to say, frozen\nup; and when the granaries were scantily filled, or the inclement\nseason prolonged by some weeks, death was literally standing at the\ndoor of millions of poor wretches. No wonder, then, that winter and\ndeath became identical in their minds, and that they hailed the advent\nof spring with delirious joy, dancing round the first violet, and\nfollowing about the first cockchafer in solemn procession. It was the\nfeast of Nature which they celebrated then as now\u2014Nature mighty and\neternal, always essentially the same, whether decked out in pagan or in\nChristian garb.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnother drama of somewhat more precise form is the _K\u00f6nigslied_, or\n_Todtentanz_ (King\u2019s Song, or Dance of Death), a rhymed dialogue still\noften represented in Saxon villages all over Transylvania.\n\nDramatic representations of the Dance of Death were first introduced\ninto Germany before the fifteenth century by the Dominican order,\nbut do not seem there to have taken any very firm root, since we\nhear no more mention of such performance existing after the middle\nof the fifteenth century. It is therefore probable that this drama\nwas transmitted, as long as five hundred years ago at least, to the\nTransylvanian Saxons, who thus have retained it intact long after it\nhad elsewhere fallen into disuse.\n\nThe personages consist of an Angel, robed in white, and with a\ngolden wand; the King, attired in purple or scarlet cloak, crown,\nand sceptre, and followed by a train of courtiers; then Death, who\nis sometimes clothed in black, sometimes in a white sheet, and who\neither bears a scythe or a bow and arrows in his hand. On either side\nof him, by way of adjutants, stand two mute personages, a doctor and\nan apothecary\u2014the first with powdered head, hanging plait, tricorn\nhat, and snuffbox in his hand; the latter bearing a basket containing\nmedicine phials. The whole is sung, and the Angel opens the performance\nwith these lines:\n\n _Angel._ Good people all, come list to me\u2014\n New tidings to you will I sing;\n \u2019Tis of a mighty King\n Who on the open market-place\n With Death met face to face.\n\n _Death._ All hail, thou rich and mighty King!\n Great news to thee this day I bring;\n Thy death-hour it has struck,\n \u2019Tis time for thee to join my band\u2014\n I wander thus from land to land.\n\n _King._ Thou haughty man, who mayest be,\n That I should have to follow thee?\n What is thy land, thy name?\n Art thou a lord? thy rank proclaim,\n Else shaltst be put to shame.\n\n _Death._ \u2019Twere well for thee my name to know;\n Thy pride soon will I overthrow.\n The people here they call me Death;\n Of young or old I take no heed,\n Alike they wither at my breath.\n\n _King._ Of Death I oft have heard, indeed,\n But cannot of thee now take heed.\n Quick from my land begone!\n Or shaltst be fettered foot and hand,\n And in a dungeon thrown.\n\n _Angel._ Then Death he shot a deadly dart,\n And pierced the King unto the heart.\n\n _Death._ O foolish mortal, proud and blind!\n See now, where is thy vaunted power\n In iron fetters Death to bind?\n\n _Angel._ The King he turneth deadly pale,\n And feels his strength about to fail.\n\n _King._ Lord, mercif\u2019ly my life prolong,\n Thus wofully not let me die;\n Hast plenty poor to choose among.\n\n _Death._ More than I list of poor I have;\n But rich men also do I crave\n My ranks to ornament,\n As bishops, princes, mighty kings\u2014\n These fill me with content.\n\n _King._ Great is thy power\u2014\n\n _Angel._ The King did say,\n Out-stretched as on his bed he lay\u2014\n\n _King._ O Death, unto thy power I bow;\n But still one hope I cherish yet,\n A favor last grant to me now.\n\n _Death._ Then speak\u2014\n\n _Angel._ Said Death unto the King\u2014\n\n _Death._ Let\u2019s hear what is this mighty thing.\n\n _King._ But twelve years longer let me live;\n Twelve thousand pounds of heaviest gold\n In payment to thee will I give.\n\n _Death._ For all thy gold I little care;\n Do thou at once for death prepare.\n \u2019Tis vain to pray, \u2019tis vain to grieve;\n Come in my ranks, for thou art mine\u2014\n Thy gold behind to others leave.\n\n _King._ But give to me\u2014\n\n _Angel._ The King did say\u2014\n\n _King._ But half a year and yet a day;\n I fain would build a castle new\n Of massive stone, with lofty tower,\n From which my kingdom I may view.\n\n _Death._ Leave those to build who list to build;\n For thee thy span of life is filled.\n Come in my ranks and tarry not,\n We must to-day a measure tread;\n \u2019Twill cause thee small delight, I wot.\n\n _King._ Yet will I yet for something pray;\n This only wish do not gainsay:\n If only thou wiltst let me live,\n A beggar humble will I be;\n My royal crown to thee I give.\n\n _Death._ O King, why useless words thus waste?\n Prepare to go, and make thee haste,\n Nor seek me idly to detain;\n Still many thousand men must I\n To-day invite to join my train.\n\n _King._ Oh, hurry not\u2014\n\n _Angel._ The King did say\u2014\n\n _King._ But grant me yet another day.\n To make my will still let me bide;\n My silver, gold, and jewels rare,\n I fain would righteously divide.\n\n _Angel._ But Death then spoke.\n\n _Death._ It cannot be;\n Conform must thou to my decree.\n Prepare to start without reprieve;\n Thy silver, gold, and jewels rare,\n Must be content behind to leave.\n\n _King._ Then is it all in vain I pray?\n\n _Death._ Lament and prayer all useless be.\n\n _King._ Shall I not see another day?\n\n _Death._ Not one. To judgment come with me.\n\n _King._ Oh, grant me but one little hour!\n\n _Death._ To grant aught is not in my power.\n\n _King._ Have patience but three words to hear.\n\n _Death._ Patience \u2019s an herb[62] which grows not here.\n\n _Angel._ The King upon his couch down sinks:\n His haughty form all helpless shrinks;\n To ashy white has turned his lip.\n Both rich and poor the strangler thus\n With iron hand alike doth grip.\n Thus stealthy Death will oft appear,\n When no one deems that he is near,\n With deadly aim to shoot his dart.\n So live in God, his laws observe,\n That mayst in peace depart.\n\n [_The KING sinks down lifeless, and DEATH disappears. The soldiers\n raise up the dead body and lay it on a bier, singing_\u2014\n\n _Soldiers._ Why value crown or power,\n Since neither can we own\n But for a passing hour?\n No sceptre and no throne\n Grim Death away can scare,\n Nor gold nor jewels rare.\n\n _Angel_ [_reappearing_]. By Providence as herald sent,\n Touched by the sound of dire lament;\n The monarch to his land restore\n Will I, in pity for your grief.\n King, for thy kingdom live once more.\n\n [_The ANGEL touches the KING\u2019S breast, who, waking apparently from\n a deep slumber, sits up and sings_\u2014\n\n _King._ How is\u2019t I feel? and can it be\n That once again the earth I see?\n What miracle of grace!\n Who art thou, Lord? I knew thee not;\n Deign to reveal thy face.\n\n _Angel._ The Lord who sent me to this land,\n He is a Lord of mighty hand.\n He gives, he taketh life,\n As thou hast seen, O King, this day;\n To do his will must strive alway.\n\n [_The KING, now standing up, takes the crown from his head, and\n accompanied by the chorus, sings_\u2014\n\n _King._ Lord of the world, the crown is thine,\n Who rulest us with power divine.\n Oh, what is man! He is but dust,\n And fall a prey to death he must.\n Let none be proud of lofty rank,\n For \u2019tis indeed but idle prank.\n Guide thou us, Lord, upon our way;\n Our souls receive in grace some day.\n\nGrimm is of opinion that this drama is also allegorical of the triumph\nof spring over winter, which opinion he chiefly supports by the\nincident of the King\u2019s resurrection, and of the allusion to the garden.\nThis view has, however, been strongly combated by other authorities,\nwho remind us that in many old pictures Death is often represented as a\ngardener, and armed with bow and arrows.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cHerodes\u201d is the name of a Christmas drama acted by the Transylvanian\nSaxons; but as, though undoubtedly ancient, it is totally wanting in\nhumor and originality, I do not here reproduce it. Most probably such\nqualities as this drama may once have possessed have been pruned away\nby the over-vigorous knife of some ruthless reformer.\n\nThe Song of the Three Kings, beginning,\n\n \u201cThrough storm and wind, through weather wild,\n We come to seek the new-born child,\u201d\n\nis sung by little boys, who at Christmas-time go about from house to\nhouse with tinsel crowns on their heads, one of them having his face\nblackened to represent the negro king, and who expect a few coins and\nsome victuals as reward for their performance.\n\nAt Hermanstadt these three kings threatened to become somewhat of a\nnuisance in Christmas-week, there being several sets of them who were\ncontinually walking uninvited into our rooms. At last one day when\nwe had already received the visit of several such royal parties, our\nfootman opened the door and inquired in a tone of mild exasperation,\n\u201cPlease, madam, the holy three kings are there again; had I not better\nkick them down-stairs?\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[61] The word _G\u00f6tzen_ in German is exclusively used to express pagan\ngods.\n\n[62] In the original the phrase runs:\n\n \u201cThis grows not in my garden.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI.\n\nBURIED TREASURES.\n\n\nFew things possess such powerful attraction as the thought of buried\ntreasures which may be lying unsuspected around us. To think that\nthe golden buttercups which dot a meadow are, perchance, but the\nreflections of other golden pieces lying beneath the surface; to\nsuppose the crumbling gray walls of some ancient tower to be the dingy\ncasket enshrouding priceless gems, there secreted by long-vanished\nhands\u2014is surely enough to set imagination on fire, and engender the\nwild, delirious hope that to you alone, favored among ten thousand\nother mortals who have passed by the spot unknowing, may be destined\nthe triumph of finding that golden key.\n\nVain and futile as such researches mostly are, yet they have in\nTransylvania a somewhat greater semblance of reason than in most other\ncountries, for nowhere else, perhaps, have so many successive nations\nbeen forced to secrete their riches in flying from an enemy, to say\nnothing of the numerous, yet undiscovered, veins of gold and silver\nwhich must be seaming the country in all directions. Not a year passes\nwithout bringing to light some earthen jar containing old Dacian coins,\nor golden ornaments of Roman origin\u2014which discoveries all serve to\nfeed and keep up the national superstitions connected with treasures\nand treasure-finders.\n\nThe night of St. George, the 24th of April (corresponding to our 6th\nof May), is of all others the most favorable in the year for such\nresearches, and many Roumanian peasants spend these hours in wandering\nabout the hills, trying to probe the earth for the gold it contains;\nfor in this night (so say the legends) all these treasures begin to\nburn, or, to speak in technical, mystic language, \u201cto bloom,\u201d in the\nbosom of the earth, and the light they give forth, described as a\nbluish flame, resembling the color of burning spirits of wine, serves\nto guide favored mortals to their place of concealment.\n\nThe conditions to the successful raising of a treasure are manifold and\ndifficult of accomplishment. In the first place, it is by no means\neasy for a common mortal who has not been born on a Sunday, nor even\nat mid-day when the bells are ringing, to hit upon a treasure at all.\nIf he does, however, chance to catch sight of a flame such as I have\ndescribed, he must quickly pierce through the swaddling rags of his\nright foot with a knife, and then throw it in the direction of the\nflame seen. If two people are together during this discovery, they must\non no account break silence till the treasure is raised; neither is it\nallowed to fill up the hole from which anything has been taken, for\nthat would entail the death of one of the finders. Another important\nfeature to be noted is that the lights seen before midnight on St.\nGeorge\u2019s Day denote treasures kept by good spirits, while those which\nappear at a later hour are unquestionably of a pernicious nature.\n\nFor the comfort of less favored mortals who do not happen to have been\nborn either on a Sunday nor to the sound of bells, I must here mention\nthat these deficiencies may to some extent be condoned for and the\nmental vision sharpened by the consumption of mouldy bread; so that\nwhoever has, during the preceding year, been careful to feed upon\ndecayed loaves only, may (if he survive this trying diet) become the\nfortunate discoverer of hidden treasures.\n\nSometimes the power of finding a particular treasure is supposed\nonly to be possessed by members of some particular family. A curious\ninstance of this was lately recorded in Roumania, relating to an old\nruined convent, where, according to a popular legend, a large sum of\ngold is concealed. A deputation of peasants, at considerable trouble\nand expense, found out the last surviving member of the family supposed\nto possess the mystic power, and offered him unconditionally a very\nhandsome sum merely for the benefit of his personal attendance on the\nspot. The gentleman in question being old, and probably sceptical,\ndeclined the offer, to the peasants\u2019 great disappointment.\n\nThere is hardly a ruin, mountain, or forest in Transylvania which has\nnot got some legend of a hidden treasure attached to it. These are\noften supposed to be guarded by some animal, as a serpent, turkey,\ndog, or pig; or sometimes the devil himself, in the shape of a black\nbuffalo, haunts the place at night and carries off those who attempt\nto raise the treasure. Out of the many such tales there afloat I shall\nhere quote only a few, which have been collected and written down from\nthe words of old villagers in different places:\n\n\nTHE TREASURE OF DARIUS\n\nis one of the principal treasures supposed to be somewhere concealed\non Transylvanian ground. It is said to be of immense value, and is\nbelieved to have been secreted when the Persian king was compelled to\nfly before the Scythian forces; but opinions are divided as to the\nexact locality where it lies. One version, which places the treasure\nin a forest in the neighborhood of Hamlesch, relates of it that fifty\nyears ago a poor German workman, sleeping in the forest one night,\ndiscovered the treasure, and being versed in the formalities to be\nobserved on such occasions, laid upon it some article of clothing\nmarked with his name in token of taking possession. Then, as he did not\ntrust the country people, he went off to Germany to fetch his relations\nto assist him in raising the treasure. But, hardly arrived at his\nhouse, he fell ill and died; and though on his death-bed he exactly\ndescribed the place where he had seen the gold, and gave directions for\nfinding it, his relations were never able to hit upon the place.\n\nAnother story declares the treasure to have been hidden in the\nSacsorer Burg, an old ruined fortress, where some centuries ago it\nwas discovered by six Hungarian burghers, who swore to keep the\nsecret among themselves; and once in each year they went and carried\noff a sack of gold and silver pieces, which they divided. Only after\nfive of them had died did the last survivor in his testament leave\ndirections how to reach the place. To approach the treasure (so runs\nthe legend), one must pass through a strong iron door lying towards the\nwest. This door can be opened from the outside, but whoever is not in\npossession of the secret is sure to fall down through a trap-door into\na terrible abyss, where he will be cut to pieces by a thousand swords\nset in motion by machinery; therefore it is necessary to bridge over\nthe trap-door with several stout planks before entering. After this a\nsecond iron door is reached, in front of which are lying two life-sized\nlions of massive silver. This second door leads into a large hall,\nwhere round a long table are sitting the figures of King Darius, and\nof twelve other kings whom he had vanquished in battle. King Darius\nhimself, who sits at the head of the table, is formed of purest gold,\nwhile the other monarchs, six on either side, are of silver. This hall\nleads into a cellar, where are ranged twenty-four barrels bound with\nhoops of silver; half of these barrels contain gold, the other half\nsilver pieces.\n\nIt is likewise asserted that towards the end of the last century a\nWallachian hermit was known to reside in those same ruins, in whose\npossession were often seen gold and silver coins stamped with the image\nof King Darius, but that when questioned on the subject he would never\nreveal how he had come by them.\n\nFinally, it is said that within the memory of people still living\nthere came hither from Switzerland three men with an ancient parchment\ndocument, out of which they professed to have deciphered the directions\nfor finding the treasure of Darius, but after spending several days in\ndigging about the place they had to go empty-handed away.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAfter writing those lines I have unexpectedly come across a new version\nof the treasure of Darius, as I read in a current newspaper, dated\nNovember 24, 1886, that only a few weeks ago an old Roumanian peasant\nwoman formally applied to the Government at Klausenburg for leave to\ndig for the treasure of Darius, which, as a sorcerer had revealed to\nher, lay buried at Hideg Szamos.\n\nThe directions she had received were to dig, at the spot indicated,\nas deep as the height of the Klausenburg church steeple, when stone\nsteps and an iron door would be disclosed. The latter can be opened by\na blow from an axe which had been dipped in holy-water. A large stone\nvault with twelve more iron doors will then appear. Twelve golden keys\nhang on the wall, and each door being opened will lead to a chamber\nfilled to overflowing with solid gold-pieces. Three people only were\npermitted to dig simultaneously for the treasure, the sorcerer himself\ndisinterestedly disclaiming any part in the matter, as he professes to\nhave renounced all earthly goods.\n\nThe prosaic Klausenburg officials could not, however, be induced to\nshare the woman\u2019s enthusiasm, and tried to convince her of the folly of\nsuch search; but all in vain, for, dispensing with the permission she\nhad failed to obtain, she has now engaged three day-laborers, who since\nthe 15th of November, 1886, are said to be engaged on this stupendous\ntask.\n\nPerhaps we shall some day hear the result of their labors.\n\n\nTHE TREASURE OF DECEBALUS\n\nis also among those to which Transylvania lays claim. When Trajan\nwent forth for the second time against the Dacian king, Decebalus,\nvanquished in the fight near his capital, Zarmiszegthusa, retired\nto a stronghold in the mountains, where he was again pursued by the\nconqueror, and, after a second defeat, perished by his own hand, in\norder to escape the ignominy of captivity. But before these reverses\nDecebalus had taken care to secure his immense riches. For this purpose\nhe caused the river Sargetia,[63] which flowed past his residence,\nto be diverted from its course at great toil and expense; in the dry\nriver-bed strong vaulted cellars were constructed, in which all the\ngold, silver, and precious stones were stowed away, the whole being\nthen covered up with earth and gravel, and the river brought back to\nits original course.\n\nThe work had been executed by prisoners, who were all either massacred\nor deprived of their eyesight to avoid betrayal. But a confidant of\nthe Dacian king, Bicilis, or Biculus, who afterwards fell into Roman\ncaptivity, revealed to the Emperor what he knew of it, and Trajan thus\nsucceeded in appropriating a considerable portion of the secreted\ntreasure, but not the whole, it is said.\n\nIn the year 1543 some Wallachian fishermen, when mooring their boat on\nthe banks of the river Strell, became aware of something shining in the\nwater at the place where a tree had lately been uprooted. Pursuing the\nsearch, they brought to light more than forty thousand gold-pieces,\neach of them as heavy as three ducats, and stamped with the image of\nKing Decebalus on one side, and that of the Goddess of Victory on the\nother. This treasure was delivered up to the monk Martinuzzi, the\ncounsellor of Queen Isabella, and the most powerful man in Transylvania\nof that time. Part of the money was sent to the Roman emperor,\nFerdinand I.; but many people declare the treasure of Decebalus not to\nbe exhausted even now, and prophesy that we have not yet heard the last\nof it.\n\n\nTHE TREASURE ON THE KOND.\n\nThe Kond is a gloomy wooded plain near to the town of Regen. Great\nriches are said to be here concealed, but they are difficult to obtain,\nfor the place is haunted by coal-black buffaloes, which may be seen\nrunning backward and forward at night, especially about the time of\nSt. George and St. Thomas. A citizen named Simon Hill, who once caught\nsight of the subterraneous fire, marked the place, resolving to raise\nthe treasure the following night. But distrusting his own strength and\ncourage, he confided his purpose to a neighbor called Martin Rosenau,\nasking him to come to the place that night at twelve o\u2019clock.\n\nThis neighbor, however, was faithless, being one of those who pray\nagainst the Catechism; so he resolved to cheat his friend. Instead,\ntherefore, of waking his neighbor, as had been agreed, at ten o\u2019clock,\nhe repaired alone to the spot, where, digging, he found nothing but a\nhorse\u2019s skull filled with dead frogs. Full of anger at his bad-luck,\nhe took the skull and flung it along with the frogs in at the open\nwindow of his sleeping friend. But what was the surprise of this latter\nwhen, waking in the morning, he found the whole room strewn with golden\nducats, and in the midst the horse\u2019s skull, likewise half full of\ngold. Happy beyond measure, Simon Hill ran to his neighbor to tell him\nthe joyful news how God had sent him the gold in his sleep; but the\nfaithless Martin, on hearing the tale, was so seized with grief and\nanger that a stroke of apoplexy put an end to his life.\n\n\nGOLD-DUST.\n\nAn old man at Nadesch relates how in his youth he missed a chance of\nbecoming a rich man for life. Going once to the forest, he saw on the\nsteep bank near a stream the handle of some sort of earthen-ware jar\npeeping out of the soil. Curious to investigate it, he climbed up the\nsteep bank; but hardly had he seized the handle and drawn the heavy\njar out of the earth, when, the ground giving way under his feet, he\nrolled to the bottom of the incline still holding the jar in his hand.\nBut finding that it contained nothing but a dull yellow dust, which\nhad partly been spilled in falling, he threw it as worthless into the\nstream. Often in later days did he regret this rash act, for, as he was\ntold by others, this yellow powder could have been nothing else but\ngold-dust.\n\nOther ancient vessels which have been sometimes discovered filled\nwith ashes[64] are believed by the people to have contained golden\ntreasures, thus changed by the devil to ashes.\n\nThere is a plant which is believed by both Saxons and Roumanians to\npossess the virtue of opening every lock and breaking iron fetters,\nas well as helping to the discovery of hidden treasures. The\nRoumanians call it _jarbe cherului_ (iron grass or herb), and it is\nonly efficacious when it has sprouted at the spot where a rainbow has\ntouched the earth. The rainbow is the bridge on which the angels go\nbackward and forward between earth and heaven, and the flower grows\nthere where an angel has dropped his golden key of Paradise on to the\nearth. The Germans call the flower _schl\u00fcssel blume_ (key-flower), and\nit may be recognized by having a heart-shaped leaf on which is a spot\nlike a drop of gold or blood. There are several places in Transylvania\nwhere the plant is supposed to grow, but he who walks over it unheeding\nwill be sure to lose his way. In order to find it, it is recommended to\ngo out at daybreak and creep on all fours over the grass. Who finds it\nshould cut open the ball of his left hand and let the leaf grow into\nthe wound; he will then have power to break fetters and open locks.\nThe celebrated robber F\u2014\u2014 is said to have been in possession of such\na leaf, till the police destroyed his powers by cutting it out of\nhis hand. Horses whose fore-legs are tethered together by chains are\nsometimes set free when they happen to tread on the jarbe cherului;\nand in the village of Heltau a Saxon peasant once hit upon the device\nof putting his wife in chains and thus driving her over the fields,\nexpecting to find the flower where the fetters should fall off.\n\nWhoever sells land in certain parts of the country where gold is\nsupposed to be buried is always careful to indorse the reservation of\neventual treasures to be found on the spot.\n\nBut the people say that it is rarely good to seek for hidden treasures,\nfor much of the gold buried in the country has been secured by a\nheavy curse, so that he who raises it will be pursued by illness or\nmisfortune to himself and his family, unless he is descended in direct\nline from the man who buried the treasure. Only such treasures as lie\nabove-ground exposed to the light of day may be appropriated without\nmisgiving. Many men have lost their reason, or have become crippled\nor blind, but few indeed were ever made happy by gold dug out of the\nearth.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[63] The present river Strell.\n\n[64] Evidently funeral urns.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII.\n\nTHE TZIGANES: LISZT AND LENAU.\n\n\nAmong the many writers who have made of this singular race their\nspecial study, none, to my thinking, has succeeded in understanding\nthem so perfectly as Liszt. Other authors have analyzed and described\nthe gypsies with scientific accuracy, but their opinions are mostly\ntinged by prejudice or enthusiasm; for while Grellman approaches the\nsubject with evident repugnance, like a naturalist dissecting some\nnauseous reptile in the interest of science, Borrow, on the contrary,\nidealizes his figures almost beyond recognition. Perhaps it needed a\nHungarian to do justice to this subject, for the Hungarian is the only\nman who, to some extent, is united by sympathetic bonds to the Tzigane;\nhe alone has succeeded in identifying himself with the gypsy mind, and\ncomprehending all the strange contradictions of this living paradox.\n\nI cannot, therefore, do better than quote (in somewhat free\ntranslation) some passages from Liszt\u2019s valuable work on gypsy music,\nwhich, far more vividly than any words of mine, will serve to sketch\nthe portrait of the Hungarian Tzigane.\n\n\u201cThere started up one day betwixt the European nations an unknown\ntribe, a strange people of whom none was able to say who they were\nnor whence they had come. They spread themselves over our continent,\nmanifesting, however, neither desire of conquest nor ambition to\nacquire the right of a fixed domicile; not attempting to lay claim\nto so much as an inch of land, but not suffering themselves to be\ndeprived of a single hour of their time: not caring to command, they\nneither chose to obey. They had nothing to give of their own, and were\ncontent to owe nothing to others. They never spoke of their native\nland, and gave no clew as to from which Asiatic or African plains they\nhad wandered, nor what troubles or persecutions had necessitated their\nexpatriation. Strangers alike to memory as to hope, they kept aloof\nfrom the benefits of colonization; and too proud of their melancholy\nrace to suffer admixture with other nations, they lived on, satisfied\nwith the rejection of every foreign element. Deriving no advantage\nfrom the Christian civilization around them, they regarded with equal\nrepugnance every other form of religion.\n\n\u201cThis singular race, so strange as to resemble no other\u2014possessing\nneither country, history, religion, nor any sort of codex\u2014seems only\nto continue to exist because it does not choose to cease to be, and\nonly cares to exist such as it has always been.\n\n[Illustration: GYPSY TYPE.]\n\n\u201cInstruction, authority, persuasion, and persecution have alike been\npowerless to reform, modify, or exterminate the gypsies. Broken up into\nwandering tribes and hordes, roving hither and thither as chance or\nfancy directs, without means of communication, and mostly ignoring one\nanother\u2019s existence, they nevertheless betray their common relationship\nby unmistakable signs\u2014the self-same type of feature, the same\nlanguage, the identical habits and customs.\n\n\u201cWith a senseless or sublime contempt for whatever binds or hampers,\nthe Tziganes ask nothing from the earth but life, and preserve their\nindividuality from constant intercourse with nature, as well as by\nabsolute indifference to all those not belonging to their race, with\nwhom they commune only as far as requisite for obtaining the common\nnecessities of life.\n\n\u201cLike the Jews they have natural taste and ability for fraud; but,\nunlike them, it is without systematic hatred or malice. Hatred and\nrevenge are with them only personal and accidental feelings, never\npremeditated ones. Harmless when their immediate wants are satisfied,\nthey are incapable of preconceived intention of injuring, only wishing\nto preserve a freedom akin to that of the wild horse of the plains, and\nnot comprehending how any one can prefer a roof, be it ever so fine, to\nthe shelter of the forest canopy.\n\n\u201cAuthority, rules, laws, principles, duties, and obligations are alike\nincomprehensible ideas to this singular race\u2014partly from indolence\nof spirit, partly from indifference to the evils engendered by their\nirregular mode of life.\n\n\u201cSuch only as it is, the Tzigane loves his life, and would exchange it\nfor no other. He loves his life when slumbering in a copse of young\nbirch-trees: he fancies himself surrounded by a group of slender\nmaidens, their long floating hair bestrewed with shining sapphire\nstones, their graceful figures swayed by the breeze into voluptuous\nand coquettish gestures, as though each were trembling and thrilling\nunder the kiss of an invisible lover. The Tzigane loves his life\nwhen for hours together his eyes idly follow the geometrical figures\ndescribed in the sky overhead by the strategical evolutions of a flight\nof rooks; when he gauges his cunning against that of the wary bustard,\nor overcomes the silvery trout in a trial of lightning-like agility.\nHe loves his life when, shaking the wild crab-apple-tree, he causes\na hail-storm of ruddy fruit to come pouring down upon him; when he\npicks the unripe berries from off a thorny branch, leaving the sandy\nearth flecked with drops of gory red, like a deserted battle-field;\nwhen bending over a murmuring woodland spring, whose grateful coolness\nrefreshes his parched throat as its gurgling music delights his ear;\nwhen he hears the woodpecker tapping a hollow stem, or can distinguish\nthe faint sound of a distant mill-wheel. He loves his life when, gazing\non the gray-green waters of some lonely mountain lake, its surface\nspellbound in the dawning presentiment of approaching frost, he lets\nhis vagrant fancy float hither and thither unchecked; when reclining\nhigh up on the branch of some lofty forest-tree, hammock-like he is\nrocked to and fro, while each leaf around him seems quivering with\necstasy at the song of the nightingale. He loves his life when, out of\nthe myriads of ever-twinkling stars in the illimitable space overhead,\nhe chooses out one to be his own particular sweetheart; when he falls\nin love, to-day with a gorgeous lilac-bush of overwhelming perfume,\nto-morrow with a slender hawthorn or graceful eglantine, to be as\nquickly forgotten at sight of a brilliant peacock-feather, with which,\nas with a victorious war-trophy, he adorns his cap; when he sits by\nthe smouldering camp-fire under ancient oaks or massive beeches; when,\nlying awake at night, he hears the call of the stag and the lowing\nof the respondent doe; when he has no other society but the forest\nanimals, with whom he forms friendships and enmities\u2014caressing or\ntormenting them, depriving them of liberty or setting them free,\nrevelling in the treasures of Nature like a wanton child despoiling his\nparent\u2019s riches, but well knowing their wealth to be inexhaustible.\n\n\u201cWhat he calls life is to inhale the breath of Nature with every pore\nof his body; to surfeit his eye with all her forms and colors; with\nhis ear greedily to absorb all her chords and harmonics. Life for him\nis to multiply the possession of all these things by the kaleidoscopic\nand phantasmagorial effects of alcohol, then to sing and play, shout,\nlaugh, and dance, till utter exhaustion.\n\n\u201cHaving neither Bible nor Gospels to go by, the Tziganes do not see the\nnecessity of fatiguing their brain by the contemplation of abstract\nideas; and obeying their instincts only, their intelligence naturally\ngrows rusty. Conscious of their harmlessness they bask in the rays of\nthe sun, content in the satisfaction of a few primitive and elementary\npassions\u2014the _sans-g\u00eane_ of their soul fettered by no conventional\nvirtues.\n\n\u201cWhat strength of indolence! what utter want of all social instinct\nmust these people possess in order to live as they have done for\ncenturies, like that strange plant, native of the sandy desert, so\naptly termed the wind\u2019s bride, which, by nature devoid of root, and\nblown from side to side by every breeze, yet bears flower and fruit\nwherever it goes, continuing to put out shoots under the most unlikely\nconditions!\n\n\u201cAnd whenever the Tziganes have endeavored to bring themselves to\na settled mode of life and to adopt domestic habits, have they not\ninvariably sooner or later returned to their hard couch on the cold\nground, to their miserable rags, to their rough comrades, and the brown\nbeauty of their women?\u2014to the sombre shades of the virgin forests,\nto the murmur of unknown fountains, to their glowing camp-fires and\ntheir improvised concerts under a starlit sky?\u2014to their intoxicating\ndances in the lighting of a forest glade, to the merry knavery of their\nthievish pranks\u2014in a word, to the hundred excitements they cannot do\nwithout?\n\n\u201cNature, when once indulged in to the extent of becoming a necessity,\nbecomes tyrannical like any other passion; and the charms of such an\nexistence can neither be explained nor coldly analyzed\u2014only he who\nhas tasted of them can value their power aright. He must needs have\nslumbered often beneath the canopy of the starry heavens; have been\noft awakened by the darts of the rising sun shooting like fiery arrows\nbetween his eyelids; have felt, without horror, the glossy serpent coil\nitself caressingly round a naked limb; must have spent full many a long\nsummer day reclining immovable on the sward, overlapped by billowy\nwaves of flowery grasses which have never felt the mower\u2019s scythe; he\nmust often have listened to the rich orchestral effects and tempestuous\nmelodies which the hurricane loves to draw from vibrating pine-stems,\nor slender quaking reeds; he must be able to recognize each tree by its\nperfume, be initiated into all the varied languages of the feathered\ntribes, of merry finches, and of chattering grasshoppers; full often\nmust he have ridden at close of day over the barren wold, when the rays\nof the setting sun cast a golden glamour over the atmosphere, and all\naround is plunged in a bath of living fire; he must have watched the\nred-hot moon rise out of the sable night over lonely plains whence all\nlife seems to have fled away; he must, in short, have lived like the\nTzigane in order to comprehend that it is impossible to exist without\nthe balmy perfumes exhaled by the forests; that one cannot find rest\nwithin stone-built prisons; that a breast accustomed to draw full\ndraughts of the purest ozone feels weighed down and crushed beneath a\nsheltering roof; that the eye which has daily looked on the rising sun\nbreaking out through pearly clouds must weep, forsooth, when met on all\nsides by dull, opaque walls; that the ear hungers when deprived of the\nloud modulations, of the exquisite harmonies, of which the mountain\nbreeze alone has the secret.\n\n\u201cWhat have our cities to offer to senses surfeited with such\never-varied effects and emotions? What in such eyes can ever equal the\nbloody drama of a dying sun? What can rival in voluptuous sweetness\nthe rosy halo of early dawn? What other voice can equal in majesty the\nthunder-roll of a midsummer storm, to which the woodland echoes respond\nas the voice of a mighty chorus? What elegy so exquisite as the\nautumn wind stripping the foliage from the blighted forest? What power\ncan equal the frigid majesty of the cruel frost, like an implacable\ntyrant bidding the sap of trees to stand still, and rendering silent\nthe voices of singing birds and babbling streams? To those accustomed\nto quaff of this bottomless tankard, must not all other pleasures by\ncomparison appear empty and meaningless?\n\n\u201cIndifferent to the minute and complicated passions by which educated\nmankind is swayed, callous to the panting, gasping effects of such\nmicroscopic and supercultured vices as vanity, ambition, intrigue, and\navarice, the Tzigane only comprehends the simplest requirements of\na primitive nature. Music, dancing, drinking, and love, diversified\nby a childish and humorous delight in petty thieving and cheating,\nconstitute his whole _r\u00e9pertoire_ of passions, beyond whose limited\nhorizon he does not care to look.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nHaving begun this chapter with the words of Liszt, let me finish it\nwith those of the German poet Lenau, who, in his short poem, \u201cDie\nDrei Zigeuner\u201d (\u201cThe Three Gypsies\u201d), traces a perfect picture of the\nindolent enjoyment of the gypsy\u2019s existence:\n\n \u201cOne day, in the shade of a willow-tree laid,\n I came upon gypsies three,\n As through the sand of wild moorland\n My cart toiled wearily.\n\n \u201cGiving to naught but himself a thought,\n His fiddle the first did hold,\n While \u2019mid the blaze of the evening rays\n A fiery lay he trolled.\n\n \u201cHis pipe with the lip the second did grip,\n A-watching the smoke that curled,\n As void of care as nothing there were\n Could better him in the world.\n\n \u201cThe third in sleep lay slumbering deep,\n On a branch swung his guitar;\n Through its strings did stray the winds at play,\n His soul was \u2019mid dreams afar.\n\n \u201cWith a patch or two of rainbow hue,\n Tattered their garb and torn;\n But little recked they what the world might say,\n Repaying its scorn with scorn.\n\n \u201cAnd they taught to me, these gypsies three,\n When life is saddened and cold,\n How to dream or play or puff it away,\n Despising it threefold!\n\n \u201cAnd oft on my track I would fain cast back\n A glance behind me there\u2014\n A glance at that crew of tawny hue,\n With their swarthy shocks of hair.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII.\n\nTHE TZIGANES: THEIR LIFE AND OCCUPATIONS.\n\n\nIn every other country where the gypsies made their appearance they\nwere oppressed and persecuted\u2014treated as slaves or hunted down like\nwild beasts. So in Prussia in 1725 an edict was issued ordering that\neach gypsy found within the confines of the country should be forthwith\nexecuted; and in Wallachia, until quite lately, they were regarded\nas slaves or beasts of burden, and bought and sold like any other\nmarketable animal. Thus a Bucharest newspaper of 1845 advertises for\nsale two hundred gypsy families, to be disposed of in batches of five\nfamilies\u2014a handsome deduction being offered to wholesale purchasers.\nIn Moldavia, up to 1825, a master who killed one of his own gypsies was\nnever punished by law, but only if he killed one which was the property\nof another man\u2014the crime in that case not being considered to be\nmurder, but merely injury to another man\u2019s property.\n\nIn Hungary alone these wanderers found themselves neither oppressed\nnor repulsed, and if the gypsy can be said to feel at home anywhere\non the face of the globe it is surely here; and although Hungarians\nare apt to resent the designation, Tissot was not far wrong when he\nnamed their country \u201cLe pays des Tziganes,\u201d for the Tziganes are in\nHungary a picturesque feature\u2014a decorative adjunct inseparable alike\nfrom the solitude of its plains as from the dissipation of its cities.\nLike a gleam of dusky gems they serve to set off every picture of\nHungarian life, and to play to it a running accompaniment in plaintive\nminor chords. No one can travel many days in Hungary without becoming\nfamiliar with the strains of the gypsy bands. And who has journeyed by\nnight without noting the ruddy light of their myriad camp-fires, which,\nlike so many gigantic glowworms, dot the country in all directions?\n\nAt the present time there are in Hungary above one hundred and fifty\nthousand Tziganes, of which about eighty thousand fall to the share\nof Transylvania, which therefore in still more special degree may be\ntermed the land of gypsies.\n\nThe Transylvanian gypsies used to stand under the nominal authority of\na nobleman bearing the title of a Gypsy Count, chosen by the reigning\nprince; as also in Hungary proper the Palatine had the right of naming\nfour gypsy Woywods. To this Gypsy Count the chieftains of the separate\nhordes or bands were bound to submit, besides paying to him a yearly\ntribute of one florin per head of each member of the band; and every\nseventh year they assembled round him to receive his orders. The minor\nchieftains were elected by the votes of the separate communities; and\nto this day every wandering troop has its own self-elected leader,\nalthough these have no longer any recognized position in the eyes of\nthe law.\n\nThe election usually takes place in the open field, often on the\noccasion of some public fair; and the successful candidate is thrice\nraised in the air on the shoulders of the people, presented with gifts,\nand invested with a silver-headed staff as badge of his dignity. Also,\nhis wife or partner receives similar honors, and the festivities\nconclude with much heavy drinking.\n\nStrictly speaking, only such Tziganes are supposed to be eligible as\nare descended from a Woywod family; but in point of fact the gypsies\nmostly choose whoever happens to be best dressed on the occasion.\nBeing of handsome build, and not over-young, are likewise points in a\ncandidate\u2019s favor; but such superfluous qualities as goodness or wisdom\nare not taken into account.\n\nThis leader\u2014who is sometimes called the Captain, sometimes the\n_Vagda_, or else the _Gako_, or uncle\u2014governs his band, confirms\nmarriages and divorces, dictates punishments, and settles disputes;\nand as the gypsies are a very quarrelsome race the chief of a large\nband has got his hands pretty full. He has likewise the power to\nexcommunicate a member of the band, as well as to reinstate him in\nhonor and confidence by letting him drink out of his own tankard.\n\nCertain taxes are paid to the Gako; also, he is entitled to percentages\non all booty and theft. In return it is his duty to protect and defend\nhis people to the best of his ability, whenever their irregularities\nhave brought them within reach of the law.\n\nWhether, besides the chieftains of the separate hordes, there yet\nexists in Hungary a chief judge or monarch of the Tziganes, cannot be\npositively asserted; but many people aver such to be the case, and\ndesignate either Mikolcz or Schemnitz as the seat of his residence.\nIn his hands are said to be deposited large sums of money for secret\npurposes, and he alone has the right to condemn to death, and with his\nown hands to put his sentence into execution.\n\nNo Tzigane durst ever accept the position of a gendarme or policeman,\nfor fear of being obliged to punish his own folk; and only very rarely\nis it allowed for one of them to become a game-keeper or wood-ranger.\n\nOnly the necessity of obtaining a piece of bread to still his hunger,\nor of providing himself with a rag to cover his nakedness, occasionally\nobliges the Tzigane to turn his hand to labor of some kind. Most\nsorts of work are distasteful to him\u2014more especially all work of a\ncalm, monotonous character. For that reason the idyllic calm of a\nshepherd\u2019s existence, which the Roumanian so dearly loves, could never\nsatisfy the Tzigane; and equally unpalatable he finds the sweating\ntoils of the agriculturist. He requires some occupation which gives\nscope to the imagination and amuses the fancy while his hands are\nemployed\u2014conditions he finds united in the trade of a blacksmith,\nwhich he oftenest plies on the banks of a stream or river outside the\nvillage, where he has been driven by necessity. The snorting bellows\nseem to him like a companionable monster; the equal cadence of the\nhammer against the anvil falls in with melodies floating in his brain;\nthe myriads of flying sparks, in which he loves to discern all sorts of\nfantastic figures, fill him with delight; horses and oxen coming to be\nshod, and the varied incidents to which these operations give rise, are\nnever-tiring sources of interest and amusement.\n\nInstinctively expert at some sorts of work, the Tzigane will be found\nto be as curiously awkward and incapable with others. Thus he is always\nhandy at throwing up earthworks, which he seems to do as naturally as\na mole or rabbit digs its burrow; but as carpenter or locksmith he is\ncomparatively useless, and though an apt reaper with the sickle he is\nincapable of using the scythe.\n\n[Illustration: GYPSY TINKER.]\n\nAll brickmaking in Hungary and Transylvania is in the hands of the\nTziganes, and formerly they were charged with the gold-washing\nin the Transylvanian rivers, and were in return exempted from\nmilitary service. They are also flayers, broom-binders, rat-catchers,\nbasket-makers, tinkers, and occasionally tooth-pullers\u2014dentist is too\nambitious a denomination.\n\n[Illustration: BASKET-MAKER.]\n\nUp to the end of the sixteenth century in Transylvania the part of\nhangman was always enacted by a gypsy, usually taken on the spot. On\none occasion the individual to be hanged happening to be himself a\ngypsy, there was some difficulty in finding an executioner, and the\nonly one produced was a feeble old man, quite unequal to the job. A\ntable placed under a tree was to serve as scaffold, and with trembling\nfingers the old man proceeded to attach the rope round the neck of\nhis victim. All his efforts were, however, vain to fix this rope to\nthe branch above, and the doomed man, at last losing patience at the\nprotracted delay, gave a vigorous box on the ear to his would-be\nhangman, which knocked him off the table. Instantly all the spectators,\nterrified, took to their heels; whereon the culprit, securely fastening\nthe rope to the branch above, proceeded unaided to hang himself in the\nmost correct fashion.\n\nWhen obliged to work under supervision, the Tzigane groans and moans\npiteously, as though he were enduring the most acute tortures; and\na single Tzigane locked up in jail will howl so despairingly as to\ndeprive a whole village of sleep.\n\nThe Tzigane makes a bad soldier but a good spy; his cowardice has\npassed into a proverb, which says that \u201cwith a wet rag you can put to\nflight a whole village of gypsies.\u201d\n\nThe Tziganes are by no means dainty with regard to food, and have a\ndecided leaning towards carrion, indiscriminately eating of the flesh\nof all fallen animals, or, as they term it, whatever has been killed by\n\u201cGod,\u201d and consider themselves much aggrieved when forced at the point\nof the bayonet to abandon the rotting carcass of a sheep or cow, over\nwhich they had been holding a harmless revelry.\n\nA hedgehog divested of its spikes is considered a prime delicacy;\nlikewise a fox baked under the ashes, after having been laid in running\nwater for two days to reduce the flavor. Horse-flesh alone they do not\ntouch.\n\nThe only animals whose training the gypsy cares to undertake are the\nhorse and bear. For the first he entertains a sort of respectful\nveneration, while the second he regards as an amusing _bajazzo_. He\nteaches a young bear to dance by placing it on a sheet of heated iron,\nplaying the while on his fiddle a strongly accentuated piece of dance\nmusic. The bear, lifting up its legs alternately to escape the heat,\nunconsciously observes the time marked by the music. Later on, the\nheated iron is suppressed when the animal has learned its lesson, and\nwhenever the Tzigane begins to play on the fiddle the young bear lifts\nits legs in regular time to the music.\n\nOf the tricks practised upon horses, in order to sell them at fairs,\nmany stories are told of the gypsies. Sometimes, it is said, they will\nmake an incision in the animal\u2019s skin, and blow in air with the bellows\nin order to make it appear fat; or else they introduce a living eel\ninto its body under the tail, which serves to give an appearance of\nliveliness to the hind-quarters. For the same reason live toads are\nforced down a donkey\u2019s throat, which, moving about in the stomach,\nproduce a sort of fever which keeps it lively for several days.\n\nThe gypsies are attached to their children, but in a senseless animal\nfashion, alternately devouring them with caresses and violently\nill-treating them. I have seen a father throw large, heavy stones\nat his ten-year-old daughter for some trifling misdemeanor\u2014stones\nas large as good-sized turnips, any one of which would have been\nsufficient to kill her if it had happened to hit; and only her agility\nin dodging these missiles\u2014which she did, grinning and chuckling as\nthough it were the best joke in the world\u2014saved her from serious\ninjury.\n\nThey are a singularly quarrelsome people, and the gypsy camp is the\nscene of many a pitched battle, in which men, women, children, and dogs\nindiscriminately take part with turbulent enjoyment. When in a passion\nall weapons are good that come to the gypsy\u2019s hand, and, _faute de\nmieux_, unfortunate infants are sometimes bandied backward and forward\nas _improvis\u00e9_ cannon-balls. A German traveller mentions having been\neye-witness to a quarrel between a Tzigane man and woman, the latter\nhaving a baby on the breast. Passing from words to blows, and seeing\nneither stick nor stone within handy reach, the man seized the baby\nby the feet, and with it belabored the woman so violently that when\nthe by-standers were able to interpose the wretched infant had already\ngiven up the ghost.\n\n[Illustration: BEAR DRIVER.]\n\nThe old-fashioned belief that gypsies are in the habit of stealing\nchildren has long since been proved to be utterly without foundation.\nWhy, indeed, should gypsies, already endowed with a numerous progeny,\nseek to burden themselves with foreign elements which can bring them\nno sort of profit? That they frequently have beguiled children out\nof reach in order to strip them of their clothes and ornaments has\nprobably given rise to this mistake; and when, as occasionally, we\ncome across a light-complexioned child in a gypsy camp, it is more\nnatural to suppose its mother to have been the passing fancy of some\nfair-haired stranger than itself to have been abstracted from wealthy\nparents.\n\nTzigane babies are at once inured to the utmost extremes of heat\nand cold. If they are born in winter they are rubbed with snow; if\nin summer, anointed with grease and laid in the burning sun. Though\ntrained to resist all weathers, the Tzigane has a marked antipathy\nfor wind, which seems for the time to weaken his physical and mental\npowers, and deprive him of all life and energy. Cold he patiently\nendures; but only in summer can he really be said to live and enjoy\nhis life. There is a legend which tells how the gypsies, pining under\nthe heavy frosts and snows with which the earth was visited, appealed\nto God to have pity on them, and to grant them always twice as many\nsummers as winters. The Almighty, in answer to this request, spoke as\nfollows: \u201cTwo summers shall you have to every winter; but as it would\ndisturb the order of nature if both summers came one on the back of the\nother, I shall always give you two summers with a winter between to\ndivide them.\u201d The gypsies humbly thanked the Almighty for the granted\nfavor, and never again complained of the cold, for, as they say, they\nhave now always two summers to every winter.\n\nAnother legend relates how the Tziganes once used to have cornfields\nof their own, and how, when the green corn had grown high for the\nfirst time, the wind caused it to wave and shake like ripples on the\nwater, which seeing, a gypsy boy came running in alarm to his parents,\ncrying, \u201cFather, father! quick, make haste! the corn is running\naway!\u201d On hearing this the gypsies all hastened forth with knives and\nsickles to cut down the fugitive corn, which of course never ripened,\nand discouraged by their first agricultural essay the gypsies never\nattempted to sow or reap again.\n\nBoth Maria Theresa and her son Joseph II. did much to induce the\nTransylvanian gypsies to renounce their vagrant habits and settle\ndown as respectable citizens, but their efforts did not meet with the\nsuccess they deserved. The system of Maria Theresa was no less than to\nrecast the whole gypsy nature in a new mould, and by fusion with other\nraces to cause them by degrees to lose their own identity; the very\nname of gypsy was to be forgotten, and the Empress had ordained that\nhenceforward they were to be known by the appellation of _Neubauer_\n(new peasants). With a view to this all marriages between gypsies were\nforbidden, and the Empress undertook to _dot_ every young gypsy girl\nwho married a person of another race. The Tziganes, however, too often\naccepted these favors, and took the earliest opportunity of deserting\nthe partners thus forced upon them; while the houses built expressly\nfor their use were frequently used for the pigs or cattle, the gypsies\nthemselves preferring to sleep outside in the open air.\n\nA gypsy girl, who had married a young Slovack peasant some years ago,\nused to run away and sleep in the woods whenever her husband was\nabsent from home; while in another village, where the Saxon pastor\nhad with difficulty induced a wandering Tzigane family to take up\ntheir residence in a vacant peasant house, he found them oddly enough\nestablished in their old ragged tent, which had been set up _inside_\nthe empty dwelling-room. A story is also told of a gypsy man who,\nhaving attained a high military rank in the Austrian army, disappeared\none day, and was later recognized with a strolling band.\n\nThere is, I am told, a certain method in the seemingly aimless roamings\nof each nomadic gypsy tribe, which always pursues its wanderings in a\ngiven circle, keeping to the self-same paths and the identical places\nof bivouac in plain or forest; so that it can mostly be calculated with\ntolerable accuracy in precisely how many years such and such a band\nwill come round again to any particular neighborhood.\n\nNowadays the proportion of resident gypsies in towns and villages is,\nof course, considerably larger than it used to be, and nearly each\nSaxon or Hungarian town and village has a _faubourg_ of miserable\nearth-hovels tacked on to it at one end. It is not uncommon, in\nthese gypsy hovels, to find touches of luxury strangely out of\nkeeping with the rest of the surroundings: pieces of rare old china,\nembroidered pillow-cases, sometimes even a silver goblet or platter of\ndistinct value\u2014to which things they often cling with a sort of blind\nsuperstition, always contriving to reclaim from the pawnbroker whatever\nof these articles they have been compelled to deposit there in a season\nof necessity. In the same way it is alleged that many of the wandering\ngypsy hordes in Hungary and Transylvania have in their possession\nvaluable gold and silver vessels (some of these engraved in ancient\nIndian characters), which they carry about wherever they go, and bury\nin the earth wherever they pitch their temporary camp.\n\nIn order to count the treasures of one of the resident gypsies, it\nsuffices to watch him when there is a fire in the village; ten to one\nit will be his fiddle which he first takes care to save, and next his\nbed and pillows\u2014a soft swelling bed and numerous downy pillows being\namong the principal luxuries to which he is addicted.\n\nCharacteristic of the Tzigane\u2019s utter incomprehension of all social\norganization and privileges is an anecdote related by a Transylvanian\nproprietor. \u201cIn 1848,\u201d he told me, \u201cwhen serfdom was abolished in\nAustria, and the gypsies residing in my village became aware that\nhenceforward they were free, they were at first highly delighted at\nthe news, and spent three days and nights in joyful carousing. On the\nfourth day, however, when the novelty of being free had worn off, they\nwere at a loss what use to make of their novel dignity, and numbers of\nthem came trooping to me begging to be taken back. They did not care to\nbe free after all, they said, and would rather be serfs again.\u201d\n\nOf their past history the only memory the Tziganes have preserved\nis that of the disastrous day of Nagy Ida, when a thousand of their\npeople were slain. This was in 1557, when Perenyi, in want of soldiers,\nhad intrusted to a thousand gypsies the fortress of Nagy Ida, which\nthey defended so valiantly that the imperial troops beat a retreat.\nBut, intoxicated with their triumph, the Tziganes called after the\nretreating enemy, that but for the lack of gunpowder they would have\nserved them still worse. On hearing this the army turned round again,\nand easily forcing an entrance into the castle cut down the gypsies to\nthe last man.\n\nAll Hungarian gypsies keep the anniversary of this day as a day of\nmourning, and have a particular melody in which they bewail the loss of\ntheir heroes. This tune, or _nota_, they never play before a stranger,\nand the mere mention of it is sufficient to sadden them.\n\nOnly the higher class of Tzigane musicians (of which hereafter) are\nfond of calling themselves Hungarians, and of wearing the Hungarian\nnational costume. This reminds me of a story I heard of a gypsy player\nwho, brought to justice for a murder he had committed, obstinately\npersisted in denying his crime.\n\n\u201cCome, be a good fellow,\u201d said the judge at last, fixing on the weak\nside of the culprit; \u201cshow what a good Hungarian you are by speaking\nthe truth. A true Hungarian never tells a lie.\u201d\n\nThe poor gypsy was so much flattered at being called a Hungarian that\nhe instantly confessed the murder, and was, of course, hanged as the\nreward of his veracity.\n\nThough without any regular social organization, the Hungarian gypsies\nmay yet be loosely divided into five classes, which range as follows:\n\n1. The musicians.\n\n2. The gold-washers, who also make bricks and spoons.\n\n3. The smiths.\n\n4. The daily laborers, such as whitewashers, masons, etc.\n\n5. The nomadic tent gypsies.\n\nIf, however, we reverse the order of things, and turn the social ladder\nupside down, these latter may well be ranked as the first, and so they\ndeem themselves to be, for do they not enjoy privileges unknown to most\nrespectable citizens?\u2014free as the birds of the air, paying no taxes,\nacknowledging no laws, and making the whole world their own!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV.\n\nTHE TZIGANES: HUMOR, PROVERBS, RELIGION, AND MORALITY.\n\n\nThe word Tzigane is used throughout Hungary and Transylvania as an\nopprobrious term by the other inhabitants whenever they want to\ndesignate anything as false, worthless, dirty, adulterated, etc.\n\n\u201cFalse as a Tzigane,\u201d \u201cDirty as a Tzigane,\u201d are common figures of\nspeech. Likewise to describe a quarrelsome couple, \u201cThey live like the\ngypsies.\u201d And if some one is given to useless lamentation, it is said\nof him, \u201cHe moans like a guilty Tzigane.\u201d\n\nOf a liar it is said that \u201che knows how to plough with the Tzigane,\u201d or\nthat \u201che understands how to ride the Tzigane horse.\u201d\n\nTo call any one\u2019s behavior \u201cgypsified\u201d is to stamp it as dishonest. \u201cHe\nknows the Tzigane trade\u201d is \u201che knows how to steal.\u201d\n\nA showery April day is called \u201cTzigane weather;\u201d adulterated honey,\n\u201cTzigane honey;\u201d coriander-leaves, \u201cTzigane parsley;\u201d a poor sort of\nwild-duck is the \u201cTzigane duck;\u201d the _bromus scalinus_ is the \u201cTzigane\ncorn;\u201d but why the little green burrs are called \u201cTzigane lice\u201d is not\nvery evident, for surely in this case the imitation has decidedly the\nadvantage of the genuine article.\n\nThese phrases must not, however, be taken to express hatred, but rather\na good-natured sort of contempt and indulgence for the Tzigane as a\nlarge, importunate, and troublesome child, who frequently requires\nto be chastised and pushed back, but whose vagaries cannot be taken\nseriously, or provoke anger.\n\nThe Tziganes are rarely wanting in a certain sense of humor and power\nof repartee, which often disarms the anger they have justly provoked.\nIn a travelling menagerie the keeper, showing off his animals to a\nlarge audience, pointed to the cage where a furious lion was pawing the\nground, and pompously announced that he was ready to give a thousand\nflorins to whoever would enter that cage.\n\n\u201cI will,\u201d said a starved-looking gypsy, stepping forward.\n\n\u201cYou will!\u201d said the keeper, looking contemptuously at the small, puny\nfigure. \u201cVery well; please yourself, and walk in,\u201d and he made a feint\nof opening the door. \u201cStep in; why are you not coming?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly,\u201d said the Tzigane; \u201cI have not the slightest objection, and\nam only waiting till you remove that very unpleasant-looking animal\nwhich occupies the cage at present.\u201d\n\nOf course the laugh was turned against the showman, who, in his speech,\nhad only spoken of the cage without mentioning the lion.\n\nA peasant, accusing a Tzigane of having stolen his horse, declared that\nhe could produce half a dozen witnesses who had seen him in the act.\n\n\u201cWhat are half a dozen witnesses?\u201d said the gypsy. \u201cI can produce a\nwhole dozen who have not seen it!\u201d\n\nA starving and shivering Tzigane once, craving hospitality, was told to\nchoose between food and warmth. Would he have something to eat; or did\nhe prefer to warm himself at the hearth? \u201cIf you please,\u201d he answered,\n\u201cI would like best to toast myself a piece of bacon at the fire.\u201d\n\nWhen asked which was his favorite bird a Tzigane made reply, \u201cThe pig,\nif it had only wings.\u201d\n\nAnother gypsy, asked whether, for the remuneration of five florins, he\nwould undertake the office of hangman on a single victim, answered,\njoyfully, \u201cOh, that is far too high a price! For five florins I would\nundertake to hang all the officials into the bargain!\u201d\n\nSome Tzigane proverbs are as follows:\n\n\u201cBetter a donkey which lets you ride than a fine horse which throws you\noff.\u201d\n\n\u201cThose are the fattest fishes which fall back from the line into the\nwater.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not good to choose women or cloth by candlelight.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is the use of a kiss unless there be two to share it?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho would steal potatoes must not forget the sack.\u201d\n\n\u201cTwo hard stones do not grind smooth.\u201d\n\n\u201cPolite words cost little and do much.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho flatters you has either cheated you or hopes to do so.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho waits till another calls him to supper often remains hungry.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you have lost your horse, you had better throw away saddle and\nbridle as well.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe best smith cannot make more than one ring at a time.\u201d\n\n\u201cA pleasant smile smooths away wrinkles.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing is so bad but it is good enough for some one.\u201d\n\n\u201cDo we keep the fast-days? Yes, when there is neither bread nor bacon\nin the cupboard.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is of no use to teach science to children, unless we explain it by\nmeans of the broomstick.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet nothing on earth sadden you as long as you still can love.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is easier to inherit than to earn.\u201d\n\n\u201cAs long as there are poorer people than yourself in the world, thank\nGod even if you go about with bare feet.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen the bridge is gone, then even the narrowest plank becomes\nprecious.\u201d\n\n\u201cOnly the deaf and the blind are obliged to believe.\u201d\n\n\u201cBacon makes bold.\u201d\n\n\u201cAfter misfortune comes fortune.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho has got luck need only sit at home with his mouth open.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever despair of your luck, for it needs only a moment to bring it.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere is no such thing as a gypsy church, and a legend current in\nTransylvania explains the reason of this:\n\n\u201cOnce upon a time,\u201d so it runs, \u201cthe Tziganes had a right good church,\nsolidly built of brick and stone like other churches. The Wallachs, who\nhad neither stones nor bricks, had at that same time built themselves a\nchurch out of cheese and bacon, with sausage rafters and pancake roof.\n\n\u201cThis building filled the greedy Tziganes with envy, causing them\nto lick their lips whenever they passed that way, and at last they\nproposed an exchange of churches to the Wallachs, who gladly accepted\nthe bargain. But when the winter came the hungry Tziganes began to\nnibble at the pancake roof of their church; next they attacked the\nrafters, and there soon remained nothing more of the whole building.\nThat is why since that time there has never been a Tzigane church,\nand why the gypsies, whenever they go to any place of worship at all,\nprefer to go to the Roumanian church, because, as they say, they like\nto remember that it once belonged to them.\u201d\n\nThis story has passed into a proverb, used to describe a man without\nreligion, by saying, \u201cHe eats his faith, as the gypsies ate their\nchurch.\u201d\n\nTheir religion is of the vaguest description. They generally agree\nas to the existence of a God, but it is a God whom they fear without\nloving. \u201cGod cannot be good,\u201d they say, \u201cor else he would not make us\ndie.\u201d The devil they also believe in to a certain extent, but consider\nhim to be a weak, silly fellow, incapable of doing much harm.\n\nA Tzigane, questioned as to whether he believed in the immortality of\nthe soul and the resurrection of the body, scoffed at the idea. \u201cHow\ncould I be so foolish as to believe this?\u201d he said, with unconscious\nphilosophy. \u201cWe have been quite wretched enough and wicked enough in\nthis world already. Why should we begin again in another?\u201d\n\nSometimes their confused notions of Christianity take the form of\nbelieving in a God, and in his Son the young God; but while many are of\nopinion that the old God is dead, and that his Son now reigns in his\nplace, others declare the old God to be not really dead, but merely\nto have abdicated in favor of his Son. Others, again, suppose this\nlatter to be not really the Son of the old God, but only that of a poor\ncarpenter, and are wont to say contemptuously that \u201cthe carpenter\u2019s son\nhas usurped the throne.\u201d\n\nThe resident Tziganes often nominally adopt the religion of the landed\nproprietor\u2014principally, it seems, because in former days they thus\nsecured the privilege of being buried at his expense. Whenever they\nhappen to have a quarrel with their landlord, they are fond of abruptly\nchanging their religion, ostentatiously going to some other place of\nworship in order to mark their displeasure.\n\nTwo clergymen, the one Catholic, the other Protestant, visiting a\nTzigane confined in prison, were each endeavoring with much eloquence\nto convert him to their respective religions. The gypsy appeared to be\nlistening to their arguments with great attention, and when both had\nfinished speaking he eagerly inquired, \u201cWhich of the two gentlemen can\ngive me a cigar?\u201d One of these being in the advantageous position of\ngratifying this modest request, the scale was thereby turned in favor\nof the Church he recommended, and the other clergyman was sent away,\ndoubtless with the bitter reflection that for lack of a pennyworth of\ntobacco he had failed to secure an immortal soul!\n\nAnother gypsy, in prison for having sworn falsely, was visited by a\npriest, who tried to convince him of the sinfulness of his conduct in\nswearing to what he had not seen.\n\n\u201cYou are loading a heavy sin on your soul,\u201d said the priest.\n\n\u201cHave I got a soul?\u201d asked the Tzigane, innocently.\n\n\u201cOf course you have got a soul; every man has one.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan your reverence swear that I have got a soul?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I can.\u201d\n\n\u201cYet your reverence cannot see my soul, so why should it be wrong to\nswear to what one has not seen?\u201d\n\nA gypsy condemned to be hung bethought himself at the last moment of\nasking to be baptized. He wished to die a Christian, he said, having\nprofessed no religion all his life. His plan was successful, for the\nexecution was suspended, and all sympathies enlisted in his favor.\nWhen, however, all was ready for the baptism, the gypsy occasioned\nmuch surprise by asking to be received into the Calvinistic faith. Why\nnot choose the Catholic religion, which was that of the place, he was\nasked, since there was no apparent reason to the contrary. \u201cNo, no,\u201d\nreturned the cautious Tzigane; \u201cI will keep the Catholic religion for\nanother time.\u201d\n\nThough rarely believing in the immortality of the soul, the Tzigane\nusually holds with the doctrine of transmigration, and often supposes\nthe spirit of some particular gypsy to have passed into a bat or a\nbird; further believing that when that animal is killed, the spirit\npasses back to another new-born gypsy.\n\nHowever miserable their lives, the Tziganes never commit suicide; only\none solitary instance is recorded by some traveller, whose name I\nforget, of an old gypsy woman, who, to escape her persecutors, begged a\nshepherd to bury her alive.\n\nWhen a Tzigane dies, men and women assemble with loud howling, and the\ncorpse, after having been prepared for burial, is carried on horseback\nto the grave, which is made in some lonely spot, often deep in the\nforest. A chieftain is buried with much pomp, his people tearing their\nhair and scratching their faces in sign of mourning.\n\nThe abrupt transitions of joy to grief, and _vice vers\u00e2_, so\ncharacteristic of the Tzigane nature, are nowhere more apparent than\nin their rejoicings and their mournings. Thus each funeral ends with\ndancing and joyful songs, while every wedding terminates in howling and\nmoaning.\n\nThe relations between the sexes are mostly free, and unrestrained\nby any attempt at morality. Unions oftenest take place without any\nattendant formalities, but in some hordes a sort of barbaric ceremony\nis kept up. The man, or rather boy\u2014for he is often not more than\nfourteen or fifteen years of age\u2014selects the girl happening to please\nhim best, without any particular regard for relationship, and leads\nher before the Gako, where she breaks an earthen-ware jar or dish at\nthe feet of the man to whom she gives herself. Each party collects a\nportion of the broken pieces and keeps them carefully. If these pieces\nare lost, either by accident or voluntarily, then both parties are\nfree, and the union thus dissolved can only be renewed by the breaking\nof another vessel in the same manner.\n\n[Illustration: GYPSY GIRL.]\n\nThe number of pieces into which the earthen-ware has been shattered is\nsupposed to denote the number of years the couple will live together;\nand when the girl is anxious to pay a compliment to her bridegroom she\nstamps upon the fragments, in order to increase their number.\n\nSometimes, but rarely, the Tzigane is capable of violent and enduring\nlove; and cases where lovers have killed their sweethearts out of\njealousy are not unknown.\n\nThe Tziganes assimilate more easily with the Roumanians than with any\nof the neighboring races; and marriages between them, although not\nfrequent, yet sometimes take place.\n\nSome twelve or fifteen years ago, an Austrian officer, garrisoned in a\nsmall Transylvanian town, fell violently in love with a beautiful gypsy\ngirl belonging to a wandering tribe. He carried his infatuation so far\nas to offer to marry her. The beautiful bohemian, however, refused to\nabandon her roving comrades; and at last the lover, seeing that he\ncould not win her in any other way, and being convinced that he could\nnot possibly exist without her, gave up his military rank, and for her\nsake became a gypsy himself, wandering about with the band, and sharing\nall their hardships and privations. How this peculiar union turned out\nin the end, and whether _\u00e0 la longue_ the gentleman remained of opinion\nthat the world was well lost for love, is unknown; but several years\nlater the _cidevant_ officer was recognized as a member of a roving\nband of gypsies somewhere in northern Greece.\n\nA touching instance of a young girl\u2019s devotion was related to me on\ngood authority. Her lover had been confined in the village lockup,\npresumably for some flagrant offence; and looking out of the small\ngrated window, on a burning summer\u2019s day, he was bewailing his unhappy\nfate and the parching thirst which devoured him. Presently his dark\nslender sweetheart, attracted by the sound of his voice, drew near,\nand standing at the other side of a dried-up moat, she could see her\nlover at the grated window. She held in her hand a ripe juicy apple;\nbut the only way to reach him lay through the moat. The girl was naked,\nnot having the smallest rag to cover her brown and shining skin, and\nthe moat was full of prickly thistles and tall stinging nettles. She\nhesitated for a moment, but only for one; then plunging bravely into\nthe sea of fire, she handed up the precious apple through the close\ngrating.\n\nWhen she regained the opposite bank, the gypsy girl\u2019s skin was all\nblistered, and bleeding at places; but she did not seem to feel any\npain, in the delight with which she watched her captive lover devour\nthe apple.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV.\n\nTHE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER.\n\n\nThe ever-recurring excitements and excesses of which these people\u2019s\nlife is made up cannot fail to have a deteriorating effect on mind\nand body\u2014early undermined constitutions and premature death or\ndotage being the penalty paid by many for the unbridled and senseless\ngratification of their passions. This life, however, while it destroys\nmany, sharpens the faculties of those whose stronger natures have\nenabled them to defy these ravages, bestowing a singular power of\npenetration in all matters relating to the senses and passions.\n\nMore especially is this the case with regard to the women, who, already\ngifted by nature with keener perceptions, and prematurely ripened in\nwhat may be termed a tropical atmosphere of passion, develop an almost\nsupernatural power of clairvoyance, which enables them with incredible\ncelerity to unravel hitherto undisclosed secrets by means only of\nintuitive deductions.\n\n\u201cThe astounding vividness of their impressions\u201d (again to quote Liszt\non the subject) \u201crarely fails to communicate itself like wildfire to\nthe hearers. As by the contagion of a deadly poison, the mere touch of\nthe gypsy fortune-teller is often sufficient to affect them with the\nsensation of an electric shock or vibration.\n\n\u201cA few apt reflections strewed about in conversation, casual\nexclamations of apparent simplicity, some primitive rhymes and verses\naccentuated by passion, so to say hammered into relief like the raised\nfigures on a medal\u2014such are the means which suffice to stir up in an\naudience whatever elements may be there existing of secret wrath, of\nlatent rebellion, of characters bent but not broken, of affections\ndiscouraged but not despairing.\n\n[Illustration: GYPSY MOTHER AND CHILD.]\n\n\u201cThe gypsy woman, herself well acquainted with all the signs and\nworkings of passion, distinguishes _\u00e0 coup d\u2019\u0153il_ the cause of the\nsallow cheek and the fevered eye of such another woman; she can feel\ninstinctively whether the hand from which she is expected to decipher\na fate be stretched towards her with the hasty gesture of hope or with\nthe hesitation of fear. Without difficulty she reads in disdainfully\ncurled lips or ominously drawn brows whether the youth before her be\nchafing under a yoke or planning revenge; whether he craves love or has\nalready lost it. She can further distinguish at a glance the delusive\npresumption of youth and beauty\u2014the false security of possession which\nthinks to defy misfortune. She knows the annihilating blows of fate\nand the vulnerability of the human heart too well not to mistrust the\nsmile of over-conscious happiness, and prophesy misfortune to those who\nrefuse to believe in the instability of the future.\n\n\u201cShe cannot be called a hypocrite, for she herself has faith in her\nown diagnosis; believing that each man carries within him the germ of\nhis own fate, she is convinced that sooner or later her prognostics\nmust be fulfilled. Her only care is therefore to clothe her predictions\nin a form which, easily captivating the imagination, and thereby\nimpressed on the memory, will spring again to life, along with the\nimage of the prophetess, whenever the latent emotions she has detected,\nhaving reached their culminating point, bring about the success or the\ncatastrophe foreseen from the investigation of a hand and a heart.\n\n\u201cAfter all, why should we wonder that the secrets of the future can be\ndeciphered by one so intimately acquainted with the inmost folds of\nthe human soul, and the workings of different passions confined in the\nhuman breast like so many caged lions or torpid slumbering reptiles?\n\n\u201cPassion always accompanied by a powerful sympathetic instinct quickly\ndivines the presence of a kindred passion. Apt to decipher the symptoms\ninevitably betrayed in voice and gesture, and skilled to read in that\nmystic book whose characters are so plainly impressed on the leaves of\na physiognomy which, betraying where it would fain conceal, becomes\nthe more impressive in proportion as the heart within is agitated by\ntumultuous throbbings, the gypsy fortune-teller knows full well with\nwhom she has to deal, and can justly estimate what sort of characters\nare those who seek her counsel.\u201d\n\nIt is, I think, Balzac who has said, \u201cSi le pass\u00e9 a laiss\u00e9 des traces,\nil est \u00e0 croire que l\u2019avenir poss\u00e8de des racines;\u201d and on the principle\nthat every man is master of his own fate, there is, after all, no\nreason why these roots, invisible to the rest of the world, should not\nbe perceptible to such as have made of this subject the study of a\nlifetime. Why should not the seer be able to proclaim the fruits to be\nreaped from the recognition of germs which already exist?\n\nThe enlightened folk who sweepingly condemn the fortune-teller as a\nliar and cheat are probably no less mistaken than witless rustics, who\nblindly believe in her as an infallible oracle. Should not precisely\nthe superior enlightenment of which we boast be argument for, rather\nthan against, the fortune-teller? Why, if phrenology and graphology are\npermitted to take rank as acknowledged sciences, should not the gypsy\nwoman\u2019s power of divination be equally allowed to count as a shrewd\ndeciphering of character, coupled with logical deductions as to the\nevents likely to be evoked by the passions she has recognized, when\nbrought into combination with a given set of circumstances?\n\nIgnorant people, surprised at the detection of secrets which they\nhad believed to be securely locked up in their own breasts, and not\nunderstanding the process by which such conclusions were reached,\nare ready to attribute the fortune-teller\u2019s power of divination to\nsupernatural agency, which opinion is strengthened and confirmed by\nthe romantic conditions of the gypsy\u2019s existence, and the cabalistic\nglamour with which she contrives to invest herself.\n\nBut is not, in truth, this delicate and subtle perception in itself a\nsecret and undeniable power\u2014a sudden inspiration, a positive intuition\nof what will be from the rapid unveiling of what already is? And here,\nagain, Liszt is probably right in asserting this gift of prophecy,\nso universally ascribed to the gypsies in all countries, to be a too\ndeeply rooted belief in the minds of the people not to have some\nrational ground for its existence.\n\nThere is no doubt that the gypsy fortune-tellers in Transylvania\nexercise considerable influence on their Saxon and Roumanian neighbors,\nand it is a paradoxical fact that the self-same people who regard the\nTziganes as undoubted thieves, liars, and cheats in all the common\ntransactions of daily life, do not hesitate to confide in them blindly\nfor charmed medicines and love-potions, and are ready to attribute to\nthem unerring power in deciphering the mysteries of the future.\n\nThe Saxon peasant will, it is true, often drive away the fortune-teller\nwith blows and curses from his door, but his wife will as often\nsecretly beckon her in again by the back entrance, in order to be\nconsulted as to the illness of the cows, or beg from her a remedy\nagainst the fever.\n\nWonderful potions and salves, composed of the fat of bears, dogs,\nsnakes, and snails, along with the oil of rain-worms, the bodies\nof spiders and midges, rubbed into a paste, are concocted by these\ncunning bohemians, who thus sometimes contrive to make thrice as much\nmoney out of the carcass of a dead dog as another can realize from the\nsale of a healthy pig or calf. There is not a village in Transylvania\nwhich cannot boast of one or more such fortune-tellers, and living\nin the suburbs of each town are many old women who make an easy and\ncomfortable livelihood out of the credulity of their fellow-creatures.\n\nIt has also been asserted that both Roumanian and Saxon mothers whose\nsickly infants are believed to be suffering from the effects of the\nevil eye, are often in the habit of giving the child to be nursed for\na period of nine days to some Tzigane woman supposed to have power to\nundo the spell.\n\nFor my own part, I have seldom had inclination to confide the\ndeciphering of my fate to one of these wandering sibyls, and can\ntherefore only affirm that on the solitary occasion when, half in\njest, I chose to interrogate the future, I was favored with a piece of\nintelligence so startling and improbable as could only be received with\na laugh of derision; yet before many days had elapsed this startling\nand improbable event had actually come to pass, and the gypsy\u2019s\nprophecy was accomplished in the most unlooked-for manner.\n\nChance, probably, or coincidence, most people will say; and indeed\nI do not myself see how it could have been anything but the veriest\ncoincidence. I merely state this fact as it occurred, and without\nattempting to draw any general conclusions from the isolated instance\nwithin my own personal range of observation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI.\n\nTHE TZIGANE MUSICIAN.\n\n\nThere is a Transylvanian legend telling how a mother once pronounced on\nher son a curse, the effect of which should continue until he succeeded\nin giving a voice to a dry piece of wood.\n\nThe son left his mother, and went sorrowing into the pine forest, where\nhe cut down a tree, and made a fiddle on which he played; and his\nmother, hearing the sound, came running by and took the curse from off\nhis head.\n\nThis story must surely have been written of a gypsy boy, for of none\nother could it have been equally appropriate; and if to the gypsy woman\nis given a certain power over the minds of her fellow-creatures, the\nmale Tzigane\u2014at least in Hungary\u2014is not without his sceptre, and this\nsceptre is the bow with which he plies his fiddle.\n\nHungarian music and the Tzigane player are indispensable conditions\nof each other\u2019s existence. Hungarian music can only be rightly\ninterpreted by the Tzigane musician, who for his part can play none\nother so well as the Hungarian music, into whose execution he throws\nall his heart and his soul, all his latent passion and unconscious\npoetry\u2014the melancholy and dissatisfied yearnings of an outcast, the\ndeep despondency of an exile who has never known a home, and the wild\nfreedom of a savage who never owned a master.\n\nDid the Tziganes bring their music ready-made into Hungary, or did they\nfind it there and merely adopt it? is a question which has occasioned\nmuch learned controversy. Liszt inclines to the former opinion, which\nwould mean that no Hungarian music existed previous to the Tziganes\u2019\narrival in the country in the fifteenth century. That this music is\nessentially of an Asiatic character is, however, no positive proof\nin favor of this theory, for are not the Hungarians themselves an\nout-wandered Asiatic race? and what more natural than the supposition\nthat one Asiatic race should be the best interpreter of the music of\na kindred people? More likely, however, this music is an unconscious\njoint production of the two, the Tzigane being the artist who has\nsounded the depths of the Hungarian nature and given expression to it.\n\nI remember once asking a distinguished Polish lady\u2014Princess C\u2014\u2014,\nherself a notable musician and pupil of the great Chopin\u2014whether\nshe ever played Hungarian music. \u201cNo,\u201d she answered, \u201cI cannot play\nit; there is something in that music which I have not got\u2014something\nwanting in me.\u201d\n\nWhat was here wanting I came to understand later, when I became\nfamiliar with Hungarian music as rendered by the Tzigane players. It\nwas the training of several generations of gypsy life which was here\nwanting\u2014a training which alone teaches the secret of deciphering those\nwild strains which seem borrowed from the voice of the tempest, or\nstolen from whispering reeds. In order to have played Hungarian music\naright she would have required to have slept on mountain-tops during\na score of years, to have been bathed over and over again in falling\ndews, to have shared the food of eagles and squirrels, and have been\non equally intimate terms with stags and snakes\u2014conditions which,\nunfortunately, lie quite out of the reach of delicate Polish ladies!\n\nMusic was the only art within the Tzigane\u2019s reach, for despite his\nvividness of imagination and the continual state of inspiration in\nwhich he may be said to live, he could never have been a poet, painter,\nor sculptor to any eminent degree, because of the fitfulness of his\nnature, and of his incapacity to clothe his inspirations in a precise\nimage, or reduce them to a given form. Every man has the impulse to\nmanifest his feelings in some way or other, and music was the only\nway open to the Tzigane, as being the one solitary art which, _\u00e0 la\nrigueur_, can dispense with a scientific training and be taught by\ninstinct alone.\n\nDevoid of printed notes the Tzigane is not forced to divide his\nattention between a sheet of paper and his instrument, and there is\nconsequently nothing to detract from the utter abandonment with which\nhe absorbs himself in his playing. He seems to be sunk in an inner\nworld of his own; the instrument sobs and moans in his hands, and is\npressed tight against his heart as though it had grown and taken root\nthere. This is the true moment of inspiration, to which he rarely gives\nway, and then only in the privacy of an intimate circle, never before\na numerous and unsympathetic audience. Himself spellbound by the power\nof the tones he evokes, his head gradually sinking lower and lower over\nthe instrument, the body bent forward in an attitude of rapt attention,\nand his ear seeming to hearken to far-off ghostly strains audible to\nhimself alone, the untaught Tzigane achieves a perfection of expression\nunattainable by mere professional training.\n\nThis power of identification with his music is the real secret of the\nTzigane\u2019s influence over his audience. Inspired and carried away by his\nown strains, he must perforce carry his hearers with him as well; and\nthe Hungarian listener throws himself heart and soul into this species\nof musical intoxication, which to him is the greatest delight on earth.\nThere is a proverb which says, \u201cThe Hungarian only requires a gypsy\nfiddler and a glass of water in order to make him quite drunk;\u201d and\nindeed intoxication is the only word fittingly to describe the state\nof exaltation into which I have seen a Hungarian audience thrown by a\ngypsy band.\n\nSometimes, under the combined influence of music and wine, the\nTziganes become like creatures possessed; the wild cries and stamps of\nan equally excited audience only stimulate them to greater exertions.\nThe whole atmosphere seems tossed by billows of passionate harmony;\nwe seem to catch sight of the electric sparks of inspiration flying\nthrough the air. It is then that the Tzigane player gives forth\neverything that is secretly lurking within him\u2014fierce anger, childish\nwailings, presumptuous exaltation, brooding melancholy, and passionate\ndespair; and at such moments, as a Hungarian writer has said, one could\nreadily believe in his power of drawing down the angels from heaven\ninto hell!\n\nListen how another Hungarian has here described the effect of their\nmusic:\n\n\u201cHow it rushes through the veins like electric fire! How it penetrates\nstraight to the soul! In soft, plaintive minor tones the _adagio_\nopens with a slow, rhythmical movement: it is a sighing and longing\nof unsatisfied aspirations; a craving for undiscovered happiness; the\nlover\u2019s yearning for the object of his affection; the expression of\nmourning for lost joys, for happy days gone forever: then abruptly\nchanging to a major key the tones get faster and more agitated; and\nfrom the whirlpool of harmony the melody gradually detaches itself,\nalternately drowned in the foam of over-breaking waves, to reappear\nfloating on the surface with undulating motion\u2014collecting as it were\nfresh power for a renewed burst of fury. But quickly as the storm came\nit is gone again, and the music relapses into the melancholy yearnings\nof heretofore.\u201d\n\nThese two extremes of fiercest passion and plaintive wailing\ncharacterize the nature of the Hungarian, of whom it is said that,\n\u201cweeping, the Hungarian makes merry.\u201d\n\nUnder the influence of Tzigane music a Hungarian is capable of flinging\nabout his money with the most reckless extravagance\u2014fifty, a hundred,\na thousand florins and more being often given for the performance of\na single melody. Sometimes a gentleman will stick a large bank-note\nbehind his ear, while the Tzigane proceeds to play his favorite tune,\ndrawing nearer and nearer till he is almost touching; pouring the\nmelody straight into the upturned ear of the enraptured auditor;\ndropping out the notes as though the music were some exquisitely\nflavored liquid flattering the palate of this superrefined _gourmet_,\nwho, with half-closed eyes expressive of perfect beatitude, entirely\nabandons himself to the delirious ecstasy.\n\nNot only do the people at rustic gatherings dance to the strains of\nthese brown bohemians, but in no real Hungarian ball-room would other\nmusic be tolerated, and the Austrian military bands, so much prized\nelsewhere, are here at a discount and little appreciated.\n\n[Illustration: GYPSY MUSICIANS.]\n\nOf course the gypsy bands in large towns are not composed of the\nragged, unkempt individuals who haunt the village pothouses or the\nlonely _csardas_[65] on the _puszta_. Their constant intercourse with\nhigher circles has given them a certain degree of polish, and they\nmostly appear in Hungarian costume; but intrinsically they are ever the\nsame as their more vagabond brethren, and their eye never loses the\nsemi-savage glitter reminding one of a half-tamed animal.\n\nThe calling of musician has often become hereditary in certain\nfamilies, who thus feel themselves to be interwoven with the fates\nof the nobility for whom they play; and _vice versa_, for the youth\nof both sexes in Hungary the recollection of every pleasure they\nhave enjoyed, the dawn of first love, and every alternation of hope,\ntriumph, jealousy, or despair, is inextricably interwoven with the\nimage of the Tzigane player. As Mr. Patterson says, \u201cThe Tzigane is a\nsort of retainer of the Magyar, who cannot well live without him\u2014the\ninsolent good-nature of the one just fitting in with the simple-hearted\nservility of the other; hence the Tzigane is most commonly found in\nthose parts of the country where Hungarians and Roumanians are in\nthe majority. He does not find the neighborhood of the hard-working,\nmoney-loving Suabians profitable to him.\u201d Those who are successful\nmusicians gain a sort of abnormal social status far above their\nfellows. The proverb, \u201cNo entertainment without the gypsies,\u201d is acted\nupon by peasant and prince alike. Those nobles who have squandered\ntheir fortunes would, if they took the trouble to analyze the causes of\ntheir ruin, find the Tzigane player to form one of the heaviest items.\nAs to the peasant there is a popular rhyme which says that if the\nTzigane plays badly he gets his head broken with his own fiddle; but\nshould he succeed in touching the feelings of the excitable peasant,\nthe latter will give him the shirt off his own back.\n\nEnglish people are apt to misunderstand the position of these Tzigane\nmusicians, which is in every way a peculiar one\u2014the intimacy with the\nupper classes thus brought about by their calling implying, however,\nno sort of equality. The Tzigane remains the gypsy fiddler, while the\nMagyar never forgets that he is a nobleman; and the barrier between the\ntwo classes is as absolute as that between Jew and gentleman in Poland.\nAlthough it is no uncommon sight in the streets of any Hungarian town,\ntowards the small hours of the morning, to see distinguished members of\nthe _jeunesse dor\u00e9e_ (their spirits, no doubt, slightly raised by wine)\ngoing home affectionately linked arm-in arm with these brown fiddlers,\nyet no Hungarian could fall into the amusing mistake of an English\nnobleman, who, making a point of lionizing all celebrities within\nreach, invited to dinner the first violin of a gypsy band starring in\nLondon some years ago. The flattering invitation occasioned the most\nintense surprise to the distinguished artist himself, who, though\nwell used to many forms of enthusiasm called forth by his genius, was\ncertainly not accustomed to be seriously taken in the sense of a\ncivilized human being. It is said, however, that the gypsy\u2019s quickness\nof perception, doing duty for education on this occasion, enabled him\nto pass through the formidable ordeal of a London dinner-party without\nfurther breaches of our rigid etiquette than are quite permissible on\nthe part of a barbarous grandee.\n\nIt is said that the Tziganes often perform the office of _postillon\nd\u2019amour_ in taking letters backward and forward between young people\nwho have no other means of communication, their peculiar code of honor\nforbidding them to take any pecuniary remuneration in return. Thus\nmany of them are able to show dainty pieces of handiwork and presents\nof valuable jewelled studs or amber mouth-pieces, received from their\nhigh-born patrons in token of gratitude for delicate services rendered.\n\nThe words \u201cTzigane\u201d and \u201cmusician\u201d have become almost synonymous in\nHungary, and to say \u201cI shall call in the Tziganes\u201d is equivalent to\nsaying \u201cI shall send for the musicians.\u201d\n\nWhen the dancers are limp and indolent the Tzigane musician loses\ninterest as well, and plays carelessly and without spirit; but when\nhe sees dancing _con amore_, and more especially if his playing be\npraised, then he knows neither hunger nor fatigue. He executes every\nsort of dance music with spirit, and his power of identifying himself\nwith the dancers renders the gypsy\u2019s playing far superior to that of\nother professional musicians; but his real triumph is the _csardas_.\n\nThe band-master is fond of secretly selecting a couple from among the\ndancers, and at these directing his music\u2014aiming it at them, if one\nmay thus express it\u2014following their every movement, and identifying\nhimself with their every gesture. To watch a pair of lovers dancing is\nthe gypsy player\u2019s greatest delight, and for them he exerts himself\nto the utmost, throwing his whole soul into the music, breathing\nthe softest sighs and the most passionate rhapsodies of which his\ninstrument is capable.\n\nThe Tzigane band-master\u2014or, rather, the first violin, for the gypsies\nrequire no one to beat time for them\u2014when playing in the ball-room, is\nwont to change the melody as fancy prompts, merely giving warning to\nhis colleagues by two sharp raps of the bow that a change is impending.\nThe other musicians do not know beforehand what tune is coming, but\na note or two suffices to put them on the scent, and they fall in so\nsmoothly that the transition is scarcely detected.\n\nAlmost every one of the dancers has his or her favorite air\u2014their\n_nota_, as it is here called\u2014and it is meant as a delicate attention\nwhen the Tzigane band-master, smiling or winking at a passing dancer,\nstrikes into his air of predilection. The gypsy\u2019s memory in thus\nretaining (and never confounding) the favorite airs of each separate\nperson in a large society is marvellous; and not only this, but he will\nlikewise remember to a nicety which air was your favorite one three or\nfour years ago, and all the attendant circumstances to which the former\nmelody played accompaniment.\n\nThus, whirling past in the mazes of your favorite valse, with the\ngirl you adore on your arm, you may catch the dark eye of the Tzigane\nplayer fixed expressively upon you, and in the next moment the music\nhas changed; it is a long-forgotten melody they are playing now\u2014a\nmelody once familiar to your ears at a by-gone time, when you had other\nthoughts, other hopes, another partner on your arm; when wood-violet,\nnot patchouly, was perchance the scent you loved best, and fair\nringlets had more charm than raven tresses.\n\nFor a moment the present scene has faded from your eyes, and in its\nplace you see a vanished face and hear a voice grown strange to your\nears. That valse, once to you the most entrancing music on earth, now\nsounds like the gibings of some tormenting spirit, and you breathe an\ninvoluntary sigh for a time that is no more!\n\nThus the Tzigane player, unlike the hired musicians in other countries,\nhas an intimate and artistic connection with his dancers. In England\nor Germany the musician is simply the machine which plays, no more to\nbe regarded than a barrel-organ or a musical-box; in Hungary alone he\nis something more, his power of directing being here not limited to\nthe feet, but may almost be said to extend to the fancies and feelings\nof his audience\u2014feelings which it is his delight to share and sway,\nwith actual power to stimulate love or jealousy, and reawaken grief and\nremorse, at the touch of his magic wand.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[65] The solitary inns standing on the wide _pusztas_ are called\n_csardas_, and have given their name to the national dance.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII.\n\nGYPSY POETRY.\n\n\nVery little genuine Tzigane poetry has penetrated to the outer world,\nand many songs erroneously attributed to the gypsies (by Borrow among\nothers) are proved to be adaptations of Spanish or Italian canzonets\npicked up in the course of their wanderings, while of those few which\nare undoubtedly their own productions hardly any exceed the length of\nsix or eight lines.\n\n\u201cWe sing only when we are drunk,\u201d was the answer given by an old gypsy\nto a collector of folk-songs, which pithy and concise definition of\ngypsy literature would seem to be a tolerably correct one\u2014though,\non the other hand, it might be urged with some show of reason that\nthe gypsy, being often drunk, we might naturally expect his poetical\neffusions to be proportionately numerous.\n\nAnd perhaps they are in fact more numerous than is generally supposed,\nonly that for lack of a recording pen to take note of them as they\narise their momentary inspirations pass by unheeded, leaving no more\nmark behind than does the song of some wild forest-bird when it has\nceased to wake the woodland echoes. The conditions of the gypsy\u2019s life\nrender all but impossible the task of a scribe, who has little chance\nof picking up anything of interest unless prepared for the time being\nto become almost a gypsy himself.\n\nNor have there been wanting ardent folk-lorists (if I may coin a\nword) who have gone this length; so, for instance, Dr. Heinrich von\nWlislocki, who, in the summer of 1883, spent several months as member\nof a wandering troop of tent gypsies in Transylvania and Southern\nHungary, and has lately published a volume of gypsy fairy tales, the\nfruit of his laborious expedition. Yet on the whole the harvest is a\nmeagre one, if we take account of the time and trouble spent on its\nrealization; and even this energetic collector has declared that he\nwould hardly have the courage a second time to face the deceptions and\nfatigues of such an undertaking.\n\nTo his pen it is that we owe the first poem contained in this\nchapter; the second one, entitled, \u201cThe Black Voda,\u201d interesting as\nbeing an almost solitary instance of a consecutive gypsy ballad, was\ncommunicated to me by the courtesy of Professor Hugo von Meltzl,\nof Klausenburg, another Transylvanian authority in the matter of\nfolk-lore, who, in his \u201cActa Comparationis Literarum Universum,\u201d has\ngiven many interesting details bearing on these subjects.\n\nThe other sixteen specimens of the Tzigane muse are so simple as to\ncall for no explanation, though in one or two cases not wholly devoid\nof poetical merit.\n\n\nGYPSY BALLAD.\n\n(_From a German translation by Dr. H. von Wlislocki._)\n\n O\u2019er the meadow, o\u2019er the wold,\n Tracks a boy the wand\u2019rer old,\n Who a scarf wears by his side\u2014\n Follows him with stealthy stride.\n Bleeding fells the wand\u2019rer prone\n In the forest dark and lone;\n And the boy has ta\u2019en the life\n Of the man with murd\u2019rous knife.\n Throws the corse all stained with blood\n In the river\u2019s rushing flood;\n But, alas! not guessing he\n Who this ancient wand\u2019rer be.\n Lightly running home then went,\n Till he reached his mother\u2019s tent,\n Held the scarf before her eyes;\n She, long silent with surprise,\n Cried at last with passion wild,\n \u201cCursed be thou, my only child!\n May the slayer of his sire\n Branded be by Heaven\u2019s ire;\n Hast thy father killed to-day,\n And his scarf hast stolen away!\u201d\n\n\nTHE BLACK VODA.[66]\n\n \u201cRise, arise, my Velvet Georgie,[67]\n Waken, set you to the bellows;\n Forge and hammer nails of iron.\u201d\n Said the husband, \u201cI am coming;\n Take the broom the dust out-sweeping.\u201d\n And then Velvet Georgie rises,\n Straightway on his feet is standing.\n At the bellows quick down-sitting,\n Nails of iron he is forging.\n Then into the market going,\n Roast-meat fresh and juicy bought he,\n Roasted meat and white bread also.\n And he walked into the tavern,\n And he sat there eating, drinking,\n Never thinking of his consort,\n Nothing caring for her wishes\u2014\n No new dress for her is buying.\n She to Voda ran complaining.\n Voda thus his love did answer,\n \u201cTo the merchant quickly hie thee,\n Ask him what a dress will cost thee.\u201d\n To the town she ran off smiling,\n Chose a dress there for her wearing.\n Quoth the merchant, \u201cNot on credit;\n Bring me cash before I sell it.\u201d\n Voda paid him down the money;\n Paid and went\u2014 But Velvet Georgie,\n From the tavern soon returning,\n Found his wife, and in his anger\n Threw her in the glowing furnace,\n Whence she, loud with cries of anguish,\n Called upon her absent lover:\n\n \u201cVoda, Voda, O Black Voda,\n See how both my feet are burning!\u201d\n\n \u201cLet them burn, O faithless lassie,\n Many pair of boots hast cost me.\u201d\n\n \u201cVoda, Voda, O Black Voda,\n See now how my waist is burning!\u201d\n\n \u201cLet it burn, thou brazen hussy,\n Worn out hast thou many dresses.\u201d\n\n \u201cVoda, Voda, O Black Voda,\n How my bosom burns and scorches!\u201d\n\n \u201cLet it burn, O shameless harlot,\n Many hands have oft caressed it.\u201d\n\n \u201cVoda, Voda, O Black Voda,\n Both my hands are burning sorely!\u201d\n\n \u201cLet them burn, O wanton lassie,\n Many pair of gloves they cost me.\u201d\n\n \u201cVoda, Voda, O Black Voda,\n Now my neck is burning also!\u201d\n\n \u201cLet it burn, thou brazen hussy,\n Many beads hast worn around it.\u201d\n\n \u201cVoda, Voda, O Black Voda,\n Now my lips the fire is catching!\u201d\n\n \u201cLet them burn, O shameless harlot,\n Many kisses hast thou given.\u201d\n\n \u201cVoda, Voda, O Black Voda,\n Now my head itself is burning!\u201d\n\n \u201cLet it burn, thou worthless baggage,\n Let the fire destroy thee wholly.\u201d\n\n\nGYPSY RHYMES.\n\n\nI.\n\n The donkey is a lazy brute,\n That fact there is no hiding;\n Yet those, methinks, the brute doth suit\n Who slow are fond of riding.\n\n\nII.\n\n Autumn glads the peasant\u2019s breast,\n Sends the hunter on the quest;\n Pines the gypsy\u2019s heart alone\n For the sunshine that is gone!\n\n\nIII.\n\n Since holds the tomb my mother dear,\n My life is cheerless, bleak, and drear;\n No sweetheart have on earth\u2019s wide face,\n So is the grave my better place.\n\n\nIV.\n\n I my father never knew,\n Friend to me was never true,\n Dead the mother that I loved,\n Faithless has my sweetheart proved,\n Still alone with me you fare,\n Faithful fiddle, everywhere!\n\n\nV.\n\n Of coin my purse is bare,\n My heart is full of care;\n Come here, my fiddle, \u2019tis for thee\n To banish care and poverty.\n\n\nVI.\n\n Heaven grant the boon, I pray;\n All I ask is but a gown\u2014\n But a gown with buttons gay,\n Buttons jingling joyously,\n Jingling to be heard in town!\n\n\nVII.\n\n God of vengeance! give to me\n That of wives the best;\n Give me boot and give me spur,\n Give me scarlet vest.\n Then though spite their visage darken\n In the market-place,\n Fain must look and needs must hearken\n All my foemen\u2019s race.\n\n\nVIII.\n\n Where soft the wee burn babbles down over there,\n Full oft have I pressed these lips to my fair.\n The burn it still babbles, will babble amain,\n Shall lips to my fair be pressed never again!\n The waves of the brook to the valley are flowing,\n Where on grave of my fairest the blossoms are blowing.\n\n\nIX.\n\n Down there in the meadow they\u2019re mowing,\n And looks at my sweetheart they\u2019re throwing;\n Such looks at my sweetheart they\u2019re throwing,\n That mad is this heart of mine going!\n\n\nX.\n\n Yonder strapping lass did bake,\n Put no salt into the cake;\n Lo! it sticks upon the pan\u2014\n Eat it, child, as best you can.\n\n\nXI.\n\n \u201cPlainly, maiden, lov\u2019st thou me?\n Which thy true-love\u2014I or he?\u201d\n \u201cThou, O thou, when thou art nigh;\n But for love of him I die!\u201d\n\n\nXII.\n\n Boots and shoes were never mine,\n Seldom have I tasted wine;\n But I once possessed a wife,\n And she poisoned all my life!\n\n\nXIII.\n\n Hammer the iron! Deal thy blows\n Heavy and hard, as a gypsy knows.\n Poor, yet ever\u2014how poor!\u2014remain;\n Heart full of bitterness, full of pain.\n Ah, how well would it be if there\n I could but in yon furnace glare,\n Till soft it grew, my love\u2019s heart ply;\n No man were then so rich as I.\n\n\nXIV.\n\n Underneath the greenwood-tree\n Days I\u2019ve waited three times three;\n I would on my love set eyes,\n Here I know her path-way lies.\n Could I hope a kiss to earn,\n Into weeks the days might turn;\n Could I hope to win my dear,\n Then each day might be a year!\n\n\nXV.\n\n Come, silvery moon, so silent and coy,\n What does my brown sweetheart that dwells by the mere?\n Say, was she not kissed by a flaxen-haired boy?\n Or whispers a stranger soft words in her ear?\n\n On second thoughts, better, moon, darling, be mute,\n The odious trade of a telltale eschewing;\n Or perhaps you might tell her\u2014and that would not suit\u2014\n What yesterday evening myself I was doing!\n\n\nXVI.\n\n The bee ever makes for the flower,\n And lads after lassies will go;\n Was it otherwise, grandam so sour,\n In the days of thy youth long ago?\n\n For Nature her mould never varies,\n To that can no wisdom say nay;\n What the ancestor felt, that the heir is,\n As inheritor, feeling to-day.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[66] This ballad, which in the original is called \u201cKalai Wodas,\u201d and\nbegins thus:\n\n \u201cT\u2019ushtyi, t\u2019ushtyi, Barshon Gyuri,\n Thai besh tuke pre tri vina,\u201d\n\nis, with slight variations, sung all over Transylvania, often by the\ngypsy smiths, who mark the time on the anvil as they sing; the dialogue\nbetween husband and wife, which forms the last part, being usually\ndivided between two voices.\n\n[67] Such names as \u201cVelvet George,\u201d \u201cBlack Voda,\u201d etc., are very\ncommon among the gypsies, and have probably had their origin in some\npeculiarity of costume or complexion.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII.\n\nTHE SZEKLERS AND ARMENIANS.\n\n\nOf the Hungarians in general, who constitute something less than the\nthird part of the total population of Transylvania, it is not my\nintention to speak in detail. Hungary and Hungarians have already been\nexhaustively described by abler pens, and I wish here to confine myself\nchiefly to such points as are distinctively characteristic of the land\nbeyond the forest. Under this head, therefore, come the Szeklers, as\nthey are named\u2014a branch of the Magyar race settled in the east and\nnorth-east of Transylvania, and numbering about one hundred and eighty\nthousand.\n\n[Illustration: SZEKLER PEASANT.]\n\nThere are many versions to explain the origin of the Szeklers, and\nsome historians have supposed them to be unrelated to the great body\nof Magyars living at the other side of the mountains. They are fond\nof describing themselves as being descended from the Huns. Indeed one\nvery old family of Transylvanian nobles makes, I believe, a boast of\nproceeding in line direct from the Scourge of God himself, and there\nare many popular songs afloat among the people making mention of a like\nbelief, as the following:\n\n A noble Szekler born and bred,\n Full loftily I hold my head.\n Great Attila my sire was he;\n As legacy he left to me\n\n A dagger, battle-axe, and spear;\n A heart, to whom unknown is fear;\n A potent arm, which oft has slain\n The Tartar foe in field and plain.\n\n The Scourge of Attila the bold\n Still hangs among us as of old;\n And when this lash we swing on high,\n Our enemies are forced to fly.\n\n The Szekler proud then learn to know,\n And strive not to become his foe,\n For blood of Huns runs in him warm,\n And well he knows to wield his arm.\n\nThere is also a popular legend telling us how Csaba, son of Attila,\nretreated eastward with the wreck of his army, after the last bloody\nbattle, in which he had been vanquished. His purpose was to rejoin the\nrest of his tribe in Asia, and with their help once more to return and\nconquer.\n\nOn the extreme frontier of Transylvania, however, he left behind him\na portion of his army, to serve as watch-post and be ready to support\nhim on his return some day. Before parting the two divisions of troops\ntook solemn oath ever to assist each other in hour of need, even though\nthey had to traverse the whole world for that purpose. Accordingly,\nhardly had Csaba reached the foot of the hills, when the neighboring\ntribes rose up against the forlorn Szeklers; but the tree-tops rustling\ngently against one another soon brought news of their distress to their\nbrethren, who, hurrying back, put the enemy to flight.\n\nAfter a year the same thing was repeated, but the stream ran murmuring\nof it to the river, the river carried the news to the sea, the sea\nshouted it onward to the warriors, and again quickly returning on their\npaces they dispersed the foe.\n\nThree years went by ere the Szeklers were again hard pressed by their\nenemies. This time their countrymen were already so far away that only\nthe wind could reach them in the distant east, but they came again, and\na third time delivered their brethren.\n\nThe Szeklers had now peace for many years; the nut-kernels they had\nplanted in the land beyond the forest had meanwhile sprouted and\ndeveloped to mighty trees with spreading branches and massive trunks;\nchildren had grown to be old men, and grandchildren to arms-bearing\nwarriors; and the provisionary watch-post had become a well-organized\nsettlement. But once again the neighbors, envying the strangers\u2019\nwelfare, and having forgotten the assistance which always came to them\nin hour of need, rose up against them. Bravely the Szeklers fought, but\nwith such inferior numbers that they could not but perish; they had no\nlonger any hope of assistance, for their brethren were long since dead,\nand gone where no messenger could reach them.\n\nBut the star of the Szeklers yet watched over them, and brought the\ntidings to another world.\n\nThe last battle was just being fought, and the defeat of the Szeklers\nseemed imminent, when suddenly the tramp of hoofs and the clank of arms\nis heard, and from the starlit vault of heaven phantom legions are seen\napproaching.\n\nNo mortal army can resist an immortal one. The sacred oath has been\nkept; once more the Szekler is saved, and silently as they came the\nphantoms wend back their way to heaven.\n\nSince that time the Szekler has obtained a firm hold on the land, and\nenemies molest him no more; but as often as on a clear starry night he\ngazes aloft on the glittering track[68] left of yore by the passage of\nthe delivering army, he thinks gratefully of the past, and calls it by\nthe name of the _hadak utja_ (the way of the legions).\n\n * * * * *\n\nRecent historians have, however, swept away these theories regarding\nthe Szeklers\u2019 origin, and explained it in different fashion. The most\nancient records of the Magyars do not date farther back than the sixth\ncentury after Christ, when they are mentioned as a semi-nomadic race\nliving on the vast plains between the Caucasian and Ural mountains. A\nportion of them quitted these regions in the eighth and ninth centuries\nto seek a new home in the territory between the rivers Dnieper and\nSzereth. From here a small fraction of them, pressed hard by the\nBulgarians, traversed the chain of Moldavian Carpathians, and found\na refuge on the rich fertile plains of Eastern Transylvania (895),\nwhere, living ever since cut off from their kinsfolk, they have formed\na people by themselves. According to the most probable version, these\nfugitives would seem to have been the women, children, and old men,\nwho, left unprotected at home in the absence of the fighting-men of the\nhorde, had thus escaped the vengeance of Simeon, King of Bulgaria.\n\n\u201cAt the frontier,\u201d or \u201cbeyond,\u201d is the signification of the Hungarian\nword Szekler, which therefore does not imply a distinctive race, but\nmerely those Hungarians who live beyond the forest\u2014near the frontier,\nand cut off from the rest of their countrymen. One Hungarian authority\ntells us that the word Szekler, meaning frontier-keeper or watchman,\nwas indiscriminately applied to all soldiers of whatever nationality\nwho defended the frontier of the kingdom.\n\nLater, when the greater body of Hungarians had established their\nauthority over this portion of the territory as well, the two peoples\nfraternized with each other as kinsfolk, descended indeed from one\ncommon family tree, but who had acquired certain dissimilarities in\nspeech, manner, and costume, brought about by their separation; and\ndespite sympathy and resemblance on most points, they have never quite\nmerged into one nationality, and the Szeklers have a proverb which says\nthat there is the same difference between a Szekler and a Hungarian as\nthere is between a man and his grandson\u2014meaning that they themselves\ncame in by a previous immigration.\n\nThe Szeklers had this advantage over their kinsfolk in Hungary proper,\nof never at any time having been reduced to the state of serfdom.\nThey occupied the exceptional position of a peasant aristocracy,\nhaving, among other privileges, the right of hunting, also that of\nbeing exempted from infantry service and being enlisted as cavalry\nsoldiers only; whereas the ordinary Hungarian peasant was, up to 1785,\nattached to the soil under conditions only somewhat lighter than those\noppressing the Russian serf. Curiously enough, though the system of\nvillanage had already been formally discarded by King Sigismond in\n1405, it was taken up again some years later; and, in point of fact,\nup to 1848 there was scarcely any limit to the services which the\nHungarian peasant was bound to render to his master.\n\nNot so the Szeklers, who have always jealously defended their\nprivileges and preserved their freedom, owing to which their bearing\nis prouder, freer, nobler than that of their kinsfolk. The Hungarian\npeasant, as a rule, is neither wanting in grace nor dignity. But\nfreedom is just as much a habit as slavery; and as one writer has aptly\nremarked, \u201cA people does not fully regain the stamp of manhood and its\nown self-respect in a single generation,\u201d so the man who can count back\neight centuries of freeborn ancestors will always have an advantage\nover one whose fathers were still born in bondage.\n\nLike the other Magyars, the Szeklers are an inborn nation of soldiers,\nand rank among the best of the Austrian army. It was principally on\nthe Szeklers that the brunt fell of resisting attacks from the many\nbarbarous hordes always infesting the eastern frontier. When the\nWallachians fled to the mountains at the approach of an enemy, and the\nSaxons ensconced themselves within their well-built fortresses, the\nSzeklers advanced into the open plain and ranged themselves for battle,\nrarely abandoning the field till the ground was thickly strewn with\ntheir dead.\n\nThe Szekler, who has usually more children than his Hungarian brother,\nis well and strongly built, but rarely over middle size. His face is\noval, the forehead flat, hands and feet rather small than large. With\nmuch natural intelligence, he cares little for art or science, and has\nbut small comprehension of the beautiful. Even when living in easy\ncircumstances, he does not care to surround himself with books like\nthe Saxon, nor does he betray the latent taste for color and design\nso strongly characterizing the Roumanian. His inbred dignity seems\nto place him on a level with whoever he addresses. He is reserved in\nspeech, with an almost Asiatic formality of manner, and it requires\nthe stimulus of wine or music to rouse him to noisy merriment; but on\noccasions when speech is required of him, he displays inborn power of\noration, speaking easily and without embarrassment, finding vigorous\nexpressions and appropriate images wherewith to clothe his meaning. The\nHungarian language has no dialect, and each peasant speaks it as purely\nas a prince.\n\nThe Hungarian\u2019s character is a singularly simple and open one; he is\nsimple in his love, his hatred, his anger, and revenge, and though he\nmay sometimes be accused of brutality, deceit can never be laid to his\ncharge, while flattery he does not even understand. It is his inherent\ndignity and self-respect which makes him thus open, scorning to appear\notherwise than he really is. You will never see a Hungarian bargaining\nfor his money with clamorous avidity like the Saxon, nor will he accept\nan alms with humble gratitude like the Roumanian.\n\nHe uncovers his head courteously to the master of his village, but he\nwill not think of uncovering for a strange gentleman, even were it\nthe greatest in the land. Hospitality is with him not a virtue but an\ninstinct, and he cannot even comprehend the want of it in another.\n\nA Hungarian who had stopped to rest the horses in a Saxon village came\nwonderingly to his master. \u201cWhat strange people are these?\u201d he said.\n\u201cThey were sitting round the table eating bread and onions, and not one\nof them asked me to join them!\u201d\n\nOn another occasion a gentleman travelling with an invalid wife was\novertaken by a storm near a Saxon village, and wanted to put up there\nfor the night. There was no inn in the place, and not one of the\nfamilies would consent to receive them. \u201cYou had better drive on to the\nnext village but one,\u201d was the advice volunteered by one of the most\ngood-natured Saxon householders. \u201cNot to the next village, for there\nthey are Saxons like us and will not take you in; but to the village\nafter that, which is Hungarian. They are always hospitable, and will\ngive you a bed.\u201d\n\nThe Szekler villages, of a formal simplicity, are as far removed from\nthe Roumanian poverty as from Saxon opulence. The long double row of\nwhitewashed houses, their narrow gable-ends all turned towards the\nroad, have something camp-like in their appearance, and have been\naptly compared to a line of snowy tents ready to be folded together at\nthe approach of an enemy. The Magyar has a passion for whitewashing\nhis dwelling-house, and several times a year, at the fixed dates of\nparticular festivals, he is careful to restore to his walls the snowy\ngarment of their lost innocence. This custom of whitewashing at stated\nperiods is still said to be practised among the tribes dwelling in the\nCaucasian regions.\n\nIn the midst of the village stands the church, whitewashed like the\nother houses. It is slender and modest in shape, neither surrounded by\nfortified walls like the Saxon churches, nor made glorious with color\nlike those of the Roumanians. Near to the entrance of the village is\nthe church-yard, and in some places it is still customary to bury the\ndead with their faces turned towards the east.\n\nThere are few Roumanian villages in Szekler-land, neither do we find\nhere the inevitable outgrowth of Roumanian hovels tacked on to each\nvillage, as is usual in Saxon colonies. The Roumanians do not thrive\nalongside of their Szekler neighbors, because these do not require\ntheir aid and will take no trouble to learn their language. The Szekler\ncultivates his own soil without help from strangers, whereas the Saxon,\nwhose ground is usually larger than he can manage himself, and obliged\nto take Roumanian farm-servants, is compelled to learn their language;\nand it has often been remarked that a whole Saxon household has been\nbrought to speak Roumanian merely on account of one single Roumanian\ncow-wench.\n\nThe greater number of Szeklers have remained Catholics, the population\nof the western district only having adopted the Reformed faith, while\nthe Unitarian sect, which has made of Klausenburg its principal seat,\nand counts some fifty-four thousand members, is chiefly composed of\nHungarians proper.\n\nThere are not above a dozen really wealthy Hungarian nobles in\nTransylvania, and of many a one it is jokingly said that his whole\npossessions consist of four horses, as many oxen, and a respectable\namount of debts. The same sort of open-handed hospitality which has\nruined so many Poles has also here undermined many fortunes.\n\nThe conjugal relations are somewhat Oriental among the lower classes,\nthe position of the wife towards the husband involving a sense of\nsocial inferiority; for while she addresses him as _kend_ (your grace),\nand speaks of him as _uram_ (lord or master), he calls her thou, and\nspeaks of her as _felsegem_ (my consort). In walking along the road it\nis her place to walk behind her lord and master; and at weddings men\nand women are usually separated, and if the house have but a single\nroom it is reserved for the men to banquet in, while the women, as\ninferior creatures, are relegated to the cellar or to a stable or byre\ncleared for the purpose. Bride and bridegroom must eat nothing at this\nbanquet, and only in the evening is a separate meal served up for them,\nand, like the other guests, the new-married couple must spend this day\napart.\n\nIf we are to believe popular songs, of which the following is a sample,\nthe stick would seem to play no unimportant part in each Hungarian\n_m\u00e9nage_:\n\n \u201cO peacock fair, O peacock bright,\n O peacock proud and high!\n I fool! for though of lowly birth,\n A noble wife took I;\n But nothing that I e\u2019er could do\n Would please my peacock high.\n To market once I went and bought\n A pair of blood-red shoon.\n I placed my present on the bench\u2014\n \u2019Twas at the hour of noon.\n \u2018Thy duty bids thee call me lord,\n My darling wife,\u2019 quoth I.\n \u2018Nay, nevermore, that will I not,\n And though I had to die,\n For gentlemen of noble birth\n Sat round my father\u2019s board,\n And if I said not \u201csir\u201d to them,\n How should I call thee lord?\u2019\n\n \u201cO peacock fair, O peacock bright,\n O peacock proud and high!\n I fool! for though of lowly birth,\n A noble wife took I;\n But nothing that I e\u2019er could do\n Would please my peacock high.\n Again to market did I go\n And bought a kirtle fine;\n \u2019Twas growing dark as on the bench\n I laid this gift of mine.\n \u2018Thy duty bids thee call me lord,\n My darling wife,\u2019 quoth I.\n \u2018Nay, nevermore, that will I not,\n And though I had to die,\n For gentlemen of noble birth\n Sat round my father\u2019s board,\n And if I said not \u201csir\u201d to them,\n How should I call thee lord?\u2019\n\n \u201cO peacock fair, O peacock bright,\n O peacock proud and high!\n I fool! for though of lowly birth,\n A noble wife took I;\n But nothing that I e\u2019er could do\n Would please my peacock high.\n The moon was shining in the skies\n When to the woods I sped;\n I cut a hazel rod full long,\n And hid it \u2019neath the bed.\n \u2018Thy duty bids thee call me lord,\n My darling wife,\u2019 quoth I.\n \u2018Nay, nevermore, that will I not.\n And though I had to die.\u2019\n Then in my hand I took the rod\n And beat my bosom\u2019s wife,\n Until she cried, \u2018Thou art my lord!\n My lord for death and life!\u2019\u201d\n\nThe Armenians deserve something more than a passing notice at the\nfag-end of a chapter; but having had little opportunity of being thrown\ntogether with these people, I am unable to furnish many details as to\ntheir life and manners.\n\nPersecuted and oppressed in Moldavia during the seventeenth century,\nthe Armenians were offered a refuge in Transylvania by the Prince\nMichael Apafi, and came hither about 1660, at first living dispersed\nall over the land, till in 1791 the Emperor Leopold granting them\namong other privileges the right to establish independent colonies,\nthey founded the settlements of Szamos-Ujvar (Armenopolis) and\nElisabethstadt, or Ebesfalva. This latter town, which counts to-day\nabout twenty-five hundred Armenian inhabitants, is renowned for the\ngood looks of its women\u2014pale, dark-eyed beauties, with low foreheads\nand straight eyebrows, whose portraits might be taken in pen and ink\nonly, without any help from the palette. They have the reputation\u2014I\nknow not with what reason\u2014of being very immoral, but in a quiet,\nunostentatious fashion.\n\nIn the men the pure Asiatic type is yet more clearly marked\u2014the\nfine-shaped oval head, arched yet not hooked nose, black eyes, jetty\nbeard, and clean-cut profiles betraying their nationality at the first\nglance. In manner they are singularly calm and self-possessed, never\nevincing emotion or excitement. They are much addicted to card-playing.\nIn many parts of Hungary the Armenians have so completely amalgamated\nwith the Magyars as to have forgotten their own language, but where\nthey live together in compact colonies it is still kept up. There are\ntwo languages\u2014the popular idiom and the written tongue, the language\nof science and literature. Their religion is the Catholic one, but\ntheir services are conducted in their own language instead of Latin.\n\nLike the Hebrews, the Armenians have great natural aptitude for\ntrade; and it is chiefly due to their influence that the Jews have\nnot here succeeded in getting the reins of commerce into their hands.\nThe bankers and money-lenders in Transylvania are almost invariably\nArmenians.\n\nA Saxon legend explains the origin of the Armenians by saying that when\nGod had created all the different sorts of men, there remained over two\nlittle morsels of the clay of which he had respectively moulded the\nJew and the gypsy; so, in order not to waste these, he kneaded them up\ntogether, and formed of them the Armenian.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[68] The Milky Way.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX.\n\nFRONTIER REGIMENTS.\n\n\nThe south-west of Transylvania used to form part of the territory\ncalled the _Milit\u00e4r-Grenze_ (military frontier)\u2014a peculiar institution\nnow extinct, which, interesting as being to some extent of Roman\norigin, may here claim a few lines of notice.\n\nWhen the Roman conquerors had taken possession of the countries north\nof the Danube, they found it necessary to organize a sort of standing\nrampart of troops to be always at hand, ready to oppose unexpected\nattacks from the barbarian hordes on the other side. These soldiers,\nwho might be designated as military agriculturists, found their\nsustenance in cultivating the ground assigned to each of them, and,\nbeing always ready on the spot, could be speedily formed in line at the\nslightest alarm of an enemy.\n\nSimilar circumstances caused the Hungarian kings to imitate these\ninstitutions, and organize the population of the southern frontier to\nthat purpose, allotting to them the task of protecting the country\nagainst the frequent invasions of Turks. Not content, however, with\nresisting attacks from without, these troops often adopted an offensive\nline of action, making raids over the frontier to plunder, burn, and\nmassacre in the enemy\u2019s country. The continual state of skirmishing\nwarfare resulting from these arrangements kept up the martial spirit\nof the population, and many are the legends recorded of doughty deeds\naccomplished at that time.\n\nAfter the fall of the Hungarian kingdom in 1526, the noblemen\nsubscribed among themselves to keep up the frontier in the same\nfashion, often availing themselves of the assistance of these troops in\ntheir attempted insurrections against Austria.\n\nBut the Hungarian soldiers, who in this somewhat rough school of\nchivalry had acquired objectionable habits\u2014such, for instance, as\nthat of bringing back their enemies\u2019 heads attached to the saddle-bow\nwhenever they returned from a skirmish\u2014had, despite their evident\nutility, fallen into bad odor at Vienna; so when the Hungarian nobles\nthemselves lost their independence, these frontier troops were\nsuffered to fall into disorganization. Only after Maria Theresa had\nascended the throne, and, having consolidated the Austrian power,\nobtained for herself and her descendants the irrevocable right to the\nHungarian crown, was it thought necessary to reorganize in more regular\nfashion this living rampart along the frontier, with a view to keeping\nout the Turks, who were again showing signs of being troublesome.\nAccordingly, the population of the whole southern frontier, from Poland\nto the Adriatic, was classified in military companies and regiments,\nand the ground distributed to the peasants under condition that\nthey and their children should live and die on the spot, their sons\ninheriting the obligation of serving in like manner as their fathers.\n\nOf these frontier regiments, altogether fourteen in number, six were\ncreated in Transylvania. Of these two infantry and one dragoon regiment\nwere recruited from the Wallachian population; the remaining three, two\ninfantry and one hussar, from the Hungarians.\n\nThis system was carried out without trouble in the provinces recently\nreconquered from the Turks, which, being thinly populated, offered\ngreater inducements for fresh settlers; but elsewhere, where there\nalready existed a fixed population of Hungarians and Roumanians, there\nwas much difficulty in establishing it. In former days the peasants\nhad consented to pass their life on horseback in order to protect the\nfrontier; but those days were long since gone by when people found\nsuch life to be congenial, and many of the novel conditions imposed by\nthe Austrians were exceedingly distasteful. They did not care to be\ncommanded by German officers, nor to feel themselves amalgamated with\nthe Austrian regular troops, liable to be sent to fight on foreign\nterritory.\n\nAmong the Wallachians whole villages emigrated in order to evade these\nnew laws. Those who declined to serve, and were not inclined to leave\ntheir homes, were driven from their huts at the point of the bayonet,\nand replaced by other settlers brought from a distance. Much cruelty\nwas resorted to in order to compel their obedience, the Austrians\nsparing neither fire nor sword to gain their ends; and the year 1784\nin particular was most disastrous to those poor people, who, after\nall, were only trying to escape from unjustifiable tyranny. Also, a\nfew years later, when some of these troops had risen in insurrection,\ndeclaring themselves only obliged to defend the frontier, not to\nespouse foreign quarrels in which Austria alone had a personal\ninterest, whole regiments were decimated, shot down by the cannon;\nand the place is still shown where the bodies of the victims of this\nwholesale butchery repose under two giant hillocks.\n\nFrom an Austrian point of view, no doubt this institution was a most\nexcellent and practical one; eighty thousand trained men, who cost\nbut little in time of peace, were ready at a moment\u2019s notice for war.\nBefore the officer\u2019s dwelling-house at each station stood a high pole,\nwound over with ropes of straw and other combustible matter, which was\nset fire to at the slightest alarm of an enemy. The signal being thus\ntaken up and repeated from station to station, the whole frontier was\nspeedily marked out in a fiery line, and the men collected and in arms\nin an incredibly short space of time.\n\nWhen serving against an enemy their pay was equal to that of the\nregular troops, while in time of peace they received no pay except a\nfew kreuzers per day whenever a soldier was on duty\u2014that is, whenever\nhe had frontier inspection.\n\nOn these troops devolved the duty of keeping in order all roads,\nbuildings, etc., within their circuit, and nowhere in Hungary and\nTransylvania were to be found such excellent, well-kept roads, bridges,\nand buildings as those within the territory of the military frontier.\n\nThe men could not marry without permission of their superiors, their\nsons being, so to say, enrolled as soldiers before their birth; while\ndaughters could only inherit their share of the father\u2019s land on\ncondition of marrying a soldier.\n\nThe lot of those born and bred in this species of military bondage has\nbeen pathetically rendered in a Hungarian song, of which I offer a\ntranslation:\n\n The wild wood was my native home,\n Though born unto a soldier\u2019s doom.\n Amid the green leaves sighing,\n And gentle cushats crying,\n My father nurtured me.\n\n But soon as I, a stripling grown,\n Could sit a horse\u2019s back alone,\n I to the plough remaining,\n My sire must go campaigning\n Against the French afar.\n\n Drive furrows deeper and more deep!\n Outbursting tears in torrents leap!\n My father ne\u2019er returning,\n My mother pining, yearning,\n Soon wore her life away.\n\n Now we to war to-morrow go;\n The Ruler\u2019s word has bid it so.\n Ah me! ye green leaves sighing,\n And gentle cushats crying,\n When shall I hear you more?\n\n[Illustration: THE ROTHENTHURM PASS.]\n\nIn former days, when the country was in a state of semi-barbarism, this\nsystem answered well enough; the military discipline was in itself\nan education, and the bribe of becoming landed proprietors induced\nmany, no doubt, to accept the conditions involved. Later on, however,\nwhen all peasants obtained possession of the soil they tilled, the\ntables were turned, and the frontier soldier found himself to be\nconsiderably worse off than his neighbor. Likewise, the original reason\nof these institutions no longer existed; the Ottoman power was rapidly\ndecreasing, and surprises at the frontier were no more to be looked\nfor. The spirit, the adventure, the poetry of warfare (which alone had\ncaused these people to accept their lot) had departed, and they could\nno longer be induced to let themselves be led to butchery in distant\nclimes to gratify a stranger\u2019s whim. Therefore, in the reorganization\nof the Austrian army after the disastrous campaign of 1866, these\nfrontier regiments were, like other antiquated institutions, finally\nabolished, and have left no other trace behind but here and there a\nruined watch-tower standing deserted in a mountain wilderness.\n\nMany of the points selected for the erection of these military\nestablishments lay amid the wildest and most beautiful mountain\nscenery, and for a keen sportsman, or an ardent lover of nature, the\nlot of an Austrian officer in one of these beautiful wildernesses must\nhave been a very El Dorado.\n\nOne of the most beautiful, and from a military point of view, most\nimportant, of these military cordon stations was the Rothenthurm Pass\n(Pass of the Red Tower), so named from the color of a fortress-tower\nwhose ruins may yet be seen beside the road.\n\nThis lovely mountain-gorge, traversed by the river Aluta, and to be\nreached in a pleasant two hours\u2019 drive from Hermanstadt, has been\nthe scene of much cruel strife in by-gone days. Many a time have the\nwild devastation\u2014bringing hordes poured into the land by this narrow\ndefile; and here it was that in 1493 George Hecht, the burgomaster\nof Hermanstadt, obtained a signal victory over the Turks, whom he\nbutchered in wholesale fashion, dyeing the river ruddy red, it is said,\nwith the blood of the slain.\n\nNowadays the river Aluta flows by peaceably enough, and the primitive\nlittle inn which stands at the boundary of the two countries offers\nan inviting retreat to any solitary angler who cares to study the\ncharacters of Transylvanian _versus_ Roumanian trout.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL.\n\nWOLVES, BEARS, AND OTHER ANIMALS.\n\n\nTransylvania has often been nicknamed the B\u00e4renland, and though bears\nand wolves do not exactly walk about the high-roads in broad daylight,\nas unsophisticated travellers are apt to expect, yet they are common\nenough features in the landscape, and no one can be many weeks in the\ncountry without hearing them mentioned as familiarly as foxes or grouse\nare spoken of at home.\n\nThe number of bears shot in Transylvania in the course of the year 1885\nwas about sixty. Eight of these fell to the share of the Crown-prince\nRudolf of Austria, who for the last few years has rented a _chasse_\nat Gyergy\u00f3 Szent Imre, in one of the most favorable bear-hunting\nneighborhoods.[69]\n\nAs to the wolves destroyed each year, they are not to be reckoned by\ndozens, nor even by scores, but by hundreds, and I was assured by a\ncompetent authority that between six and seven hundred is the number of\nthose who last year perished by the hand of man.\n\nIt is the commonest thing in the world on market-days to see a group of\nshepherds in the ironmonger\u2019s shop (where a store of common fire-arms\nis kept), in deep consultation as to the merits of the pistol or\nrevolver they are in want of for scaring the wolves so constantly\nmolesting their flocks; and occasionally a snapping and snarling wolf,\nor a pair of bear cubs, are brought in a cart to the town in quest of\nan amateur of such fierce pets.\n\nEven in the neighborhood of Hermanstadt it is not safe to walk far into\nthe country alone in very cold weather for fear of wolves, which can\neasily approach the town under cover of the forest, which runs unbroken\nup to the hills; and while I was at Hermanstadt a large gray wolf was\nreported to have been seen several nights in succession prowling about\nwithin the actual precincts of the lower town.\n\nAt one of the toll-bars marking the limits of the town, and whence\nstretches off a lonely plain towards the south, a large fierce dog\nis kept chained up; but he never retains his situation two years\nrunning, because he is invariably destroyed by wolves before the winter\nis out. \u201cThe dog at the Poplaka toll-bar has been eaten again,\u201d is\nthe matter-of-fact announcement one hears every year when the cold\nis rising, and which has long since lost all flavor of sensation or\nnovelty; and one only wonders how any Hermanstadt dog can still be\nfound infatuated enough to undertake this forlorn hope.\n\nUp in the mountains, however, the wolves do not slink in stealthy\ngroups of twos and threes, but assemble in such mighty packs that\nsometimes on the high pasturages the snow is found to be trampled down\nby the tread of many hundred feet, as though large droves of cattle had\npassed over the place. Officers who have been engaged in the work of\ngoing over the country, classifying all horses for purposes of national\ndefence, have told me that in many out-of-the-way places up the hills\nthey used to find the horses frequently bitten or scarred about the\nnose\u2014as many keepsakes from the wolves, whose invariable habit it is\nfirst to spring at the horse\u2019s head.\n\nMany are the ruses which the wolf employs in order to induce a horse\nor foal to detach itself from a drove of grazing animals. Sometimes he\nwill roll himself up into a shapeless mass, and lie thus immovable for\nhours on the ground, till some young inexperienced colt, bitten with\ncuriosity, wanders from its mother\u2019s side to investigate the strange\nbundle it espies at a distance. The wily murderer lets himself be\napproached without moving, and only then, when the hapless victim bends\ndown to snuff the packet, he springs at the throat, and makes of it an\neasy prey.\n\nThe more experienced horses have long since learned that their only\nsafety is in numbers; so at the approach of wolves they draw themselves\ntogether in a wheel, each head turned inward touching the others, their\ntails all pointing outward, and with their hind-hoofs dealing out such\nfurious kicks as to enable them to keep at bay several enemies at a\ntime.\n\nThe Transylvanian bears will rarely attack a man unless provoked,\nexperiencing as much terror from a chance encounter as any they are\nlikely to occasion. A Saxon peasant told me of such a meeting he had\nsome years ago, when up in the mountains with some gentlemen who had\ncome there in quest of deer. As they were to sleep in the open air, he\nhad gone to collect firewood on the ground between a scattered group\nof fir-trees. When issuing from behind a tree-trunk he suddenly found\nhimself face to face with a gigantic bear\u2014not ten paces off. \u201cWe were\nboth so taken aback,\u201d he said, \u201cthat for nearly a minute we stood\nstaring at each other without moving. Then I called out, \u2018Der Teufel!\u2019\nand took to my heels; and the bear, he just gave a grunt, which perhaps\nalso meant \u2018Der Teufel\u2019 in his language, and he also turned to run; and\nwhen I looked back to see where he was, there, to be sure, he was still\nrunning down the hill as hard as ever he could go.\u201d\n\nOnly a couple of summers ago two Hungarian gendarmes were patrolling\nnear Szent Mihaly where each of them, walking at a different side of a\ndeep ravine, could see, without being able to reach, his comrade. As\none of them came round a point of rock, he was suddenly confronted by\na bear carrying a sheep in his mouth. In this case, also, man and bear\nstared at each other for some seconds; then the bear turned away in\norder to carry off his booty to a safe place. The gendarme, recovering\nfrom his surprise, fired at the retreating bear, which, wounded, gave\na loud roar. A second shot likewise took effect, for now the bear,\ndropping the sheep, raised himself on his hind-legs, and advanced on\nhis assailant. By the time a third shot was fired the bear had come up\nclose and seized the muzzle of the gun. A fearful struggle now began\nbetween man and beast. The gendarme was holding on convulsively to\nhis gun, when, his foot catching in a tree-root, he stumbled and fell\nto the ground. Already he saw the dreadful jaws of the bear close to\nhis face, and gave himself up for lost. However, the bear was getting\nweaker, and let go its hold on the gun to seize the leg of the man,\nwho, with a last desperate effort, struck the animal on the breast\nwith the butt-end of his rifle. This turned the scale, and the animal\nfled down the ravine to hide itself in the stream. In the mean time\nthe second gendarme, who from the other side had been spectator of\nthe scene, arrived, along with some shepherds armed with clubs and\npickaxes, and pursued the bear into his retreat. The animal received\nthem with terrific roars, and began to pick up large stones, which he\nhurled at his adversaries with such correct aim as severely to wound\none of the shepherds on the head. Finally the beast was killed, and his\nstomach discovered to be full of fresh ox-flesh. The wounded gendarme\nhad to be conveyed home on horseback, and his gun was found to have\nbeen completely bent in the struggle.\n\nAt the costumed procession commemorating the arrival of the Saxons\nin Transylvania, which I have described in Chapter V., the most\nconspicuous object in the group of hunting-trophies was a gigantic\nstuffed bear, which, as a current newspaper announced, \u201chad been shot\nexpressly for the occasion.\u201d This paragraph excited considerable\nderision among non-Transylvanian sportsmen, who mockingly inquired\nwhether a bear could be killed to order like an ox or a prize pig.\n\nIn this case, however, the newspapers said no more than the simple\ntruth, the bear in question having been literally shot to order by\nOberlieutenant Berger, a native of the place, and one of the most\nnoteworthy Nimrods in the land.\n\nIt happened, namely, that about a fortnight before the day fixed for\nthe procession, some of the gentlemen charged with its arrangement\nwere lamenting that the only bear they had for figuring in the\nhunting-group was of somewhat shabby dimensions; on hearing which\nOberlieutenant Berger volunteered to go into the mountains in quest of\na better one. Chance favored his expedition, for within forty-eight\nhours he met and shot the magnificent animal which had the honor of\nfiguring in the historical pageant.\n\nBesides the two fresh bullets which had caused its death, no less than\neleven old lead balls were found completely grown into the flesh and\nmuscles of the animal.\n\nTwo young bear cubs captured alive by another sportsman earlier in the\nyear had originally been destined to join the procession as well as\ntheir dead relative; but proving too unruly, they had to be discarded\nfrom the programme, as it was feared that their roaring might alarm the\nhorses.\n\nThough stocked by nature with a profusion of every sort of game,\nsuch as roe-deer, stags, chamois, etc., sportsmen generally find\nTransylvania to be an unsatisfactory country for hunting purposes. It\nis just sufficiently preserved in order to hamper an ardent sportsman\nwho wishes, gun in hand, to roam unmolested about the hills; yet\nnot enough protected to prevent the Roumanian peasants from calmly\nappropriating everything which happens to cross their path. They can\nhardly be called poachers either, because they are simply and utterly\nwanting in comprehension for this sort of personal property, and it\nwould be as easy to persuade one of them that it is wrong to slake\nhis thirst at a mountain spring as get him to believe that any of the\nanimals he sees running wild in the forest can belong to any one man\nmore than to another.\n\nEven when regular hunting _battues_ are organized, the Roumanians\nemployed as beaters will not fail to put in a shot whenever they have\nthe chance, nor will they hesitate to despoil your bag of half its\nbooty whenever your back is turned.\n\nIn a large shooting-party in the neighborhood of Hermanstadt two years\nago, two roe-deer had been shot down at the first drive. More than one\nof the gentlemen had distinctly marked the place where the animals\nfell, yet on coming up to it no trace of either was there to be seen\nsave a little blood upon the grass, and the beaters who had first\nreached the spot loudly swore that the wounded animals had made their\nescape. All search was unavailing to discover where the carcasses had\nbeen hidden, and neither threat nor bribe could induce the peasants\nto disgorge the booty; but early next morning there were offered for\nsale at the Hermanstadt market-place two fine roe-deer, which, without\nrash judgment, may be safely asserted to be identical with those so\nmysteriously spirited away the day before.\n\nOn the occasion of this same shooting-party some of the beaters had\nformed the further ingenious project of stealing the gun from one\nof the gentlemen as he lay asleep near the camp-fire; but they had\nreckoned without their host, not having counted on the exceptional\ncontingency of there being one honest man among them, who took upon\nhimself to put his masters on their guard. The other beaters, enraged\nat this treachery on the part of a comrade, revenged themselves by\ndestroying the saddle and cutting out the tongue of his horse.\n\n * * * * *\n\nChamois are sometimes to be seen in numbers of thirty to forty heads\nat once. Roe and stags are common, but the lynx and marten are growing\nrare; while the ibex and urus have completely died out, the last urus\nknown of in Transylvania having been killed near Udvarhely in 1775.\n\nSmall game, such as hares, partridges, etc., are rarely to be\npurchased in the market, and still more rarely to be met with in the\nstubble-fields. _Haselh\u00fchner_[70] and capercailzie are, however,\nsufficiently numerous in the pine woods to reward more than a passing\nacquaintance; and whoever takes the trouble to approach the river Alt\nwith anything resembling a civilized rod may be sure of a basketful of\nwell-flavored trout.\n\nThe wild-cat, badger, fox, and otter are still plentiful, as well\nas almost every European variety of eagle and falcon. Vultures are\nlikewise numerous; and a friend of ours who, to attract these birds\nof prey, lately invested in the unsavory purchase of five dead dogs,\nwhich were deposited on a sand-bank near the river, had presently the\nsatisfaction of seeing nine well-grown vultures settle on the place.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThose same bear cubs which had shown themselves so unworthy of figuring\nin the historical procession were a great source of amusement to us.\nWhen they arrived they were tiny round balls of fur yelping piteously\nfor their mother, and hardly able to walk, but soon got reconciled\nto their position, and became most intimate with the soldiers at the\nbarracks, where they were lodged. One day when we went to visit them\nin the barrack-yard, accompanied by several terriers, one of the cubs,\nhappening to be in a playful mood, began making advances to the dogs,\nwhich mostly took to their heels in terror at sight of this formidable\nplaymate. One white fox-terrier only stood his ground and entered\ninto the spirit of the thing, and in the wild game of gambols which\nensued the ponderous antics of the baby bear beside the lightning-like\nmovements of the wiry terrier, as they chased each other round and\nround the barrack-yard, were a sight worth seeing.\n\nIn spite of their apparent awkwardness, however, it is wonderful to see\nwith what agility these young bears could run up and down a tree-trunk,\nleading one to the uncomfortable conclusion that if pursued by one of\ntheir kinsfolk in a forest the hope of saving one\u2019s self by climbing a\ntree would be a slender one.\n\nThese two cubs, which for some incomprehensible reason had been\nchristened Dick and John, grew warmly attached to the officer who had\nbrought them here, and would rush impetuously to meet him whenever he\nwas seen approaching. Both of them seemed likewise to be much attracted\nby the sight of scarlet, and whenever they espied a pair of red hussar\nbreeches, or the scarlet stripe down a general\u2019s legging, there was\ninstantly a race to this brilliant goal, not always relished by the\nobject of these attentions, who sometimes failed to see the fun of\nbeing folded in their uncouth embrace.\n\nDick was apt to be sulky at times, and wont to misinterpret a friendly\npoke from a parasol, but John had an angelic disposition, and soon\nbecame the favorite. Dick had a bad habit of sucking his brother\u2019s\nears, who used patiently to submit to the operation for an hour at a\ntime, which course of treatment soon transformed his beautiful bushy\nears into two limp fleshy flaps, devoid of the slightest appearance of\nhair.\n\nThey both very soon learned to know the soldiers\u2019 dinner-hour, and\nwhile the food was preparing used to push open the kitchen door in\nhopes of a share, till their importunities were baffled by an order\nto keep the kitchen locked in future. This much aggrieved the cubs,\nwhich stood outside thumping the door for admittance; and one day when\nthe key had been merely turned, and left sticking on the outside, Dick\nseized hold of it between his teeth, working it backward and forward\nwith such persistency that he finally forced the lock and marched\ntriumphant into the kitchen.\n\nUnfortunately the golden age of childish grace and innocence is but\nof short duration in the case of bears, and Dick and John proved no\nexception to this rule. After a very few months they began to grow\nlarge and gawky; the amount of butcher\u2019s meat required for their\nsustenance was something terrific, and Dick\u2019s temper was daily growing\nmore precarious. Arrangements for their removal to more suitable\nquarters were therefore made, and finding their kennel empty one day,\nwe received the mournful intelligence that the furry brothers had been\ntransferred to the safer guardianship of a zoological establishment at\nPesth.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[69] Since writing this, Crown-prince Rudolf has terminated another\nsuccessful bear-hunting expedition in Transylvania (November, 1887),\nthe booty on this occasion being a dozen head.\n\n[70] The technical name of the _Haselhuhn_ is _Tetrao bonasia_. They\nreside chiefly in pine woods.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI.\n\nA ROUMANIAN VILLAGE.\n\n\nIn our intercourse with the Roumanian peasantry we are constantly\nreminded of the fact that only yesterday they were a barbarous race\nwith whom murder and plunder were every-day habits, and in whom the\nprecepts of respect for life and property have yet to be instilled. Not\nthat the Roumanian is by nature murderously inclined\u2014on the contrary,\nhe is gentle and harmless enough as a general rule, and in nine cases\nout of ten the idea of harming you will not even occur to him; but\nshould your life by any chance happen to stand between him and the\nobject of his desire, no sentiment of religion or morality will be\nlikely to restrain him from using his knife as freely as he would in\nthe case of a hare or roe-deer. It is not that he takes life for the\npleasure of shedding blood, but simply that he sets little value on it,\nand that he regards as far greater sin any infraction of his Church\nlaws than the most flagrant attack on life and property.\n\nThe study of this people, gradually emerging from barbarism into\ncivilization, is most curious and interesting. While eagerly grasping\nat the benefits held out to them by science, they are as yet unable\nto shake themselves clear of the cobwebs of paganism and superstition\nwhich often obscure their vision. It is the struggle between past and\nfuture, between darkness and light, between superstition and science;\nand who can doubt that the result will be a brilliant one, and that\na glorious resurrection awaits these spirits, so long enchained in\nbondage. But this hour has not yet struck, and the study of this\npeople, however interesting, has its drawbacks, sometimes even perils;\nand especially for a lady, it is not always advisable to trust herself\nalone and unarmed in one of the out-of-the-way Roumanian villages, as\nI had occasion myself to discover in one of my expeditions to a hamlet\nlying south-east of Hermanstadt.\n\nSome time previously I had \u201cspotted\u201d this place on the map; it seemed\nto be within easy walking distance\u2014not more than two hours off\u2014and,\nlying somewhat away from the high-road, was not likely to have been\nmuch visited, and might therefore be expected to possess a fair\nassortment of china jugs and embroidered towels.\n\n\u201cTake your revolver with you, mamma,\u201d suggested my youngest son, when I\ntold him where I was going.\n\n\u201cNonsense!\u201d I replied; \u201cthe map and some sandwiches are all I shall\nrequire;\u201d for my experience, which till then had lain entirely in\nSaxon villages, had shown me no ground for such precautions. I do not\nsuppose that the child\u2019s warning had been dictated by any prophetic\nspirit; more likely he wondered how any one lucky enough to possess\nsuch a delightful toy as a real revolver could refuse themselves the\npleasure of sporting it on every possible occasion. So, leaving the\nneat little fire-arm hanging on its customary nail, I started on my\nwalk, accompanied by a young German maid, who, speaking both Hungarian\nand Roumanian fluently, was useful as an interpreter.\n\nIt was early in October, and a bright sunshiny day; the high-road\nwas crowded with carts and peasants coming to town, for it was\nmarket-day; but after we had struck into a path across the fields the\nway lay solitary before us. The village, which nestled against a bare\nhill-side, was neither very picturesque nor interesting-looking; and as\nwe drew nearer I saw that it had a somewhat poverty-stricken aspect,\nwhich considerably depressed my hopes of ceramic treasures. I had not\nbeen aware that this hamlet, formerly a flourishing Saxon settlement,\nhad by degrees become flooded by the Roumanian element, and that the\nProtestant church, for lack of a congregation, was now usually shut\nup. Many of the people had German names, while speaking the Roumanian\nlanguage and wearing the Roumanian dress; and of all the inhabitants\nfour families only still professed the Lutheran faith. Intermarriage\nwith Roumanians, and the total extinction of many Saxon families, had\nbeen the causes which had thus metamorphosed the national character of\nthe village.\n\nCrossing a little bridge over the bed of a partially dried-up stream,\nwe entered the hamlet, where I forthwith began operations, proceeding\nfrom house to house. At the very outset I found two pretty specimens\nof china jugs in a gypsy hovel, but this was a solitary instance of\ngood-luck which had no sequel, for all the other huts could only\nproduce coarse Roumanian ware, very much inferior to Saxon pottery.\n\nOur appearance in the village made a considerable sensation, and at\nfirst we were slightly mobbed by all sorts of wild uncouth figures,\nmostly gypsies; but luckily by degrees the interest wore off, and we\nwere left alone, but for one particularly villanous-looking man who\nkept following at a little distance. Already I had been rather provoked\nby several attempts to pick my pocket on the part of the gypsies, so\nwas on my guard, when, standing still to reflect where next to go, the\nvillanous-looking individual approached to accost me, and I could see\nthat his eyes were riveted on my gold watch-chain, which imprudently\nI had left visible outside my jacket. These suspicions were presently\nstrengthened by his asking me what o\u2019clock it was. \u201cLook at your own\nchurch clock,\u201d I answered, rather shortly, pointing to the tower close\nat hand; but he gave a roguish grin, and said, \u201cOur clock is slow; I\nwanted to set it right.\u201d\n\nI could not help laughing, though I did not feel quite easy in my mind,\nand gave him the information he professed to want, but which of course\nwas only an excuse to look at my watch. I now tried to shake him off,\nbut my villanous friend was anxious to improve the acquaintance, and\nwould not leave me without having ascertained who I was, and what I\nwanted here.\n\n\u201cOld china jugs!\u201d he exclaimed, when somewhat weakly I had admitted my\nerrand. \u201cI have got plenty such jugs, if the gracious lady will only\ncondescend to come into my house close by.\u201d\n\nI looked again more narrowly at the face of my villanous friend, and\nthe result of my investigations was to answer with great decision,\n\u201cThank you, I have got enough china jugs for to-day\u2014_quite_ enough.\u201d\n\nHe tried to insist, till I found it expedient to lose my temper,\ntelling him to go about his business and leave me in peace. He did\nleave me in peace, but only indirectly, for we saw him soon after\nspeaking to a gypsy woman, who presently began to dog our footsteps in\nthe same manner, trying to induce me to go into this or that one of the\nmore disreputable-looking houses.\n\nBy this time I was thoroughly tired out. Any one who has had like\nexperience will know how fatiguing it is to go into twenty or thirty\nhouses in succession, with the invariable stereotyped questions, \u201cHave\nyou any jugs? and will you sell them?\u201d and then to repeat over and over\nagain the self-same process of persuasion and bargaining. Besides this,\nI had risen early, had a long walk, and was very hungry, so naturally\nwanted a quiet spot to sit down and eat my sandwiches. \u201cThere must\nsurely be a village inn where we can get a glass of milk,\u201d I said,\nturning round to our persistent follower.\n\n\u201cThere, there,\u201d said the woman, pointing in advance, and she\ndisappeared running down the street.\n\nWe had no difficulty in finding the inn, as indicated by the usual sign\nall over Austria\u2014a bunch of wood-shavings hung over the door-way. I\nwas about to enter the room, when my German servant suddenly drew back\nand pulled my dress. \u201cCome away, come away, madam,\u201d she whispered;\n\u201cit is not safe to go in there,\u201d and as soon as we had regained the\nroad and shaken ourselves clear of some loungers outside who tried to\npersuade us to re-enter, she explained the cause of her terror: she had\ncaught sight of that same man who had asked to see the watch hiding\nbehind the pothouse door, and evidently lying in wait for us.\n\nThis looked serious, and it was evident that some sort of trap was\nbeing laid for my unfortunate watch, so I resolved that nothing in the\nworld should induce me to enter any such suspicious-looking house. My\nmaid was nearly crying with fright by this time, and shaking like an\naspen leaf, so I kindly advised her not to be a fool, pointing out that\nthere was really no cause for alarm after all. \u201cWe need not enter any\nhouse unless we like, and they will hardly think of murdering us in the\nopen street, so do not make a fuss about nothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is not for myself, but on account of the _gn\u00e4dige frau_, that\nI am frightened,\u201d the girl now explained, apparently stung by the\ninsinuation of cowardice. \u201cIf anything should happen to you, madam,\nwhat will the master say to me when I go home alone? He will say it was\nall my fault!\u201d\n\n\u201cMake your mind quite easy,\u201d I said (perhaps rather cruelly, as it now\nstrikes me). \u201cIf they should cut my throat to get the watch, they will\nfor a certainty cut yours as well to prevent you telling tales of them,\nso you will never reach home to be scolded.\u201d\n\nBut the question of what to do was in truth becoming perplexing; rest\nand food were now secondary considerations, my only thought being how\nsafely to reach home. The long lonely way that separated this village\nfrom the town seemed doubly long and desolate in anticipation, and I\nhardly liked to start from here alone. I now thought with regretful\nlonging of the handy little revolver I had left at home in its\nRussia-leather case. Not that I should ever have required to use it,\nof course, but its appearance alone would have served as antidote to\nthe dangerous fascinations of the gold watch. If I had but followed my\nboy\u2019s advice I should not have found myself in this awkward predicament.\n\nTaking a turn down the road to collect my ideas, a thought struck me.\nIn the course of my peregrinations through the village earlier in the\nday, I had noted one house where the people appeared more respectable,\nthough in nowise wealthier, than their neighbors. The man had a\nfrank open face, in which I could hardly be mistaken; and, moreover,\nI had observed a few books lying on a shelf, in itself an unusual\ncircumstance in any Roumanian house, which would seem to imply some\ndegree of culture. To this man, therefore, I resolved to go for advice;\nperhaps he would himself accompany us part of the way, or else provide\nsome other escort who would undertake not to cut our throats between\nthis and Hermanstadt.\n\nThis plan seemed reasonable; but just as I was about to push open the\ngate of the little court-yard, the same gypsy woman who had been set\non before to follow me came running up: \u201cDon\u2019t go in there; there\nis a terrible bad dog.\u201d She warned so earnestly that for a moment I\nhesitated with my hand on the latch; for if in the whole world there\nis a thing which has the power to make my flesh creep and my blood run\ncold, it is a savage dog, and this woman, with the quickness of her\nrace, had already had occasion to note my weak point. Her warning,\nhowever, missed its effect, for having been in that courtyard before,\nI distinctly remembered the absence of any dog whatever, whether good,\nbad, or indifferent, and her anxiety to prevent me from entering was in\nitself a sign that there was no danger.\n\nSo in I went: the man with the good face was not at home, I was\ntold\u2014he had gone to the field, but would presently return; only his\nwife, a sweet-faced young woman, and his aged mother, being alone in\nthe house. Yes, I might sit down and welcome, said the young woman; and\nshe hastened to bring me a chair and set some fresh milk before me; so\nI passed half an hour very pleasantly in examining the cottage and its\ninhabitants.\n\nThe young wife was seated at her loom weaving one of the red and blue\ntowels which adorn each Roumanian cottage. Some of the pillow-cases and\ntowels here hung up were of superior make to those usually seen, being\nboth softer in color and richer in texture. \u201cIt is the old mother who\nmade them,\u201d she explained. \u201cShe works far better than I can do, but now\nshe is too old, and the weaving fatigues her; she was ninety-five this\nyear.\u201d\n\n\u201cWas she in good health?\u201d I asked by means of my interpreter.\n\n\u201cQuite good; but she cannot eat much\u2014a little soup and a glass of wine\nevery day is about all she takes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd where is your dog?\u201d was my next inquiry, remembering the gypsy\nwoman\u2019s caution.\n\n\u201cDog?\u201d she asked in surprise. \u201cWe never had a dog. What should we keep\none for? We are too poor to be afraid of robbers.\u201d\n\nWhen the husband came back I explained our errand. He smiled a little,\nand said he thought my fears were groundless. Those fellows would\nhardly dare to attempt any violence in daylight; but after all, it\nwas just possible, he admitted. There certainly were several very\nbad characters in the village, and no doubt a gold watch was a great\ntemptation; it would certainly be wiser not to start from here alone.\nAfter considering a little (apparently it _did_ require consideration),\nhe said that he knew of one respectable man in the village, and would\ncome with us to look for him. I expressed my astonishment at seeing\nso many books in his house. \u201cI began by being school-master in a\nneighboring village,\u201d he told me, \u201cbut it was only for a short time.\nThen my father died, and I had to return here to look after the fields.\nThat was ten years ago. If I had remained there longer I should know\nmore than I do.\u201d He showed me a volume of general history he was then\nstudying. \u201cI read a little of it every evening when I come back from\nwork. I try to keep myself from forgetting everything\u2014one is apt to\nget rusty and _verbauert_ (peasantified) living here among peasants.\u201d\n\nThe sole other respectable man which the village could produce turning\nout to be absent, our host expressed his willingness to accompany us as\nfar as I wished, though I knew that he was leaving his work to do so.\nBefore quitting the village, however, I had a last encounter with my\nvillanous friend of heretofore, whom I found waiting for me near the\nlittle bridge. He begged me so urgently to come in just for one minute\nto look at his china jugs, which he described in enthusiastic terms,\nthat I gave an unwilling consent. He was apparently surprised and not\nover-pleased on recognizing my escort, and would have shaken him off\non reaching his door, saying, \u201cWell, good-by, neighbor; you need not\ntrouble yourself further.\u201d\n\nOf course I refused to go into the house alone, and of course, too,\nwhen I did go in, the much-vaunted jugs turned out to be cracked and\nworthless specimens of the very commonest sort of ware, bearing no\nresemblance to what I was seeking.\n\nI was fairly glad to turn my back on this horrid little village,\nfully resolved never again to set foot within its precincts; and in\nconversation with our obliging protector, who spoke very tolerable\nGerman (an unusual thing in any Roumanian), three-quarters of an hour\npassed very quickly. He told me much about himself and his family; also\nabout the village, which twice had been burned down within fifteen\nyears and reduced to the most abject poverty; everything of value in\nthe place had perished on the one or other of these occasions. His\nfamily life seemed happy, but for one source of grief, for his marriage\nwas childless, and to any Roumanian this is a very great grief indeed.\n\u201cIt is sad for us to be alone,\u201d he said; \u201cbut God has willed it so.\u201d\n\nIn the course of our talk he inquired, but with great delicacy, who I\nwas, saying, \u201cI do not know whether I should say madam or fr\u00e4ulein; and\nperhaps I seem impolite if I am not giving the gracious lady her proper\ntitle.\u201d And when I had mentioned the name and position of my husband,\nI found him to be well informed as to all the military arrangements of\nthe country, correctly naming off-hand all the ten or twelve cavalry\nstations in Transylvania. He recognized our name as being a Polish\none, and began to talk of that nation. \u201cThose Poles have sometimes\nvery good heads,\u201d he remarked, \u201cbut they do not seem able to manage\ntheir own affairs. What a pity they were not able to keep their country\ntogether!\u201d After this he inquired much about the state of commerce and\nagriculture in Poland, the influence of the Jews, etc., all he said\nindicating such a mixture of natural refinement and shrewd common-sense\nthat I was quite sorry when, arriving within sight of the high-road,\nand there being no reason further to tax his good-nature, he took his\nleave with a bow which would not have disgraced any gentleman.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII.\n\nA GYPSY CAMP.\n\n\nWalking across the country one breezy November day, I was attracted by\nthe sight of a gypsy tent pitched on a piece of waste-land some hundred\nyards off my path\u2014motive enough to cause me to change my direction and\napproach the little settlement; for these roving caravans have always\nhad a peculiar fascination for me, and I rarely pass one by without\nnearer investigation.\n\nThis particular encampment turned out to be of the very poorest and\nmost abject description: one miserable tent, riddled with holes, and\npatched with many-colored rags, was propped up against a neighboring\nbank. Alongside, a semi-starved donkey, laden with some tattered\nblankets and coverings, was standing immovable, and in the foreground\na smoking camp-fire, over which was slung a battered kettle. There was\nvery little fire and a great deal of smoke, which at first obscured the\nview, and prevented me from understanding why it was that the gypsies,\nusually so quick to mark a stranger, gazed at me with indifference: not\na hand was stretched forth to beg, nor a voice raised in supplication.\nThe men were standing or reclining on the turf in listless attitudes,\nwhile the women, crowded round the fire, were swaying their bodies to\nand fro, as though in bodily pain.\n\nSoon, however, the shining point of a bayonet descried through\nthe curling smoke gave me the clew to this abnormal behavior, and\napproaching nearer, I saw the figures of three Hungarian gendarmes\ndodging about between the ragged tent and the skeleton donkey; they\nwere searching the camp, as they presently informed me, for a stolen\npurse. A peasant had had his pocket picked that morning at market, and\nas some of these gypsies had been seen in town, of course they must be\nguilty; and the speaker, with an oath, stuck his bayonet right into the\ndepths of the little tent, bringing out to light a motley assortment\nof dirty rags, which he proceeded to turn over with scrutinizing\ninvestigation.\n\nAny person with a well-balanced mind would, I suppose, have rejoiced at\nthis improving spectacle of stern justice chastising degraded vice;\nbut I must confess that on this occasion my sympathies were all the\nwrong way, and I could not refrain from wishing that these poor hunted\nmortals might elude their punishment, whether deserved or not. Justice,\nas represented by these well-fed boorish gendarmes, who were turning\nover so ruthlessly the contents of the little camp, holding up to light\neach sorry rag with such pitiless scorn, and stripping the clothes\nfrom the half-naked backs of the gypsies with such needless brutality,\nappeared in the light of malicious and unnecessary persecution; while\nvice, so poor, so wretched, so woe-begone, could surely inspire no\nharsher feeling than pity.\n\nAmong the females I remarked a young woman of about twenty-five,\nwith splendid eyes, skin of mahogany brown, and straight-cut regular\nfeatures like those of an Indian chieftainess. She wore a tattered\nscarlet cloak, and had on her breast a small baby as brown as herself,\nand naked, in spite of the sharp November air. One of the gendarmes\napproached her, and with a coarse gesture would have removed her cloak\n(apparently her sole upper garment) to search beneath for the missing\npurse; but with the air of an outraged empress she waved him off, and\nraising full upon him her large black eyes, she broke into a torrent\nof speech. I could not understand her language, but the tenor of her\ndiscourse was easy to guess at from her expressive gestures and play\nof features. Her voice was of a rich contralto, as she poured forth\nwhat seemed to be the maledictions of an oppressed queen cursing a\ntyrant. Her gestures had an inbred majesty, and her attitude was that\nof an inspired sibyl. I thought what a glorious tragic actress she\nwould have made\u2014perfect as Lady Macbeth, and divine as Azucena in the\n\u201cTrovatore.\u201d Even the brutal gendarme felt her influence, for he did\nnot attempt to molest her further, but half shamefacedly withdrew, as\nthough conscious of defeat, transferring his attentions to one of the\nmen, whom he vigorously poked with the butt-end of his gun to force him\nto rise from his recumbent position.\n\nThe fruitless search had now come to an end; the ragged tent had\nbeen demolished and the skeleton donkey unladen without so much as a\nsingle florin of the stolen money having come to light. In a prolonged\ndiscussion between gypsies and gendarmes, the word \u201cHinka, Hinka,\u201d was\noften repeated; and Hinka, as it appeared, was the name of one of the\ngypsies who was at that moment missing from the camp. She was expected\nback by nightfall, they said.\n\nHearing this, the gendarmes proceeded to make themselves comfortable,\nawaiting Mrs. or Miss Hinka\u2019s return, lighting their pipes at the fire,\nand playfully upsetting the caldron containing the gypsies\u2019 supper.\nOne gendarme walked up and down with fixed bayonet to see that no one\nattempted to leave the camp.\n\nThere being nothing more to see, I took my leave, for it was getting\nlate, and I had still a long walk before me. I had almost forgotten the\nlittle episode with the gypsies, when, near the town, I met a small\nlinen-covered cart drawn by a ghastly-looking white horse, worthy\ncompanion of the skeleton donkey. I should probably not have given a\nsecond thought or glance to this cart, for it was nearly dark, but\nas it passed me two or three curly black heads peeped out from under\nthe linen awning, and instantaneously as many semi-naked children\nhad bounded, India-rubber-like, on to the road, surrounding me with\nclamorous begging. While I was giving them some coppers, I saw that in\nthe cart was sitting a somewhat pale and jaded-looking young woman,\nprobably their mother, holding the reins and waiting for the children\nto get in. \u201cIs your name Hinka?\u201d I asked, as a thought struck me.\n\nThe woman stared at me in a bewildered manner without speaking, but her\npanic-struck face was answer sufficient.\n\n\u201cDo not go back to the camp to-night,\u201d I said, speaking on the impulse\nof the moment. \u201cThe gendarmes are there, and they are waiting for you.\u201d\n\nMy meaning was evidently plain, though I had spoken in German; probably\nthe word gendarmes had a familiar ring in her ear, for she now gazed\nat me with positive terror in her wild, dilated eyes\u2014the terror of a\nhunted animal which sees the huntsmen closing in on all sides; then,\nwithout a word of explanation, excuse, or thanks, she abruptly turned\nround the horse\u2019s head, and lashing it to its utmost speed, disappeared\nin the opposite direction.\n\nSeveral very worthy friends of mine have since pronounced my behavior\nin this circumstance to have been highly reprehensible: I had sided\nwith the malefactor, and possibly defeated the ends of justice by\nscreening the culprit. Perhaps they are right, and it can only be\nowing to some vital defect in my moral constitution that I have never\nsucceeded in feeling remorse for this action. On the contrary, it was\nwith a feeling of peculiar satisfaction that I thought that evening\nof the three brutal gendarmes waiting in vain for the return of the\nguilty Hinka. I wondered how long they waited, and how many pipes they\nsmoked, and to how many oaths they gave vent on finding that they had\nwaited in vain, and their victim was not going to walk into the trap\nafter all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII.\n\nTHE BRUCKENTHALS.\n\n\nAmong the crooked, irregular houses, low-storied and unpretentious,\nwhich form the streets of Hermanstadt, there is one which stands\nout conspicuous from its neighbors, resembling as it does nothing\nelse in the town. This is the Bruckenthal palace, a stately building\nwhich might right well be placed by the side of some of the most\naristocratic residences at Vienna, and of which even the Grand Canal\nat Venice need not be ashamed\u2014but here absolutely out of place and\nincongruous. Looking like a nobleman amid a group of simple burghers,\neverything about this building has an air thoroughly aristocratic and\n_grand seignior_: the broad two-storied fa\u00e7ade richly ornamented,\nthe fantastically wrought iron gratings over the lower windows, the\ndouble escutcheon hanging above the stately entrance, even the very\ngarret windows looking out of the high-pitched triple roof, have the\nappearance of old-fashioned picture-frames which only want to be filled\nup with appropriate rococo figures.\n\nAs we step through the roomy _porte-coch\u00e8re_ into a spacious court,\nwe glance round half expecting to see a swelling porter or gorgeously\nattired Suisse prepared to challenge our entrance, and instinctively\nwe fumble in our pocket for our card-case; but no one appears, and all\nis silent as death. Passing over the grass-grown stones which pave the\ncourt, we step through a capacious archway into a second court as large\nas the first, and surrounded in the same manner by the building running\nround to form another quadrangle. Here apparently are the stables, as a\nstone-carved horse\u2019s head above a door at the farther end apprises us,\nand hither we direct our steps in hopes of finding some stable-boy or\ngroom to guide us, and tell us to whom this vast silent palace belongs.\n\nThe stable door is ajar, and we push it open, but pause in astonishment\non the threshold, met by the stony stare of countless unseeing eyes.\nA stable it is undoubtedly, as testify the carved stone cribs and\npartitioned-off stalls\u2014six stalls on the one side, six on the other,\nroomy and luxurious, fit only for the pampered stud of a monarch or\nof an English fox-hunter, but which now, deserted of its rightful\noccupants, has been usurped by a collection of plaster casts and\nterra-cotta copies of ancient statues. Where majestic Arabs used\nformerly to be stabled, now stands a naked simpering Venus, and the\nDying Gladiator writhes on the flag-stones once pawed by impatient\nhoofs.\n\n[Illustration: THE BRUCKENTHAL PALACE.[71]]\n\nBy-and-by we come across some one, who in a few words gives us the\nhistory of the Bruckenthal palace.\n\nSamuel Bruckenthal, of Saxon family, was raised alike to the rank of\nbaron and to the position of governor of Transylvania by the Empress\nMaria Theresa, this being the first instance of a Saxon being thus\ndistinguished. In this capacity he governed the land for fourteen\nyears, from 1773 to 1787, and much good is recorded of the manner in\nwhich he filled his office, and of the benefits he conferred on the\nland. Baron Samuel Bruckenthal was a special favorite of the great\nempress, who seems to have overpowered both him and his family with\nriches and favors of all kinds. Besides this splendid palace (truly\nmagnificent for the country and the time when it was built), and which\nboasted of a picture-gallery and an exceedingly valuable library, the\nBruckenthal family became possessed of extensive landed property, some\nof which was to belong to them unconditionally, other estates being\ngranted to the family for a period of ninety-nine years, afterwards\nreverting to the Crown. Likewise, villas and manufactories, summer and\nwinter residences, gardens and hot-houses, which have belonged to them,\nare to be met with in all directions.\n\nBaron Bruckenthal, who died in 1803, had decreed in his last will,\ndated 1802, that the gallery and museum he had formed were to be\nthrown open for the benefit of his Saxon townsmen; while his second\nheir, Baron Joseph Bruckenthal, further decreed, in a will dated 1867,\nthat in the case of the male line of his family becoming extinct, the\npalace, inclusive of the picture-gallery, library, etc., should revert\nto the Evangelical Gymnasium at Hermanstadt, along with the interest\nof a capital of thirty-six thousand florins, to be expended in keeping\nup the edifice and adding to the collection. The contingency thus\nprovided for having come to pass a dozen years ago, the directors have\nappropriated different suites of apartments for various purposes of\npublic utility and instruction. Thus the lofty vaulted stables were\nfound to be conveniently adapted for containing the models for a school\nof design; while up-stairs the gilded ball-room has been converted into\na cabinet of natural history. Here rows of stuffed birds, as well as\ndouble-headed lambs, eight-legged puppies, and other such interesting\ndeformities, are ranged on shelves against the crumbling gilt mouldings\nwhich run round the room; and tattered remnants of the rich crimson\ndamask once clothing the walls hang rustling against glass jars,\nin which are displayed the horrid coils of many loathsome reptiles\npreserved in spirits of wine. Truly a sad downfall for these sumptuous\napartments, where high-born dames were wont to glide in stately minuets\nover the polished floor!\n\nThe picture-gallery, opened to the public on appointed days, contains\nabove a thousand pictures, which, filling fifteen rooms, are divided\noff into the three schools to which they belong\u2014viz., Italian, Dutch,\nand German. The greater part of these pictures is said to have been\npurchased from French refugees at the time of the First Revolution,\nmany families having then sought an asylum in Hungary and Transylvania.\n\nMr. Boner, in his work on Transylvania, has thought fit to condemn in\na wholesale manner the contents of this gallery as \u201cwretched daubs fit\nonly for a broker\u2019s stall,\u201d a verdict as rash as unjust, and which has\nsince been refuted by the opinion of competent judges. Of course, in a\nsmall provincial town like Hermanstadt, situated at the extreme east\nof the Austrian empire, it would be unreasonable to expect to find\nin a private gallery collected in the eighteenth century priceless\n_chefs-d\u2019\u0153uvres_ of the kind we travel hundreds of miles to admire\nin the Louvre or at Dresden. No doubt, also, some of the paintings\nerroneously attributed to famous masters, such as Rubens or Titian, are\nbut good copies of original works, while the parentage of a good number\nof others is unknown, or matter for guess-work. Granting all this,\nhowever, the wonder is rather, I think, to find such a very presentable\ncollection of paintings of second and third rank in a small country\ntown, among which no intelligent and straightforward connoisseur can\nfail to pass some hours without both pleasure and profit.\n\nThe best picture in the gallery, and the most celebrated, is the\nportrait of Charles I. of England, and of his wife, Henrietta Maria,\nby Vandyck, which has brought many Englishmen hither in hopes of\npurchasing it.\n\nThe library, now numbering about forty thousand volumes, is added to\neach year from part of the legacy attached to the Bruckenthal palace,\nand is a great boon to the town; for not only does it comprise a\ncomfortable reading-room, to which any one may have gratuitous access,\nbut all sorts of works are freely placed at the disposal of those who\nwish to study them at home, on condition of signing a voucher by which\nthe party holds himself responsible for loss or damage to the work.\n\nThe Bruckenthal library is indeed a great and valuable resource to\nthose banished to this remote corner of the globe, and it is only\nsurprising that more people do not avail themselves of the advantages\nwhich permit one to enjoy at home, sometimes for two or three months at\na time, several valuable works of history, biography, or science. Some\nof the editions of older classical authors are most beautifully bound\nand illustrated with fine copperplates\u2014perfect _\u00e9ditions de luxe_,\nsuch as one rarely sees nowadays.[72]\n\nMany curious manuscripts, principally relating to the country, are also\nhere to be found; but the gem of the collection, and by far its most\ninteresting and precious object, is a prayer-book of the fifteenth\ncentury, which, written on finest vellum, contains six hundred and\nthirty pages in small quarto, each page being adorned with some of the\nfinest specimens of the illuminated art to be met with anywhere.\n\nThe collection of coins is exceedingly remarkable, containing, as\nit does, abundant specimens of the ancient Greek, Dacian, and Roman\ncoins, which are continually turning up in the soil, as well as of all\nthe various branches of Transylvanian coinage in the Middle Ages. An\nassemblage of old Saxon ceramic objects, such as jugs and plates, may\nalso be mentioned, as well as samples of old German embroidery, and\nsome exceedingly beautiful pieces of jewellery belonging to the Saxon\nburgher, and peasant costumes.\n\nThe least interesting part of the museum is what is called the African\nand Japanese Cabinet, hardly deserving such a pompous designation, as\nthe objects it mostly contains (savage weapons, dried alligators, etc.,\nadded to the collection some thirty years ago) are by no means more\ninteresting or varied than what one is so tired of beholding in any\nwell-furnished English drawing-room.\n\nThere is a legend attached to the Bruckenthal palace which tells us\nhow an old soldier, who had served his emperor faithfully through many\nyears, took his dismission at last, and, with only three coppers in\nhis pocket, prepared to pilger homeward. On his way he was met by an\nold white-bearded man, who said, \u201cGive me an alms, for all you have\nis mine.\u201d The soldier replied, \u201cYour gain will not be great, for see,\nI have got but three kreuzers, but you are welcome to one of them.\u201d\nHereupon the old man took one kreuzer, and the soldier proceeded on his\nway. Soon, however, he was met by another old man, who in like manner\ndemanded an alms, and received a second copper; and this happened again\na third time. But when the soldier had thus divested himself of his\nlast coin the third old man thus spoke: \u201cSee, I am one and the same as\nthe two old men who begged from you before, and am no other than Christ\nthe Lord. As, therefore, you have been charitable, and have given of\nthe little you had, so will I reward you by granting any boon you\nchoose to ask.\u201d\n\nAfter the soldier had reflected for a little, he begged for a sack\nwhich should have the virtue that, whenever he spoke the words, \u201cPack\nyourself in the sack,\u201d man or beast should equally be obliged to creep\ninside it. \u201cI see,\u201d said the Lord, \u201cthat you are a wise man, and do not\ncrave treasures and riches. The sack is yours.\u201d\n\nWith this magic sack on his back the soldier wandered on till he\nreached the town of Hermanstadt. Here he found all the population\ntalking of a ghost in the Bruckenthal palace, which had lately been\ndisturbing the place, and whosoever attempted to pass the night in\nthose rooms was found as a corpse next morning.\n\nOn hearing this the veteran went with his sack to old Baron\nBruckenthal, and begged for a night\u2019s lodging in those very rooms.\nIn vain the old gentleman warned him of the danger, and prophesied\nthat assuredly he would lose his life. The soldier persisted in his\nresolution, begging only for the loan of a Bible and two lighted\ncandles. These were given to him, and likewise a copious supper, with\nwine and roast-meat. However, he ate and drank but sparingly, for he\nwished to remain wide-awake and sober; but he opened the Bible between\nthe two candles, and read diligently therein.\n\nShortly before midnight the room began to be unquiet, but the soldier\ndid but read the Bible all the more fervently as the noise increased.\nThen as twelve o\u2019clock struck there was a sound like the report of a\ngun, and a leg was seen suspended from the ceiling.\n\nThe soldier remained quietly sitting, and said to himself, \u201cWhere there\nis one leg, there must be another too,\u201d and verily a second leg became\nsoon visible beside the first. Quoth the soldier then, \u201cWhere there are\ntwo legs, there must perforce be body and arms as well,\u201d and without\nmuch delay these also made their appearance. Then he said, \u201cA body\ncannot be without a head,\u201d but hardly had he said the words when the\nentire figure fell down from the ceiling, and rushing at the soldier,\nbegan to strangle him.\n\nQuickly he cried, \u201cPack yourself in the sack,\u201d and in the self-same\ninstant the ghost was imprisoned, and plaintively begging to be let out\nagain. The soldier at first only permitted the ghost to put out its\nhead, which was quite gray, but it went on begging to be released, and\npromising to reveal a mighty secret.\n\nHearing this the soldier opened the sack; but, hardly set free, the\nspectre again rushed at his throat, so that he had barely time to call\nout, \u201cPack yourself in the sack.\u201d\n\nNow, being again in his power, the ghost was forced to confess to\nthe soldier that in these walls there were concealed many barrels\ncontaining treasures, and over these it was his mission to watch.\nIt promised to make over in writing a portion of this money to the\nveteran, and for this purpose begged to have its arms released from the\nsack in order to sign the document.\n\nThis being granted, the ghost a third time attempted the soldier\u2019s\nlife, who, however, used the magic formula once more, and, determined\nto show no further mercy to his antagonist, cut off the head of the\ntreacherous phantom.\n\n[Illustration: BARON SAMUEL BRUCKENTHAL.]\n\nNext morning the inhabitants of Hermanstadt were greatly astonished\nto find the soldier still alive, and the praise of his valor was in\nevery mouth. Under his directions the walls were now broken open, and\nwithin many little barrels were discovered, all containing heavy gold,\nof which the brave soldier received a handsome portion, sufficient to\nenable him to live in comfort to the end of his days.\n\nIt is to this discovery that many impute the great riches of the\nBruckenthal family, and were it not for the valiant soldier the fortune\nthey left behind them would hardly have been so great.\n\nThough the name of Bruckenthal is probably but little known outside\nTransylvania, and I have failed to find it in several German\nencyclop\u00e6dias, yet here it is a word pregnant with meaning; and people\nat Hermanstadt are wont to swear by the Bruckenthal palace as the most\nstable and immutable object within their range of knowledge, just as\nan Egyptian might swear by the Pyramids or the Sphinx. \u201cMay you be\nlucky as long as the Bruckenthal palace stands,\u201d or \u201cSooner may the\nBruckenthal palace fall down than such and such an event come to pass,\u201d\nare phrases I have frequently had occasion to hear.\n\nBut the memories of the Bruckenthals are not confined to the palace\nwhich bears their name. Every vestige of past grandeur or remnant of\nan extinct luxury, each work of art which comes to light in or about\nHermanstadt, may be traced back to this once omnipotent family. If in\nyour country walks you come upon a double row of massive lime-trees,\ntwelve or sixteen perhaps, standing forlorn on the grass, with nothing\nto explain their presence on a lonely meadow, you are surely informed\nthat these are the last survivors of a stately avenue leading to\nspacious orangeries in the Bruckenthal time. The orangeries have\nnow disappeared, yet these few old trees linger on with senseless\npersistency\u2014their snowy blossoms reminding one of powdered heads,\ntheir circling branches suggesting wide-hooped skirts setting to each\nother in the evening breeze, like an ancient quadrille party forgotten\nin the ball-room, long after the other guests have departed.\n\nIf you find an old statue chipped and moss-grown, dreaming away in the\nshade of a rose-bush which soon will stifle it in thorny embrace, you\nmay take for granted that you are standing on the site of a former\nBruckenthal garden.\n\nIf in a pawnbroker\u2019s shop you disinter a carved oak chair heavily\nwreathed in shrouding cobwebs, be sure that it has wandered hither from\nthe old palace on the Ring; and should you chance to espy a rococo\nmirror, with curiously fretted gold frame, but tarnished and blurred,\ndo not doubt that at some remote period gallant beaux and stately dames\nof the house of Bruckenthal have mirrored themselves complacently in\nits surface.\n\nLook closer still in the miscellaneous heap of bric-\u00e0-brac which\nencumbers this same pawnbroker\u2019s back shop, and ten to one you will\nbe able to recognize on some rotting canvas the grim features of old\nSamuel Bruckenthal himself, or those of his imperial mistress Maria\nTheresa.\n\nSome of these old portraits, which I passed almost daily in my\nperegrinations about the town, seemed to look at me so plaintively with\ntheir canvas eyes, as though imploring me to release them from their\nignoble position, that I had to take pity upon them at last and offer\nthem an asylum in my house.\n\nFew things ever gave me so vivid an impression of the transitory nature\nof earthly possessions, and the evanescence of power and grandeur, as\nthese scattered relics of an extinct family meeting the eye at every\nturn; and as the sea of chance was continually casting up some of\nthese shipwrecked treasures, more than one of them happened to drift\nmy way. Thus one day a poor woman brought to my door a delicate little\npiece of fancy porcelain, which I was glad to purchase for a small\nsum. About ten inches high, it represents a miniature citron-tree with\nblossoms and fruit, growing in a gold-hooped tub of exactly the same\nshape as the wooden cases in which real orange-trees are often planted.\nAn old lady who recollects the vanished days of the Bruckenthal glory\nrecognized this graceful trifle standing on my drawing-room _console_,\nand told me that she remembered a whole set of them, pomegranates and\ncitron-trees alternately, with which the table used to be decked out on\nthe occasion of large dinner-parties.\n\nWhat has become of the many companions of my lonely citron-tree, I\nwonder? and where are now all the faces that used to meet round that\nfestive board? _Tout passe, tout lasse, tout casse!_\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[71] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian\nSociety.\n\n[72] It was to me a curious sensation in this out-of-the-way place to\ncome across a copy of my great-grandfather\u2019s work, \u201cGerard on Taste,\u201d\ntranslated into German. I had not been before aware of any such\ntranslation existing.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV.\n\nSTILL-LIFE AT HERMANSTADT\u2014A TRANSYLVANIAN CRANFORD.\n\n\nLife at Hermanstadt always gave me the impression of living inside one\nof those exquisitely minute Dutch paintings of still-life, in which\nthe anatomy of a lobster or the veins on a vine-leaf are rendered\nwith microscopic fidelity, and where such insignificant objects\nas half-lemons or mouldy cheese-rinds are exalted to the rank of\ncentre-pieces.\n\nDuring seven months of the year\u2014from April till November\u2014the idyllic\nquiet of Hermanstadt was certainly not without its charms. So long\nas the forest was green and the birds were singing, one did not feel\nthe want of other society, and the _r\u00e9pertoire_ of walks and rides\nfurnished variety sufficient for an active body and a contented mind.\nIt has often been remarked of Transylvania, that while resembling no\nother country precisely, it partakes of the character of many, and\nthat within the space of half a dozen miles you may be reminded of as\nmany different lands. Thus one day your road will take you through a\nlittle piece of Dutch scenery, a sluggish stream bordered by squat\nwillow-trees, with at intervals a sprinkling of quaint old Flemish\nfigures; another time it savors perhaps of Rhineland, as your path,\nleading upward to the top of a sandy hill, loses itself in a labyrinth\nof luxuriant vineyards; or else you may deem yourself on the Roman\nCampagna, when, issuing forth on the vast tracts of waste-land, you\nsee shaggy buffaloes standing about in attitudes of lazy enjoyment,\nleisurely cropping the sunburnt grass or voluptuously steeping their\nbodies in the cooling bath of a green shining morass.\n\nYou may ride for hours in the shade of gnarled oak-trees, or, emerging\non to an open glade, indulge in a long-stretched gallop over the\nvelvety sward. In spring-time these grassy stretches are crowded thick\nwith scented violets, whose purple heads are crushed by dozens at each\nstride of your horse; and in autumn, when the grass is close cropped,\nthese meadows become one vast playing-ground for legions of brown\nfield-mice, scampering away from under the horse\u2019s feet, or peeping\nat us with beady black eyes from out the porticos of their sheltering\nholes.\n\nBut once the winter has fairly set in, when those same frisky brown\nmice have retired to their strongholds in the bowels of the earth; when\nthe last flower has withered on its stalk, and birds of passage have\nleft the land; when streams have ceased babbling, and mill-wheels, made\ncaptive by chains of glittering icicles, are forced to stand still;\nwhen parasols have been exchanged for muffs, and the new toll-dog has\nalready been eaten by the wolf\u2014then indeed a season of desperate\ndesolation settles down on the place. What is usually understood by\nthe word amusement does not here exist. There is a theatre, it is\ntrue, but this is available in summer only; for as the crazy old tower\nwhich has been turned into a temple of the muses cannot be heated, it\nremains closed till the return of spring brings with the swallows some\ntheatrical company of third or fourth class to delight the population\nduring a space of some weeks. Now and then a shabby menagerie or still\nshabbier circus finds its way to the place; and such minor attractions\nas an educated seal, a fat lady, or a family of intelligent fleas,\noffer themselves for the delectation of a distinguished public. I have\nknown persons who paid as many as six visits to the seal and eight to\nthe fat lady during this period of vital stagnation. Is not this bare\nstatement wellnigh pathetic in its dreary suggestiveness? What stronger\nproof can there be of the mournful state of an intellect reduced to\nseek comfort from seals or fat women?\n\n[Illustration: STREET AT HERMANSTADT.]\n\nHad it not been for the resources of the Bruckenthal library, life\nwould have hardly been endurable at this _saison morte_; but after all,\neven reading has limits, and the question of what next to do was apt to\nbecome puzzling to unfortunate mortals whose tastes did not happen to\nlie in the directions of music, love, or cookery.\n\nAbout the liveliest thing to be done was to go often to the _place_ on\nmarket-days, and watch the endless succession of pictures always to be\nfound there. It is the sort of market-place which would be a perfect\ngodsend to any artist in search of models for his studio. No difficulty\nhere in collecting types of every sort: an amazing display of pretty\ndark-eyed women in rich Oriental costumes; a still greater assortment\nof shaggy, frowning figures armed with dagger and pistol, representing\nevery possible gradation of the Italian bandit or the medi\u00e6val bravo.\nHere a sweet-faced young Roumanian woman, tenderly pressing a naked\nsucking-pig to her breast, might sit for a portrait of the Madonna;\nthere a Saxon matron, prim and puritanical in her stiff old-fashioned\ndress, is offering cider for sale in a harsh metallic voice; yonder\na row of old dames, who sit weaving funeral wreaths out of berries\nand evergreens, would offer famous models for the Parques, or the\n_Tricoteuses_ under the guillotine (it was just about here, by-the-way,\nthat the scaffold used to stand in olden times). Dishevelled gypsy\nwomen are trying to dispose of coarse wooden spoons, or baskets\nmade out of shavings, no doubt combining their trade with a little\nprofitable pocket-picking; and half-naked gypsy children are searching\nthe mire for scraps of bread or vegetables which no well-bred dog would\ncondescend to regard.\n\nThere is no great choice of delicacies to be found at this Hermanstadt\nmarket-place. Game is but rare, for reasons that I have mentioned\nbefore, and the finer sorts of vegetables are entirely wanting. The\nbeef, veal, pork, and mutton, which form the whole _r\u00e9pertoire_ of the\nbutcher\u2019s stall, cannot be compared to English meat, but have the great\nadvantage of being much cheaper\u2014beef about 4_d._ and mutton 3_d._ per\nlb. Eggs and butter are good and plentiful; and as for the milk, let\nno one pretend to have tasted milk till he has been in Transylvania;\nso thick, so rich, so exquisitely flavored is the milk of those\nrepulsive-looking and ferocious buffaloes, as good almost as cream\nelsewhere, and for the rest of your life putting you out of conceit of\nyour vaunted Alderney or short-horn breeds, and making everything else\ntaste like skim-milk by comparison. Some people indeed there are, of\nsuperdelicate digestions, who cannot stand buffaloes\u2019 milk, and are\ndeterred by the delicate almond flavor usually considered to be its\ngreatest attraction.\n\nThe Transylvanian wines have been described and extolled by other\nauthors (Liebig, for instance), and deserve to be yet more widely\nknown. There are, of course, many different sorts and gradations, those\nfrom the Kokel valley being the most highly prized. It is mostly\nwhite, and even the common _vin du pays_ is distinguished by its rich\namber hue, making one think of liquid topazes, if ever topazes could be\nmelted down and sold at sixpence the gallon.\n\nIt is a noticeable and praiseworthy fact that at Hermanstadt there are\nno beggars. It is the pride of the Saxons to be absolutely without\nproletariat of the kind which seems as necessary an ingredient of other\ntown populations as rats and mice. Even the Roumanians, though poor,\nare not addicted to begging, and, excepting the gypsies, I do not\nrecollect one single instance of meeting a beggar in or about the town.\nNor can the gypsies be called beggars by profession; no gypsy will\nin cold blood set himself to go begging from door to door, though he\ninstinctively holds out his hand to any one who passes his tent.\n\nCurious old legends occur to us while picking our way about the\nstreets, and more than one old house is pointed out as being inhabited\nby ghosts. Also, Dr. Faust, of famous memory, is said to have long\nresided at Hermanstadt, and of him a very old woman who died not long\nago used to relate as follows:\n\n\u201cMy grandfather was serving as apprentice at the time when Dr. Faust\nlived here, and told me many tales of the wonderful things the great\ndoctor used to do. Thus one day he played at bowls on the big Ring\n(_place_) with large round stones, which as they rolled were changed\ninto human heads, and became stones again as soon as they stood still.\nAnother time he assumed the shape of the town parson, and as such\nwalked up and down the church roof, finally standing on his head at the\ntop of the steeple, to the terror and amazement of the people below;\nthen when the real parson made his appearance on the Ring, he jumped\ndown among the crowd in guise of a large black cat with fiery eyes,\nwhich forthwith disappeared.\n\n\u201cOnce, also, on occasion of a large cattle-fair, there was suddenly\nheard the sound of military music, and, lo and behold! in place of\nthe sheep, calves, oxen, and horses, there marched past a regiment of\nsoldiers with flying colors and resounding music. The people rubbed\ntheir eyes, scarce believing what they saw and heard; then, as still\nthey stared and gaped, the band-master gave a signal, the music turned\nto a hundredfold bleating and bellowing, and the sheep, cattle, and\nhorses stood there as before.\n\n\u201cAt last, as every one knows, Dr. Faust was carried off to hell. Our\nLord would gladly have saved him from this doom, for the doctor had\nalways a kind heart, and had done much good to the poor; but to save\nhim was impossible, for he had sold himself by contract to the devil,\nwho kept strict watch over him, and never let him out of sight.\u201d\n\nAlso, as architect Dr. Faust was renowned throughout Transylvania, but\nhe often played tricks on the people, who grew to distrust him and\ndecline his services. The numerous Roman roads still to be met with\nall over the country are attributed to Dr. Faust, who, it is said,\nconstructed them with the assistance of the evil one.\n\nThe shops at Hermanstadt are such as might be expected from its\ngeographical position and the sort of people inhabiting it; in fact,\nyou are agreeably surprised to find here fashions no more ancient than\nof two years\u2019 date. Shopkeepers here still retain the antediluvian\nhabit of eating their dinner as we hear of them doing some hundred\nyears ago. When twelve o\u2019clock strikes every shop is closed, and you\nwould knock in vain against any of the barred-up doors; the streets\nbecome suddenly empty, and a stranger arriving at that hour would\nbe prone to imagine himself to have stepped into a sleeping city.\nThere are two fairly good German booksellers, several photographers,\nand sufficient choice of most other things to satisfy all reasonable\nwants. Yet there were people among our acquaintances who, scarcely\nmore reasonable than children crying for the moon, used to fly into a\npassion, and consider themselves ill-used, because they had failed to\nprocure some fashionable kind of note-paper, or the newest thing out in\nstuds.\n\nSometimes, it is true, the narrow circle of Hermanstadt traffic showed\nits threadbare surface in the most amusing manner, as, for instance,\nwhen in an evil hour I bethought myself of ordering a winter jacket\ntrimmed with otter-skin fur. Three skins would suffice for my purpose,\nas the tailor had calculated; so, accordingly, I went the round of\nall the fur-selling shops in the place. There were four of these who\nkept fur among other goods, and by a curious coincidence each of them\nconfessed to possessing one otter only. Three out of the four could\nnot show me their skin; they were unable to lay hand on it at that\nprecise moment, it seemed, but if I would step round later in the day\nit should be produced. Returning, therefore, some hours later, I found,\nindeed, the promised otter in shop No. 2, but Nos. 3 and 4 were, for\nsome mysterious reason, unable to keep their word, putting me off again\nto the following day; and by a strange accident the otter in shop No. 1\nhad now disappeared. Then ensued a wild-goose chase\u2014or, I suppose,\nI should call it a wild-otter hunt\u2014all round the shops again for\nseveral days, having glimpses of an otter now at one shop, now at\nanother, but never by any chance in two shops simultaneously, till at\nlast an energetic summons on my part to confront all four together, led\nto the melancholy revelation that there existed but one single otter in\nthe whole town of Hermanstadt, the poor hard-worked animal alternately\nfiguring among the goods of four different tradesmen.\n\nIn olden times, as we are told, the furrier guild of Hermanstadt was\nvery illustrious. Its members once specially distinguished themselves\nin a fray with the Turks by delivering their Comes, in danger of\nbeing cut down. Since that time the guild enjoyed the distinction of\nexecuting the sword-dance on solemn occasions, particularly at the\ninstallation of each new Comes.\n\nThis anecdote occurred to my mind more than once in the course of my\notter-hunt; and I sadly reflected that the Comes would probably be left\nto perish to-day, while the sword-dance would be apt to assume somewhat\nshabby proportions if executed by the four greasy Jews, with their\nsolitary otter, which is all that remains of the once famous guild.[73]\n\nOther provincial towns as small as or smaller than Hermanstadt can\nalways show a certain amount of resident families whose hospitable\nhouses are thrown open to strangers living there for a time. Here there\nis nothing of the sort, the wealthier class being entirely made up\nof Saxon burghers, who have no notions of friendly intercourse with\nstrangers. It is difficult to explain the reason of this ungracious\nreserve, for they are neither wanting in intelligence nor in learning.\nTheir education is unquestionably superior to that of Poles or\nHungarians of the same class of life; but even when well informed\nin all branches of science, music, and literature, and on the most\nintimate terms with Goethe and Schiller, Mozart and Beethoven, they\ncan rarely be classed as gentlefolk, from their total lack of outward\npolish and utter incomprehension of the commonest rules of social\nintercourse. Even persons occupying the very highest positions in\nChurch and State are constantly giving offence by glaring breaches of\nevery-day etiquette. This proceeds, no doubt, from ignorance, from want\nof natural tact, rather than from any intentional desire to slight; but\nthe result is unquestionably that strangers, who might certainly derive\nmuch advantage from intercourse with some of these people, are deterred\nfrom the attempt by the lack of encouragement with which they are met.\n\nI should, however, be ungrateful were I not to acknowledge that\namong the Transylvanian Saxons I learned to know several, to whose\nacquaintance I shall always look back as a pleasant reminiscence. First\nand foremost among these I should like to mention our worthy physician\nDr. Pildner von Steinburg, to whom I am indebted for many interesting\ndetails of Saxon folk-lore. Also, I can count among the people I am\nglad to have known more than one of the school professors and several\nvillage pastors; and I am truly convinced that I might have extended my\nacquaintance with pleasure and profit considerably had circumstances so\npermitted. But precisely therein lies the difficulty. The Transylvanian\nSaxon burgher is a very hard nut indeed to crack, and in order to get\nat the sound kernel within, one has to encounter such a very tough\noutside that few people care to attempt it. No doubt much of the\nimposed code of etiquette of the civilized world is an empty sham which\nlofty spirits should be able to dispense with; but unfortunately we\nare so narrow-minded that we cannot entirely divest ourselves of the\nprejudices in which we were brought up.\n\nIn other parts of Transylvania the country-seats of the Hungarian\nnobility offer a pleasant diversion; but here there is nothing of the\nsort, all the land about the place being in the hands of Saxon village\ncommunities. Social life at Hermanstadt was therefore reduced to a few\nmilitary families, who either might or might not happen to suit one\nanother; and whoever has experience with this class will know that the\ncases of non-suitability are, alas! by far the most frequent.\n\n\u201cSmall towns are so much nicer\u2014don\u2019t you think so?\u201d I heard a gushing\ncreature remark to a gentleman she was endeavoring to captivate. \u201cOne\ngets to know people so much better than in large towns. Isn\u2019t it true?\u201d\n\u201cVery true,\u201d he replied, dryly; \u201cone gets to know and to dislike people\nso much more thoroughly than in a large town.\u201d\n\nOf course there were exceptions; but even if you do succeed in finding\none or two friends whose society you care to cultivate, the case is\nnot really much better\u2014for whose feelings, what affection could\nstand the test of meeting their best friend six times a day in every\npossible combination of weather, locality, and costume?\u2014in church, on\nthe promenade, at the confectioner\u2019s, and in every second shop, till\nyou have long exhausted your whole _r\u00e9pertoire_ of smiles, nods, and\nejaculatory salutations. What galvanized attempts were made at gayety\nonly served to bring out the social barrenness into stronger relief;\nfor how was it possible to get up interest in a ball when you knew\nexactly beforehand what every woman would wear, what each man would\nsay, and which of them would dance together?\n\nNone of the military families then stationed at Hermanstadt happening\nto have grown-up daughters, the absence of girls from most social\nreunions gave them much of the effect of a third-class provincial\ntheatre, where the part of _soubrette_ is performed by a respectable\nmatron of fifty, and where Juliets and Ophelias are apt to be _pass\u00e9e_\nand wrinkled. We hear so much about the corruption of large towns; but\nfor a good, steady, infallible underminer of morals, commend me to the\nlife of a dull little country town. People here began to flirt out of\nvery _ennui_ and desolation of spirit; beardless boys at a loss to\ndispose of their soft green hearts, desperately offered them to women\ntwice their age; couples who had lived happily together in the whirl of\na dissipated capital now drifted asunder under the deadening influence\nof this idyllic _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_, each seeking distraction in another\ndirection\u2014the result of all this being an amount of middle-aged\nflirtation exceedingly nauseous to behold. Each evening-party was thus\nbroken up into duets of these elderly lovers, while by daytime every\nman walked with his neighbor\u2019s wife beneath the bare elm-trees which\nshaded the only dry walk near the town.\n\nThis is, perhaps, what Balzac means by saying that life in the\nprovinces is far more intense than in a capital\u2014so intense, indeed,\nas frequently to be entirely made up of unnatural dislikes and equally\nunnatural likings; while that serene indifference which, after all, is\nthe only really comfortable feeling in life, has here no place.\n\nCranford-like, we all walked to and from the social meetings, which\ntook place at alternate houses. The distances were so short as not\nto make it worth while getting in and out of a carriage, and people\nwho loved their horses did not care to drive them on a cold, dark\nnight over the slippery and uneven pavement of the town. Every party,\ntherefore, terminated by a Cinderella-like transformation scene\u2014thick\nwadded hoods, heavy fur cloaks, and monstrous clogs reducing us one and\nall to shapeless bundles, as we walked home in the starlight over the\ncrisp, crunching snow.\n\nAs the winter advances the social gloom deepens, and the liveliest\nspirits fall a prey to a sense of mild desperation. I began to realize\nthe possibility of paying endless visits to the seal or the fat lady,\nand only wondered why no one had as yet hit upon the bright expedient\nof buying the one or marrying the other, merely by way of bringing some\nvariety into his existence. Some women changed their cooks, and others\ntheir lovers, merely for change\u2019s sake; and as there was far greater\nchoice of the latter than of the former article\u2014there being many men,\nbut of cooks very few\u2014any woman known to be capable of roasting a hen\nor making a plain rice-pudding became the centre of a dozen intrigues\nwoven round her greasy person. A single roe-deer appearing in the\nmarket infallibly gave birth to three or four evening-parties within\nthe week. You were invited to sup on its saddle at the general\u2019s, to\npartake of the right haunch at the colonel\u2019s house, and the left at\nthe major\u2019s, and might deem yourself exceptionally lucky indeed if\nnot further compelled to study its anatomy at some other house or\nhouses\u2014everywhere accompanied by the identical brown sauce, the same\nslices of lemon, the self-same dresses, cards, and conversation!\n\nOh, roebuck, roebuck! why did you not remain in your own native forest?\nMuch better would it have been for yourself\u2014and for us!\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[73] Not only the furriers, but many other guilds, flourished here in\na remarkable degree, the goldsmiths in particular taking rank along\nwith Venetian and Genoese artists of the same period. After the middle\nof last century, the guilds began to fall into decadence; and finally,\nwhen the old restrictions on trade were abolished in 1860, they began\nto disappear. Yet the guild system, in all its essentials, was here\nkept up much longer than in any part of Germany; and even long after\nit had nominally exploded, many little customs relating to the guilds\nwere still retained\u2014as, for instance, that of all members sitting\ntogether in church, each corporation having its arms painted up above\nthe seats. It is only within the last twenty years that this custom\nhas fallen into disuse, for Mr. Boner, writing in 1865, makes mention\nof it as still extant. Also, to this day, in several of the Saxon\ntowns it is quite usual to see signboards bearing such inscriptions as\n\u201clodging-house for joiners,\u201d tailors, etc.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV.\n\nFIRE AND BLOOD\u2014THE HERMANSTADT MURDER.\n\n\nAt risk of dispelling the idea just given of the somnolent nature of\nlife at Hermanstadt, I am bound to mention that the quiet little town\nwas once distinguished by a murder as repulsive and cold-blooded as any\nof which our most corrupted capitals can boast.\n\nIt came to pass, namely, that during the summer of 1883 the town was\nseveral times roused by the fire-alarm, and at short intervals more\nthan one barn or stable was partially reduced to ashes. Nobody thought\nmuch of this at the time, for, thanks to the energetic conduct of the\nvolunteer fire-brigade, assistance was promptly rendered, and though\nsome few Saxon voices were heard to express a belief that their beloved\ncompatriots the Roumanians were probably at the bottom of this, as of\nmost other unexplained pieces of mischief, the majority of people were\nof opinion that the unusually dry summer, coupled with some chance acts\nof negligence, was quite sufficient to account for these conflagrations.\n\nIn the month of September, however, the entire garrison of Hermanstadt\nbeing absent at the military man\u0153uvres, these fires began to assume\nan epidemic character, and by a strange coincidence they occurred\ninvariably at night. During the week the troops were away there were no\nless than four or five fires.\n\nVague alarm now began to take possession of the population, and the\nuneasy feeling that something was wrong took shape in a dozen fantastic\nrumors, the one more startling than the other. The cook coming back\nfrom market brought news of a parcel of combustible materials found\nconcealed in some barn or hay-loft; the boys returned from school full\nof some mysterious threatening letter, said to have been discovered\nposted up on a tree of the promenade; and the shopman, while tying up\na parcel, sought to enliven us by dark allusions to sinister-looking\nindividuals seen dodging about the scene of conflagration, and\napparently regarding their handiwork with fiendish glee.\n\nBy daytime these rumors certainly tended to break the monotony of our\nsolitude, and, proud of our superior common-sense, we, the bereaved\ngrass-widows of the absent officers, could afford to laugh at the many\nridiculous stories which were scaring our weaker-minded attendants.\n\nOnly when darkness had set in, when the children had gone to bed,\nand we ourselves prepared to spend a long, lonely evening, did these\nvarious reports begin to assume a somewhat more definite shape in\nour brain, and to appear infinitely less absurd than they had done\nin broad daylight. We nervously wondered whether again this night we\nshould be roused from sleep by the horrid sound of the tocsin. Though\nit was autumn, not spring, we could not shake ourselves free from an\natmosphere of vague April fools on a large and most unpleasant scale,\nand dimly began to realize what it must feel like to be a Russian\nemperor, as quaking we counted the days which must elapse before our\nnatural protectors and the defenders of the town were restored to us.\n\nOne night, having, as usual, gone to bed with these sensations, I\nwas just dropping into an uneasy sleep, when, sure enough, shortly\nbefore midnight the odiously familiar sound of the fire-alarm broke\nin upon my dream, and, hastily opening the window, I could see the\nsky all red with the fiery glare, at what appeared to be a very short\ndistance from our house in the direction of the stables where, about\na hundred paces farther up the street, our horses were lodged. My\nhusband\u2019s chargers were, of course, away with him at the man\u0153uvres, but\nthe children\u2019s pony and one horse had remained behind; so, afraid of\nanything happening to them in case the orderly were asleep or absent,\nI resolved to go and assure myself of their safety. In a few minutes I\nwas dressed, and, accompanied only by my faithful Brick, who was vastly\ndelighted at the idea of a midnight walk, I left the house.\n\nBefore I had gone many steps I saw that my fears for the horses were\ngroundless, the fire being ever so much farther away than had appeared\nfrom the window. However, having taken the trouble to rise and dress,\nI resolved to go on a little, and see whatever there was to be seen.\nIt was a lovely moonlight night, almost as bright as day, only that\nthe town had a much more lively aspect than I had ever seen it wear by\ndaylight, for every one was afoot, and, like myself, hurrying towards\nthe red glare visible over the high-pointed gables.\n\nIt proved impossible to get close to the fire raging in a narrow street\nat the beginning of the Untere Stadt, but any one standing at the top\nof the steep stone staircase by which this portion of the town is\nreached could command a good view of the scene, all the more striking\nfrom being seen from above. After I had stood there for nearly half an\nhour watching the tossing flames below me, and choked by occasional\npuffs of smoke, I began to feel both chilly and sleepy, and thought\nI might as well go back to bed, since it was nearly one o\u2019clock, and\nthe excitements of this night appeared to be exhausted. I left a large\ncrowd still assembled round the scene of action, while the streets I\npassed on my homeward way were empty and deserted. Deserted, likewise,\nwas our own street, the Fleischer Gasse, as it lay before me in the\nmoonlight; but as I approached I became aware of the solitary dark-clad\nfigure of a slender young man walking on the pavement just in front of\nour house. He seemed to me well dressed, and in appearance thoroughly\nrespectable\u2014an opinion which Brick, however, failed to share, for\nhe advanced to meet the stranger with a low growl of suppressed but\nintense disapproval, which compliment the respectable young man\nreturned by savagely hitting the dog with the tightly rolled-up\numbrella he carried in his hand.\n\nI should probably not have cast a second look at this stranger had\nnot something in the needless brutality of his action attracted my\nattention, and caused me to scan his features. I thus noticed that he\nappeared to be little over twenty years of age, had a small sallow\nface, a sprouting mustache, and dark eyes set rather near together.\n\nI rang the house-bell, and my maid came down to let me in, when, to my\nsurprise, the stranger rudely attempted to force himself in behind me;\nbut we slammed the door in his face, and then my servant told me that\nthis same young man had been hanging about here for over half an hour,\nand had already once endeavored to effect an entrance behind some other\nperson.\n\n * * * * *\n\nTwo days later the troops came back from the man\u0153uvres, and\neverything returned to accustomed order and quiet. The officers were,\nhowever, one and all far too much engrossed in recollection of those\nglorious imaginary laurels they had been winning on their bloodless\nbattle-fields to take interest in anything so commonplace as a real\nfire; so the tale of the terrors we had undergone during their absence\nfell upon callous ears, and as no more conflagrations ensued to give\ncolor of semblance to our story, the matter soon lapsed into oblivion.\n\nThe usual winter torpor settled down upon the place, and the months\nwore slowly away towards spring without anything having occurred to\ndisturb their peaceful current, when late on the evening of the 21st of\nFebruary the almost forgotten sound of the tocsin was again heard in\nthe streets, and simultaneously the news of a fourfold murder spread\nlike wildfire through the town. The house inhabited by a retired\nmilitary surgeon, Dr. Friedenwanger, had been discovered burning, and\nsome members of the fire-brigade, on forcing an entrance, found his\ncorpse, along with that of his wife, child, and maidservant, still\nreeking with warm blood, and mutilated in the most disgusting manner.\n\nAt first everybody was quite at sea as to where to look for the\nperpetrators of this crime, but by a curious chance, just while Dr.\nFriedenwanger was being buried, two days later, a bloody knife and\nsome iron crowbars, found concealed in a drain near the cemetery, led\nto the identification of the murderers in the persons of Anton von\nKleeberg and Rudolf Marlin,[74] two young men of respectable burgher\nfamilies, aged about nineteen and twenty-one. The photographs of these\nyouthful criminals being soon after exhibited in several shop-windows,\nneither I nor my maid had any difficulty in recognizing that of\nKleeberg as the portrait of the mysterious stranger who had tried to\nenter our house on the night of the fire.\n\nMany interesting details, too lengthy to be here recorded, came out\nat the trial, and a long list of misdeeds was brought home to the\nculprits, who, among other things, confessed to having laid every one\nof the fires the previous summer, thus diverting public attention while\nthey proceeded to rob some particular house known to be ill-guarded,\nor inhabited by women only. There is therefore every reason to suppose\nthat Messrs. Kleeberg and Marlin, well aware of the temporary absence\nof all masculine element from the household, had selected our house\nfor a visit of this description; and I am likewise firmly convinced\nthat my beloved and sagacious dog Brick, with that delicate sense of\nperception which so favorably distinguishes the canine from the coarser\nhuman race, had instantaneously detected the guilty intentions of the\nvery respectable-looking young man we met in the moonlight before our\nhouse that September night. The victim, Dr. Friedenwanger, enjoyed a\nbad reputation as a usurer, and his murder had been undertaken for the\nsake of stealing the watches and jewellery he kept in pawn; while by\nsubsequently setting fire to the premises the murderers had hoped to\nannihilate all traces of their crime. Some of the horrible disclosures\nat the trial brought, nevertheless, moments of intense satisfaction to\nmore than one female breast, as being so many triumphant vindications\nof those terrors so cavalierly treated by the other sex a few months\nbefore. Did they now realize in what danger we had been last autumn,\nwhen they were all away engrossed in their miserable sham-fights? Did\nthey know that their homes might have been reduced to ashes while they\nwere complacently toying with blank-cartridges? or that their helpless\nprogeny could easily have been made mince-meat of while they were\nslaying their legions of visionary Russians or Turks?\n\nSuch the self-evident arguments with which we were now able to clear\nourselves from the base imputation of cowardice, and surely no woman\nworthy her sex forbore to make use of these handy weapons, or missed\nsuch glorious opportunity of turning the tables on her lord and master.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCharacteristic of Magyar legislation was the circumstance of the\nwhole trial being conducted in Hungarian, though this language was\nabsolutely unknown to the two German prisoners, who were thus debarred\nthe doubtful privilege of comprehending their own death-sentence when\nfinally pronounced about a year after their crime. Like enough, though,\nits meaning was subsequently made clear to them, for Anton von Kleeberg\nand Rudolf Marlin were executed at Hermanstadt on the 16th of June,\n1885.[75]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[74] In justice to Saxon national feeling, I have been specially\nrequested to mention the fact that neither of these two young German\nmurderers was of Saxon extraction.\n\n[75] As a curious instance of the precariousness of human life, I may\nhere make mention of Colonel P\u2014\u2014, a distinguished countryman of ours,\nthen occupying a diplomatic post at Vienna. This gentleman, who had\nan unwholesome liking for witnessing executions, having accidentally\nlearned that Hermanstadt boasted two candidates for the gallows, had\nrequested a Transylvanian acquaintance to send him timely notice of\ntheir hanging, in order that he might assist at the spectacle. This\nmorbid desire was, however, not destined to be satisfied, as long\nbefore the slow march of justice had culminated in a death-warrant,\nColonel P\u2014\u2014 himself had been carried off by the far more rapid\nEgyptian fever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI.\n\nTHE KLAUSENBURG CARNIVAL.\n\n\nReaders of the foregoing pages will have had occasion to remark that,\nexcept when diversified by fire or bloodshed, life at Hermanstadt was\n_not_ a lively one; therefore an invitation which I received during my\nsecond winter in Transylvania to spend some weeks at Klausenburg during\nthe carnival season was very welcome. It was a decided relief to get\naway from the vulgar monotony of those antiquated flirtations which in\nHermanstadt did duty for society, and to be reminded of things one was\nin danger of forgetting\u2014of fresh young faces, light pretty dresses,\nand real dancing.\n\nNor was I disappointed in what I saw during my fortnight\u2019s stay at\nKlausenburg: pretty dresses in plenty; prettier faces, for the girls\nof the place are justly celebrated for their good looks; and as for\ndancing\u2014why, I do not think I ever knew before what it was to see\nreal, heartfelt, impassioned, indefatigable dancing. An account of the\nthree last carnival days, as I spent them at Klausenburg, will convey\nsome notion of what is there understood by the word dancing.\n\nWe had arrived late on the evening of the Saturday preceding\nAsh-Wednesday, therefore only the gentlemen of the party, unwilling to\nlose a single instant of their precious holiday-time, rushed off to a\nlarge public ball or _redoute_.\n\nThe following evening\u2014Carnival Sunday\u2014assembled the whole society\nin the _salons_ of the military commander, Baron V\u2014\u2014, whose guest I\nwas at the time. There were from thirty to thirty-six dancing couples,\nand the first thing to strike a stranger on entering the room was,\nthat not a single plain face was to be seen among them. Almost all the\nyoung girls were pretty, some of them remarkably so; dark beauties\nmostly, with a wealth of black plaits, glorious eyes, and creamy\ncomplexions, and with the small hand and high-curved instep which\ncharacterize Hungarian ladies. The faintest suspicion of a dark shade\non the upper lip was not without charm in some cases; and when viewed\nagainst a strong light, many of the well-cut profiles had a soft, downy\nappearance, which decidedly enhanced their _piquante_ effect. Side by\nside with these, however, were one or two faces fair enough to have\ngraced any English ball-room.\n\nWhat pleased me here to see was, that the married women, as a matter\nof course, leave the dancing-field to the young girls, and do not\nattempt, by display of an outrageous luxury in dress, to concentrate\nattention on themselves: the particular type of exquisite _\u00e9l\u00e9gante_\nnever missing from a French or Polish _salon_ has no place here. This\nis surely as it should be and as nature intended; pleasure, dancing,\nflirtation are for the young and the unmarried, and those who have had\ntheir turn should be content to stand aside and look on henceforth;\nbut when, as is too often the case, it comes to be a trial of strength\nbetween matrons and maidens as to which shall capture the best partners\nand carry off the greatest number of trophies, the result can only be\nan unnatural and distorted state of society.\n\nWhat Edinburgh society was to London some fifty years ago, so does\nKlausenburg stand to-day with regard to Pesth. As nearly all the\npeople here are connected by ties of blood as well as of friendship,\nsomething of the privacy of a family circle marks their intercourse;\nand while lacking none of the refining touches of modern civilization,\na breath of patriarchal _sans g\u00eane_ pervades the atmosphere.\n\nThe weak side of Klausenburg society at present is a minority of\ngentlemen, as of late years many members of distinguished families\nhave got to prefer the wider range of excitement offered by a season\nat Buda-Pesth to the more restricted circle of a purely Transylvanian\nsociety which satisfied their fathers and grandfathers. On this\noccasion, however, there was no lack of dancers, for the young hussars\nwho had come with us from Hermanstadt efficiently filled up the social\ngaps, restoring the balance of sex in the most satisfactory manner.\n\nWhat interested me most in the ball-room was to watch the expression of\nthe Tzigane musicians crowded together in a door-way; their black eyes\nrolling restlessly from side to side, nothing escapes their notice, and\nthey are evidently far better informed of every flirtation, mistake,\ncoolness, or quarrel in the wind, than the most vigilant chaperon.\n\nOf course here, as at every Hungarian ball, the principal feature was\nthe csardas; and it was curious to see how, at the very first notes of\nthis dance, the young people all precipitated themselves to the end of\nthe room where the musicians were placed, jostling one another in their\nanxiety each to get nearest to the music. To an uninitiated stranger it\nlooks most peculiar to see this knot of dancers all pressed together\nlike herrings in a barrel in one small corner, while fully two-thirds\nof a spacious ball-room are standing empty; but the Hungarians declare\nthat the Tziganes only play the csardas with spirit when they see the\ndancers at close quarters, treading on their very toes and brushing up\nagainst the violins. Sometimes the band-master, unable to control his\nexcitement, breaks loose from the niche or door-way assigned to the\nband, and, advancing into the room, becomes himself the centre of the\nwhirling knot of dancers.\n\nWhenever the csardas comes to an end there is a violent clapping of\nhands to make the music resume. Hungarians are absolutely insatiable in\nthis respect, and, however long the dance has lasted, there will always\nbe eager cries for more and more and more.\n\nThe cotillon, which was kept up till seven in the morning, was\nmuch prettier than any I remember to have seen danced before, for\nHungarians are as superior to Germans or Englishwomen in point of grace\nas they are to Poles in the matter of animation\u2014and they executed all\nthe usual figures demanding the introduction of a cushion, a mirror,\na fan, India-rubber balls, etc., in a manner equally removed from\nboisterous romping as from languid affectation.\n\nThe following evening (Monday) the society reassembled at the pleasant\nand hospitable house of Mme. de Z\u2014\u2014, whose dark-eyed daughters take\na foremost rank among Transylvanian beauties. In order to have some\nstrength remaining for what was still to come, dancing was on this\noccasion reduced to the modest allowance of six hours, the gypsies\nbeing compulsorily sent away soon after three o\u2019clock, in order to\nforce the young people to take some rest.\n\nOn Tuesday we all met again at the Casino for the bachelor\u2019s ball,\ngiven by the gentlemen of the place, and where, with the exception of\nsupper and occasional snatches of refreshment, dancing was kept up\nuninterruptedly till near eight o\u2019clock next morning. At the conclusion\nof the cotillon each lady received from her partner a pretty white and\nsilver fan, on which her initials were engraved\u2014a souvenir which I\nhave much pleasure in preserving, in remembrance of the happy days I\npassed at Klausenburg.\n\nAn old traditional dance, which they here call _\u00c9cossaise_ (but which\nin reality is simply a _pot-pourri_ of several English country-dances),\nis danced at Klausenburg after midnight on Shrove-Tuesday, or rather\nAsh-Wednesday morning.[76] This dance having been somewhat neglected of\nlate years, the young people blundered sorely over some of the figures,\nand the dance would have lapsed into hopeless chaos had not the former\ngeneration gallantly thrown themselves into the breach. Respectable\nfathers of grown-up daughters, and white-haired grandmothers, now\nstarted to their feet, instinctively roused to action by vivid\nrecollections of their own youth; and such is the power of memory that\nsoon they were footing it with the nimblest dancers, going through each\nfigure with unerring precision, and executing the complicated steps\nwith an accuracy and grace which did honor to the dancing-masters of\nhalf a century ago.\n\nOne of these figures was the old one of cat and mouse, in which the\ngirl, protected by a ring of dancers, tries to escape the pursuit of\nher partner, who seeks to break through the line of defenders\u2014the\nmoment when the cat seizes its prey being always marked by the\nband-master causing his violin to give a piteous squeak, imitating to\nperfection the agonized death-shriek of a captured mouse.\n\nIt is _de rigueur_ that the last dance on Ash-Wednesday morning should\nbe executed by daylight. This was about seven o\u2019clock, when, the lights\nbeing extinguished and the shutters flung open, the gypsies threw all\ntheir remaining energies into a last furious, breathless galop\u2014a\nweirder, wilder scene than I ever witnessed in a ball-room, to look\nat this frenziedly whirling mass of figures, but dimly to be descried\nin the scarcely breaking dawn\u2014gray and misty-looking as ghosts risen\nfrom the grave to celebrate their nightly revels, and who, warned by\nthe cock\u2019s crow of approaching daybreak, are treading their last mazes\nwith a fast and furious glee; while the wild strains of the Tzigane\nband, rendered yet more fantastic by the addition of a monstrous drum\n(expressly introduced for the purpose of adding to the turmoil), might\nwell have been borrowed from an infernal orchestra.\n\nWhen the galop came to an end at last, from sheer want of breath on\nthe part of both players and dancers, daylight was streaming into the\nroom, disclosing a crowd of torn dresses, crushed flowers, and flushed\nand haggard faces, worn with the dissipation of the previous hours\u2014a\ncharacteristic sight, but not a beautiful one by any means. Each one\nnow rushed to the tea-room to receive the cups of fresh steaming _kraut\nsuppe_, served here at the conclusion of every ball. It is made of a\nspecies of pickled cabbage, and has a sharp acid flavor, most grateful\nto a jaded palate, and supposed to be supreme in restoring equilibrium\nto overtaxed digestions.\n\nWhile the ladies were resting till their carriages were announced,\nthe gentlemen began to light their cigars, and the Tziganes, having\nrecovered strength, resumed their bows; but what they now played was no\nlonger dance music, but wild, fitful strains and melancholy national\nairs, addressed now to one, now to another of the listeners grouped\nabout.\n\nIn other Continental towns dancing is brought to an end on\nAsh-Wednesday morning, and most people would suppose that having danced\nfor three nights running, even the youngest of the young would be\nglad to take some rest at last. Not so at Klausenburg: nobody is ever\ntired here or has need of rest, as far as I can make out; and it is a\nspecial feature of the place that precisely Ash-Wednesday should be the\nday of all others when gayety runs the wildest. The older generation,\nindeed, lament that dancing is no longer what it used to be; for in\ntheir time the Shrove-Tuesday party used never to break up till the\nThursday morning, dancing being kept up the whole Wednesday and the\nfollowing night, people merely retiring in batches for an hour or so at\na time to repair the damages to their toilets.\n\nSuch desperate dissipation has now been modified, in so far as the\nparty, separating towards 8 or 9 A.M., only meet again at 6 P.M.,\nfirst to dine and then to dance. I could not get any one to explain to\nme the reason of this Ash-Wednesday dissipation, which I have never\ncome across in any other place. Most of those I asked could assign no\nreasons at all, except that it had always been the custom there as\nlong as any one could remember; but one version I heard was that in\n1848 the Austrian Government took into its head to forbid dancing in\nLent. \u201cSo, naturally, after that we had to make a point of dancing\njust on Ash-Wednesday to show our independence,\u201d said my informant.\nThe delicate flavor of forbidden fruit, which, no doubt, adds so much\nto the sweetness of these Ash-Wednesday parties, is kept up by the\nKlausenburg clergy, who, after having for years vainly attempted to put\na stop to this regularly recurring Lenten profanation, now contents\nitself with a nominal protest each year against the revellers. Thus,\nas often as the day comes round, a black-robed figure, sent hither\nto preach sackcloth and ashes, makes his appearance on the ball-room\npremises; but, more harmless than he looks, his bark is worse than his\nbite, and he interferes with no one\u2019s enjoyment. He does not indite\nmaledictions in letters of fire on the wall; neither does he act the\npart of Banquo\u2019s ghost at the banquet. Probably he has in former years\ntoo often acted this part in vain, so finds it wiser now to compromise\nthe matter by accepting a modest sum as alms for his church, and\nabandoning the sinners to their own devices.\n\nIn place of the limp and crushed tulles and tarlatans of the previous\nnight, the young girls had now appeared mostly in pretty muslin and\nfresh summer toilets adorned with natural flowers. Some of them looked\nrather pale, as well they might after their previous efforts; but at\nthe first notes of the csardas every trace of fatigue was gone as if by\nmagic, and not for worlds would any one of them have consented to sit\nthrough a single dance. \u201cOf course I am tired,\u201d said a young girl to\nme, very seriously, \u201cbut you see it is quite impossible to sit still\nwhen you hear the csardas playing; even if you are dying you must get\nup and dance.\u201d\n\nFor my part, I confess that the mere effort of looking on this fourth\nnight was positive exhaustion. Long after midnight they were still\ndancing away like creatures possessed\u2014dancing as though they never\nmeant to stop, and as though their very souls\u2019 salvation depended on\nnot standing still for a single moment. My brain began to reel, and\nfeeling that worn-out Nature could do no more, I made the best of\nmy way to carriage and bed, pursued by nightmares of a never-ending\ncsardas.\n\nAfter Ash-Wednesday Klausenburg society settled down to a somewhat\ncalmer routine of amusement, consisting in skating, theatre-going,\nvisiting, and parties.\n\nThere is a pleasing elasticity about Klausenburg visiting arrangements,\npeople there restricting themselves to no particular hour, and no\nprecise costume for going to see their acquaintances; so that ladies\nbound for the theatre or a party may often be seen paying two or three\nvisits _en route_, not at all embarrassed by such trifles as short\nsleeves or flowers in the hair.\n\nAbout two parties a day seemed to be the usual allowance here in Lent.\nSome of these reunions, beginning at five o\u2019clock, were accompanied by\ncold coffee, ham sausages, and cakes; others, commencing at nine in the\nevening, were connected with tea and supper, so that frequently the\nself-same party might be said to begin in one house and terminate in\nanother.\n\nThe gypsies were everywhere and anywhere to be seen, for most of these\nsocial gatherings end in dancing, and without the Tzigane no pleasure\nis considered complete. Pougracz, the present director of the Tzigane\nband at Klausenburg, has, so to say, grown up in society, his father\nhaving filled the post before him, and he himself, a man well on in\nmiddle-age\u2014with such a delightfully shrewd, good-natured, rascally\nold face\u2014has played for another generation of dancers, fathers and\nmothers of the young people who now fill the ball-room. There are other\nTzigane bands as good, but his is the only one \u201cin society,\u201d and it\nis most amusing to note the half-impudent familiarity of his manner\ntowards both gentlemen and ladies who have grown up to the sound of\nhis fiddle. It is positive agony to him to witness bad dancing, and he\nwas wont to complain most bitterly of one gentleman to whom nature had\ndenied an ear for music (a rare defect in any Hungarian). \u201cNone of you\nyoung people dance particularly well nowadays,\u201d he remarked, with frank\ncriticism, \u201cbut among you there is one who makes me positively ill to\nlook at. If I were not to play _at_ him and send my violin into his\nfeet, he would never be able to get round at all.\u201d\n\nOn another occasion, when the figures of the _\u00c9cossaise_ threatened to\nmelt away into hopeless confusion, Pougracz angrily turned round and\napostrophized a married lady who was sitting near me. \u201cHow can you sit\nthere and see them making such a mess of it all?\u201d he said. \u201cIt is not\nso long ago that you were dancing yourself as to have forgotten all\nabout it, so go and make order among them!\u201d\n\nThe pretty old-fashioned custom of serenades being still here en\n_vogue_, sometimes on a dark winter\u2019s night, between two and three\no\u2019clock, one may hear the Tzigane band strike up under the window of\nsome f\u00eated beauty, playing her favorite air or _nota_. The serenade\nmay either have been arranged by a special admirer, or merely by a\ngood friend of the family. Often, too, several young men will arrange\nto bring serenades to all the young ladies of their acquaintance,\ngoing from one house to another. The lady thus serenaded does not show\nherself at the window, but if the attention be agreeable to her, she\nplaces a lighted candle in the casement in token that the serenade is\naccepted.\n\nSuch acceptance is, however, by no means compromising, no serious\nconstruction being necessarily put upon what may simply be intended as\na friendly attention.\n\nThere is something decidedly refreshing about such frank ovations\nnowadays, when the lords of creation have become so extremely chary\nof their precious attentions towards the fair sex. To offer a nosegay\nto a girl is in some places so fraught with ominous meaning as to be\nconsidered equivalent to a marriage proposal, and exquisite young\ndandies are apt to feel themselves seriously compromised by the gift of\na single rose-bud.\n\nOnly, the Klausenburg roses have no such treacherous thorns, it seems;\nand methinks society must surely be healthy in a place where any\ngentleman may, without laying himself open to the charge of lunacy,\nwake up a whole street at 3 A.M. by instigating a musical row beneath\nthe window of a young lady acquaintance.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[76] I failed to obtain any reliable information as to when and how\nthis dance had been here imported, but it seems to have been in use for\na good many generations past.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII.\n\nJOURNEY FROM HERMANSTADT TO KRONSTADT.\n\n\nThe railway from Hermanstadt to Kronstadt takes us mostly through a\nrich undulating country, for, leaving the mountains always farther\nbehind us, we near them again only as we approach the end of our\njourney.\n\nSalzburg, or Vizakna as it is named in Hungarian, renowned for its\nsalt-mines, is the first station on the line on leaving Hermanstadt\u2014a\nmelancholy, barren-looking place, seemingly engendered by Nature in\none of her most stagnant moods. A wearisome stretch of sandy hillocks,\ntheir outlines broken here and there by unsightly cracks and fissures,\nis all that meets the eye; not a tree or bush to relieve the monotony\nof the short stunted grass, where starved-looking daisies, and\nspiritless, emaciated chamomiles, are all the flowers to be seen. No\nwonder the great white cattle look moody and dissatisfied, as from the\nsandy cliff above they sullenly gaze down at their own reflections in\nthe dull green waters of the T\u00f6k\u00f6li Bath. This bath, highly beneficial\nin cases of acute rheumatism, is nothing more than an old salt-mine\ndating back to the time of the Romans, and which, through some accident\nor convulsion of nature, has been flooded. The brine it contains is\nso strong as to bear up the heaviest bodies and render sinking an\nimpossibility, so that, though of tremendous depth, persons absolutely\nignorant of swimming can walk about in it in perfect safety, with head\nand shoulders well above the surface.\n\nThere are various other baths in the place, all somewhat weaker than\nthe T\u00f6k\u00f6li and other salt-mines, which, only worked in winter, yearly\nfurnish some eighty thousand hundred-weight of salt. But the weirdest\nand gloomiest spot about Salzburg is an old ruined mine, deserted since\n1817, and where over three hundred Honved soldiers found their grave in\n1849. They fell in battle against the revolutionary Wallachians, and,\nas the simplest mode of burial, their bodies were thrown down the old\nshaft, which is over six hundred feet deep and filled with water to\nabout a quarter of its depth.\n\nA magnificent echo can be obtained by firing a gun or pistol down\nthe shaft; but it is dangerous to approach the edge, because of\nearth-slips, for which reason the place is enclosed by a wire railing.\nHowever, neither this danger nor the fear of the three hundred ghosts\nwho may well be supposed to haunt the spot is sufficient to restrain\nthe Roumanians from prowling about the place. On fine moonlight\nnights\u2014as I was told by the revenue officials, whose guard-house\nis close by\u2014they will let themselves down by ropes to chip off\nwhole sackfuls of salt. Sometimes they are caught in the act by some\nwide-awake official, who then threatens to cut the rope and send the\nculprits to rejoin the Honveds below, till the unfortunate wretches are\nforced to sue for their lives in deadliest fear.\n\nThe prettiest of the Saxon towns we passed on our way to Kronstadt is\nSch\u00e4ssburg, situated on the banks of the river. Towers and ramparts\npeep out tantalizingly from luxurious vegetation, making us long to get\nout and explore the place; particularly inviting is a steep flight of\nsteps leading to an old church at the top of a hill.\n\nIt is here that Hungary\u2019s greatest poet, Pet\u00f6fi, perished in the battle\nof Sch\u00e4ssburg on the 31st of July, 1849, when the revolted Hungarians,\nled by the Polish general Bem, were crushed by the superior numbers of\nthe Russian troops come to Austria\u2019s assistance.\n\nPet\u00f6fi\u2019s body was never found, nor had any one seen him fall, and for\nmany years periodical reports got afloat in Hungary that the great poet\nwas not dead, but pining away his life in the mines of Siberia. There\nseems, however, to be no valid reason for believing this tale, and more\nlikely his was one of the many mutilated and unrecognizable corpses\nwhich strewed the valley of Sch\u00e4ssburg on that disastrous day.\n\n[Illustration: SCH\u00c4SSBURG.\n\n(Reprinted from publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian Society.)]\n\nTo the west of the town we catch sight of a solitary turret perched on\nthe overhanging cliff above the river; it is said to mark the place\nwhere a Turkish pacha, besieging the town with his army, was slain by\na shot fired from the goldsmiths\u2019 tower. The pacha was buried here\nsitting on his elephant, and this tower raised above them, while that\nother tower from whence the shot was fired, held ever since in high\nhonor, was decked out with a golden ceiling. This latter has now fallen\ninto ruin, and the inscription on the pacha\u2019s resting-place has become\nalmost illegible, but the legend still runs in the people\u2019s mouths, and\nis told in verse as follows:\n\n \u201cBy Sch\u00e4ssburg, on the mountain\n A turret gray doth stand,\n And from the heights it gazes\n Down on the Kokel land.\n And ne\u2019er a passing wand\u2019rer\n This turret who doth see,\n But pauses to inquire here\n What may its meaning be.\n\n \u201cIt is a proud remembrance\n Of doughty deeds and bold.\n Still faithfully the people\n Relate this legend old:\n In by-gone days of trouble\n Went forth, with sword and brand,\n A mighty Turkish pacha,\n To devastate the land.\n\n \u201cThus also would he conquer\n This ancient Saxon town;\n But here each man was ready\n To die for its renown.\n And there upon the mountain\n The pacha took his stand,\n An elephant bestriding,\n And cimeter in hand.\n\n \u201cThe mighty Ali Pacha,\n He swears with curses wild,\n That by his beard will he destroy\n The Saxon, chick and child.\n Then struck the haughty Moslem\n Full in the breast a ball;\n With curses yet upon the lip,\n A death-prey he must fall.\n\n \u201cThe leaden ball came flying,\n Full thousand paces two,\n From out a fortress turret,\n With deadly aim and true.\n A sturdy goldsmith was it\n Who fired this famous shot;\n The Turkish horde, which seeing,\n Their courage all forgot.\n\n \u201cAnd panic-struck escaping,\n Their pacha left to die,\n The elephant still bestriding,\n With fixed and glassy eye.\n Then sallied forth the Saxons\n As thus the Moslems fled,\n And gazed on the dead pacha\n With joy and yet with dread.\n\n \u201cThey built up Ali Pacha\n Within that turret gray,\n From head to foot still armed\n In battle-field array;\n His elephant beside him\n Was buried here as well,[77]\n And outside an inscription\n Their history doth tell.\n\n \u201cBy times a plaintive wailing\n May here be heard at night;\n Or chance you to see flitting\n A phantom figure white,\n The pacha \u2019tis, who cannot\n Find lasting rest, they say,\n Because \u2019mid heavy curses\n His spirit passed away.\u201d\n\nAnother point of interest we see from the railway is the ruined castle\nof Marienburg, crowning a bare hill to our right hand, about half an\nhour before reaching Kronstadt, built by the knights of the Teutonic\norder during their occupation of the Burzenland in the early part of\nthe thirteenth century.\n\nThese knights, whose order unites some of the conditions of both\nTemplars and Maltese knights, had been founded in Palestine about\nthe year 1190, for the double purpose of tending wounded crusaders,\nand, like these, combating the enemies of the Holy Sepulchre. Only\nGermans of noble birth were admitted as members, under condition of\nthe customary vows of chastity and obedience. They had, however, not\nbeen long in existence when their position in Palestine began to grow\ninsecure; and casting about their eyes in search of some more tenable\nposition, they were met half-way by the King of Hungary, Andreas II.,\nwho, on his side, was in want of some powerful alliance to secure the\neastern provinces of Transylvania against the repeated invasions of the\nKumanes.\n\nThe negotiations between the monarch and the Teutonic order seem to\nhave lasted several years, being finally brought to a conclusion\nin 1211 in a treaty signed by the King in the presence of eighteen\ndistinguished witnesses. This treaty distinctly sets forth that the\npart of the country called the Burzenland, and whose boundaries are\nexactly defined, is bequeathed as an irrevocable gift to the knights of\nthe Teutonic order by the King, who, hoping thereby to obtain pardon\nof his sins and secure eternal salvation for himself and his ancestors\nlikewise, intrusts to them the defence of the eastern frontier of his\nkingdom against barbaric invasions. In this document, which is lengthy\nand involved, are likewise set forth all the rights, obligations,\nprivileges, and restrictions of the said knights. They were exempted\nfrom all the usual taxes and tributes to the King, who, however, did\nnot resign his claim to the sovereignty of the land, reserving to\nhimself on all occasions the right of ultimate decision in cases of\ncontested justice. Whatever gold or silver was discovered in the soil\nwas to belong, half to the King, half to the order. Though granting\nthe utmost freedom in all matters relating to trade and commerce,\nthe Hungarian monarch retained the sole right of coinage; and while\npermitting the knights to erect the wooden fortresses and citadels\nwhich were amply sufficient to resist attacks from the barbarians,\nit was distinctly stipulated that they were not to build castles or\nfortifications of stone.\n\nBarring these few restrictions, the land was to be absolutely their\nown; and had the knights been wise enough to keep to the compact,\nno doubt the Teutonic order might yet be flourishing to-day in\nTransylvania, instead of having been ignominiously expelled after\nscarce a dozen years\u2019 residence.\n\nAt first the new arrangement seems to have been most beneficial to\nthe country, for we hear of growing prosperity and of flourishing\nagriculture and commerce; and many German villages which acknowledged\nthe Teutonic knights as their feudal masters were founded at that time.\n\nBut the good understanding between King Andreas and the knights was of\nshort duration, for before ten years had elapsed we already read of\ndissensions cropping up; the knights are accused of extending their\nboundaries beyond the prescribed limits, of issuing an independent\ncoinage, of building stone castles, and of bribing away German\ncolonists to settle on their own land to the detriment of other\nprovinces\u2014all of which things were distinctly interdicted by the\nterms of agreement. Many stories, too, are told of their cruel tyranny\ntowards unfortunate serfs\u2014such, for instance, as compelling several\nhundreds of them to pass whole nights in the marshes round Marienburg,\neach man armed with a long switch wherewith to flog the troublesome\nfrogs, whose croaking disturbed the slumbers of the holy men up in the\ncastle.\n\nKing Andreas, who was of a weak, vacillating disposition, was easily\npersuaded by counsellors antagonistic to the order to revoke the deed\nof gift, which proclamation was issued in 1221, accompanied by an order\nto the knights to evacuate the territory and the strongholds they had\nbuilt. Before, however, this had been effected, the Pope, Honorius\nIII., himself a special protector of the order, intervened, effecting\na reconciliation, the result of which was a fresh treaty confirming\nthe previous donation. This renewed deed of gift not only ratified\nall the terms of the previous document, but actually increased the\nprivileges enjoyed by the knights, granting them among other things the\nmuch-coveted right of building stone castles.\n\nIn spite, however, of some notable victories over the Kumanes in 1224,\nand the brilliant prospects thereby opened of enlarging their domains,\nthe Teutonic knights were not destined to shine much longer in the land\nthey had thus successfully civilized and made arable. No doubt they\nhastened their own downfall by the signal short-sightedness of their\ngrand-master, Hermann von Salza, who committed the error of taking\nupon himself to offer the supremacy of the Burzenland to the Holy See,\nbegging the Pope to enroll this province among the Papal States. Of\ncourse the knights had no right thus to dispose of a domain which they\nonly held as subjects of the Hungarian Crown; and though the Pope, as\nwas to be expected, gladly accepted the handsome donation, the King as\nnaturally resented a proceeding which could only be regarded as the\nblackest high-treason. This time the breach was such as could no longer\nbe bridged over by any attempt at reconciliation. The Teutonic knights\nhad made themselves too many enemies, and especially the King\u2019s eldest\nson (afterwards Bela IV.) was strenuous in urging his father to eject\nthe order from the land. This sentence was carried out, not without\nmuch trouble and bloodshed; for the knights were little disposed to\ndisgorge this valuable possession. Even when at last compelled to\nturn their backs on Transylvania, which appears to have been about\n1225, it was long before they relinquished the hope of ultimately\nregaining their lost paradise. But all efforts in this direction proved\nunavailing; for it was decreed that the German knights were to behold\nthe Burzenland no more.\n\n[Illustration: CASTLE OF T\u00d6RZBURG.]\n\nI have not been able to obtain any picture of Marienburg, and to the\nbest of my knowledge none such has ever been executed, which is all\nthe more to be lamented, as this interesting ruin, like so many others\nin the country, bids fair to vanish ere long without leaving any trace\nbehind. In default, therefore, of Marienburg, I offer a picture of the\nCastle of T\u00f6rzburg, another of those seven fortresses raised by the\nTeutonic knights during their brief but brilliant reign. This castle,\nlying south of Kronstadt, at the entrance of the similarly named pass,\nhas, however, lost much of its former romantic appearance. Since 1878,\nwhen the Hungarian Government thought necessary to guard the frontier\nagainst Roumania, it was converted into a soldiers\u2019 barracks; and\nthough no longer used for that purpose, no steps have yet been taken\nto restore the edifice to its original form by rebuilding the slender\nturrets of which it had been divested.\n\n * * * * *\n\nShortly before reaching Kronstadt our train came to an unexpected\nstand-still in the midst of a wide-stretching plain. Some flocks\nwere grazing on either side of the rails, but there was no station\nor guard-house in sight to explain this unaccountable stoppage, and\nthere seemed to be nothing to suggest an accident, till, stretching\nour heads out of the window, we saw a group of people bending over a\nformless mass which lay on the rails some hundred yards to our rear.\nOne of the passengers who happened to be a doctor was hastily summoned\nto the spot, but he returned shaking his head, for his science could\ndo nothing here. A shepherd lad aged twelve or thirteen had been lying\nacross the rails seemingly asleep in the sun. He lay so flat that the\nengine-driver had failed to perceive him till the last moment, and\nthen only had seen how a white figure had jumped up in front of the\nengine, but instantaneously caught by a blow from the engine-fliers,\nwas stricken down to rise no more.\n\nHad the boy been asleep or intoxicated, or whether it were an accident\nor a suicide, none could tell. We were thankful to be far enough from\nthe scene to be spared the sight of the horrible details\u2014how horrible\ncould be guessed from the expression of those who were now slowly\nreturning to resume their places in the train.\n\nAs we moved away I could only discern how two men were lifting the body\nfrom the rails, and how a woman with uplifted arms was running across a\nfield towards them.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[77] Why the elephant was also buried is not very apparent, as it is\nhardly to be supposed that it was killed by the same shot which slew\nthe pacha.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII.\n\nKRONSTADT.\n\n\nIt needed the sight of beautiful Kronstadt to efface the impression\nof this ghastly picture\u2014beautiful, indeed, as it clings to the steep\nmountain-side, looking as though the picturesque houses and turrets had\nbeen carved out of the rocks which tower above them.\n\nAt Hermanstadt the view of the mountain-chain is grander and more\nsublime, but Kronstadt has the advantage of being in itself part and\nportion of the mountain scenery, the fashionable promenade winding in\nserpentine curves up the Kapellen Berg to the back of the town, being\nbut the beginning of an ascent which, if pursued, will lead us to a\nheight of wellnigh seven thousand feet.\n\nWithout, however, going any such desperate distance, merely from the\ntop of the Kapellen Berg or Zinne (thirteen hundred feet above the\ntown), to be reached without perceptible effort, we can enjoy one of\nthe finest views to be seen throughout Transylvania, offering as it\ndoes a singularly harmonious blending of wild, uncultured nature and\nrich pastoral scenery.\n\nNot far below the highest point of the Kapellen Berg is a small cave\nwhich goes by the name of the Nonnenloch (nun\u2019s hole). A hermit is said\nto have lived here for many years; but it is more celebrated as having\nbeen the haunt of a monstrous serpent, which hence used to pounce down\nupon inadvertent wanderers. On one occasion it is said to have carried\noff and devoured a student who was reading near the town-wall; but\ntormented by thirst after this plentiful repast, the monster drank\nwater till it burst. The portrait of this gigantic snake may still be\nseen painted on the old town-wall near the barracks.\n\nThere is another legend relating to the Kronstadt Kapellen Berg, which,\nthough somewhat lengthy, is too graceful to be refused a place here:\n\n\u201cMany, many years ago there lived at the Kronstadt gymnasium a student\nwho was uncommon wise and God-fearing, and who could preach so well\nthat it often happened that he was delegated by any one of the town\nclergymen, when indisposed with a cold or toothache, to preach in his\nstead. And this the student did right willingly; for he received for\neach sermon half a Hungarian florin, which was good pay for those\ntimes. But still more for the honor and glory did he like to do it; and\nthe most praiseworthy thing about it was, that he did not copy out his\nsermons from a book, but that he composed them unaided out of his own\nmind and learned them by rote; and as, moreover, he had a fine manner\nof delivery, it was a pleasure to listen to him. Whenever he had to\nlearn a sermon by heart, it was his custom to seek out solitary places\nwhere he might be undisturbed, but his favorite haunt used to be the\nsteep, wooded hill behind the town.\n\n\u201cThus one day, having to learn a sermon to be preached on the morrow\nat the Johannis Kirche (the present Catholic Franciscan church), our\nstudent as usual repaired to his favorite haunt. He had just finished\nhis self-allotted task, and was preparing to go home, when he espied a\nbeautiful bird, which, hopping about on an overhanging branch, seemed\nto be intently gazing at him. The student approached the bird, but when\nhe had reached it so close as almost to touch it with his hand, it flew\noff some paces farther up the hill, alighting on another branch and\ngazing on him as before. Again he followed the bird, which, repeating\nits former man\u0153uvre, led him on by degrees almost to the top of the\nhill to the spot now known as the Nonnenloch. Here the bird disappeared\ninto a thicket, still followed by the student, who, bending aside the\nbranches, saw a broad cleft in the rock, wide enough to admit a man\u2019s\nbody. He could still descry the bird, which, flying in through the\nopening, was soon lost to sight in the cavernous depths within.\n\n\u201cWonderingly he entered the cave and penetrated a considerable way\ninto the mountain, not understanding, however, how it was that, though\nso far removed from the light of day, he was yet perfectly able to\ndistinguish his surroundings as in a sort of twilight. Suddenly at the\nend of the cave, which had now contracted to a narrow passage, he was\nconfronted by the figure of a dwarf with pale face and long gray beard,\nwho cried in a deep, angry voice, \u2018Who art thou? and what seekest thou\nhere?\u2019\n\n\u201cThe student felt sorely afraid, but took heart, seeing that his\nconscience was clear and he had done no harm; so he related to the\ndwarf how, having come hither to learn his sermon, which by the help\nof God he hoped to preach next day in the Johannis Kirche, he had been\nled by the bird ever up the hill and deeper into the forest, till he\nreached this cave.\n\n\u201cAt the very first word the manikin\u2019s face grew mild and benevolent.\n\u2018So thou art he?\u2019 he said, in a gentle voice, when the other had\nfinished speaking. \u2018Often have I listened to thee reciting thy sermons\ndown in the forest, and have been rejoiced and edified by the beautiful\nwords. I am the _berg-geist_ (mountain-spirit), and the bird which\nenticed thee hither is in my service, and did so by my order, for I\nwished to know thee. Thou shalt not repent having come hither, for I\nwill show thee what no mortal eye has seen.\u2019\n\n\u201cAt a sign from the dwarf an invisible door at the extremity of the\ncave flew open, and following his guide, the student gazed about him\nin speechless wonder. He now found himself in a vault far wider and\nloftier than the church nave, and though there were here neither\nwindows nor torches, the whole building was pervaded by a rosy,\ntransparent twilight. What a gorgeous and splendid sight now met his\neyes! The arches on which the vault rested were of massive silver,\nand of silver, too, the pillars which supported them. The ribs of\nthe arches were of gold, as likewise the ornaments on the columns.\nMoreover, these columns were encircled by flower-garlands composed of\nmany-colored precious stones\u2014diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires,\nand topazes; while hundreds more of the same stones lay strewn about on\nthe ground. How all this glittered and sparkled before the eyes of the\nwondering student!\n\n\u201c\u2018See,\u2019 spoke the dwarf, \u2018this is a workshop, and there are many more\nsuch in the heart of the mountains, where, out of gold, silver, and\nprecious stones, we spirits fashion the flowers that deck the surface\nof the earth. You foolish mortals no doubt believe the flowers to\nsprout of themselves in spring to enamel meadow and forest in blue,\nred, and yellow tints. But learn that this is the work of us, the\nmountain-spirits, who by order of the Creator wander over the surface\nof the earth, unseen by men, sowing broadcast the mountain treasures\nwhich glitter in the sunshine in manifold shapes and colors. And in\nautumn, when the flowers wither, we go forth again to gather in the\ngems we have strewn, and hide them in rocky strongholds till spring\ncomes round again. Thus do we strive to rejoice the hearts of men\nby letting their eyes feast on the works of the Creator. But,\u2019 he\ncontinued, laughing maliciously, \u2018we feel but contempt and derision\nfor such foolish mortals as, having become possessed of some stray\ngrains of our flower-seed, which they have perchance discovered in a\ntorrent-bed or rocky fissure, set great store on their possession,\ndecking themselves out with it as though each simple field-flower were\nnot more beautiful by far than the gem from which it has sprung.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe words of the mountain-spirit well pleased the student, and he\nthought of the text of the sermon he was about to preach on the morrow,\ntreating of the lilies of the field, which neither toil nor spin, and\nare yet more gorgeous than Solomon in all his glory. But at the same\ntime there went through his brain other thoughts of less lofty nature.\nTo a poor devil such as he a pocketful of these glittering stones would\nbe a most acceptable present\u2014sufficient probably to relieve him of\nall material anxiety, and enable him to go to Germany to finish his\nstudies. Vainly he hoped that the gray-bearded dwarf might tender some\nsuch gift, but to his discomfiture the berg-geist betrayed no such\nintention.\n\n\u201cSomething more than an hour the student spent in contemplation of the\nriches of the cavern; then he bethought himself of home, and begged the\ndwarf to let him out.\n\n\u201c\u2018The little bird,\u2019 spoke the spirit, \u2018which brought thee hither will\nconduct thee back through the cleft.\u2019 But as they neared the entrance\nof the vault the student made a feint of stumbling, and as he did\nso, surreptitiously caught up a handful of gems, which he secreted\nin the pocket of his dolman. The old dwarf said nothing, but smiled\nsarcastically, and the student deemed his man\u0153uvre to have passed\nunnoticed.\n\n\u201cSuddenly the dwarf had disappeared, and the student found himself\nagain in the cleft of rock where an hour previously the bird had lured\nhim; and here, too, the bird itself was waiting for him, and, hopping\ncheerfully in front, soon conducted him back to the light of day,\nwhereupon it disappeared into the bushes.\n\n\u201cOur student felt heartily thankful to be delivered from the somewhat\nuncanny surroundings, and to see the blue sky and the golden sunshine\nonce more. But, strange to say, as he pursued his way homeward down the\nhill to regain the town by the upper gate, several things struck him as\nunknown and unfamiliar. The people he met were not attired according\nto the fashion of the day; the path was smoother and better kept;\neven the very trees seemed changed, and no more the same he had seen\ngrowing there when he had gone up the hill that morning. He specially\nremembered a slender young lime-tree which had been planted only the\nspring before; where had it now gone to? and how came there to be an\naged and majestic tree in its place?\n\n\u201cAs he entered the town-gate that leads into the _Heilig-leichnams\nGasse_ (Corpus Christi Street), many things likewise appeared strange;\nthe houses had foreign shapes, and out of their windows there peeped\nunknown faces.\n\n\u201cWhile ruminating over these puzzling facts he bethought himself of\nthe treasure he carried in his pocket, and his conscience began to\nprick him, that he, who until now had been careful to keep the Ten\nCommandments, had now made himself guilty of breaking the eighth one.\nIt seemed to him as though the purloined gems were burning through the\ncoat into his heart. Thus thinking, he approached the river in order\nto ease his conscience by throwing in the stolen property. He put his\nhand into his pocket and drew it out full, but before throwing away\nthe treasure he wished to take a last look at the glittering stones.\nBut what was this? A handful of coarse gravel was all he held. Some\nwitchcraft must be here at work; and a cold shudder ran over his frame,\nbut he was thankful to be rid of the accursed jewels.\n\n\u201cAt last he had reached the school, and stepped over the threshold of\nthe door. Several students met him in the corridors or coming down the\nstaircase; but he, who knew every one about the place, was surprised to\nsee naught but strange faces, who stared back at him with astonishment\nequal to his own.\n\n\u201cHe entered his little bedchamber, but here also all was different:\nno press, no table, no chair remained of those he had left there that\nmorning; the very bed was another one, and the occupants of the room\nknew him as little as he knew them.\n\n\u201cThis was surely a greater wonder than all that had happened to him\nup yonder at the cavern. It needed all his self-control to keep his\nfaculties together and prevent himself from going mad. And he must keep\nhis reason; for was he not to preach his sermon next day in the Church\nof St. John?\n\n\u201cHe fared no better when, hoping to find a way out of his dilemma,\nhe rushed wildly to the rector\u2019s abode. The voice which responded\n\u2018_Intra_\u2019 to his modest knock was a strange one; and as he, entering,\nsaw a stranger sitting at the writing-table, he timidly said that he\nwished to speak to the _Virum pereximium_. \u2018I am he,\u2019 was the answer;\n\u2018who are you, and what seek you here? I am acquainted with all the\nstudents of the gymnasium. How come you to be wearing their dress?\u2019\n\n\u201cOur student now mentioned his name, and related how he had been\ndelegated by the reverend and worthy minister such-and-such to preach\non the following day; how he had gone out early on to the hill to\nlearn his sermon by rote, and all that subsequently happened to him.\nEverything he related faithfully, excepting the episode regarding the\nhandful of glittering stones, which he thought better to conceal. Then\nhe told how on his return he found everything changed as by an evil\ncharm\u2014how he knew nobody, and was known by none in return.\n\n\u201cWhen the student had first named himself, and likewise mentioned the\nname of the preacher whose place he was to take next day, an expression\nof wondering astonishment had dawned on the rector\u2019s face, which grew\nmore intense as the narrative proceeded. When the student had finished\nhis story, he turned round hastily and took from the bookcase behind\nhim an ancient volume in pig-skin binding.\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes; here it stands in the _Albo studios\u00e6 juventutis gymnasii, anno\nDomini 1\u2014\u2014_: \u201cOn the \u2014\u2014 of the month of August did the _Studiosus\nTogatus N\u2014\u2014 N\u2014\u2014 ex \u00e6dibus gymnasii_, absent himself from here\nand did not again return, which defalcation caused all the greater\nconsternation as the said _studiosus_ had been delegated to preach\nnext day, being the fifteenth Sunday after Trinity, in the church of\nSt. Johannes, and in lieu of the sermon a _lectio biblica_ had to be\nheld instead.\u201d And this happened,\u2019 wound up the rector, turning to the\nstudent, \u2018exactly a hundred years ago to-day.\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd so it was in truth; the time he had spent in the cave had seemed\nbut an hour to the young man, and in reality a hundred years had\npassed! Everything around him had changed except his own self; for the\nyears that had fled had left no mark on him, and he looked young and\nstrong as a youth of scarce twenty years.\n\n\u201cIt is easy to conceive how this wonderful story was swiftly spread\nthroughout the town, and especially what sensation it caused amid the\nKronstadt students, among whom the centenarian youth was now permitted\nto resume his place. Then as the mid-day bell had just tolled, and\nour student felt a mighty craving of hunger within him (which was\nnot wonderful, considering that he had fasted for a century), he did\nnot require much pressing to sit down at the dinner-board with his\ncompanions.\n\n\u201cBut oh, wonder of wonders! hardly had he swallowed the first spoonful\nof the dish before him, when his whole appearance began to change:\nhis dark hair turned gradually white, and fell from his head like\nsnow-flakes; his features shrank perceptibly, and the bloom of his\ncheek gave place to an ashy pallor; his eye grew dim; and scarcely had\nhis comrades, hastening to support his sinking frame, laid him upon a\nbed, when with a last deep-drawn breath he expired.\n\n\u201cFor some years after this many Kronstadt students used to haunt\nthe hill along the town, in hopes that the bird might appear and\nlead them into the enchanted cavern, secretly resolving well to line\ntheir pockets with the riches it contained\u2014for that the jewels were\nsubsequently changed to gravel they had not been informed. But though\nmany have searched for the spot, none ever succeeded in finding it\nagain, so that by degrees the love of reciting sermons on the mountain\ndied out, and the whole story lapsed into oblivion. Also, the page\nfrom the _Albo scholastico_ where mention is made of this is said to\nbe missing, so that now but a few old people are acquainted with this\nlegend, and fewer still there are who yet believe it.\u201d\n\nKronstadt, or Brasso, as it is called in Hungarian, lying at a height\nof 1900 feet above the sea-level, is of more mixed complexion than\nother Transylvanian towns, and is already mentioned in the thirteenth\ncentury as having a mixed population of Saxons, Szeklers, and Wallachs.\nWhereas Klausenburg is exclusively a Hungarian, and Hermanstadt a\nSaxon city, Kronstadt partakes a little of both characters, and has,\nmoreover, a dash of Oriental coloring about it. In the streets, besides\nthe usual contingent of fiery Magyars, stolid Saxons, melancholy\nRoumanians, ragged Tziganes, and solemn Armenians, we pass by other\nfigures, red-fezzed, beturbaned, or long-robed, which, giving to the\npopulation a kaleidoscopic effect, make us feel that we are next door\nto the East, and only a few steps removed from such things as camels,\nminarets, and harems.\n\n[Illustration: KING MATTHIAS CORVINUS.]\n\nKronstadt is said to derive its name from a golden crown found\nsuspended on a broken tree-stump about the year 1204. A fugitive\nking\u2014such is one version of the story\u2014had here deposited his\nhead-gear, no doubt finding it inconvenient when flying through the\nforest. On the spot where the royal insignia was found was raised\nthe present town of Kronstadt, whose arms consist of the image of a\ncrown suspended on a stump. The tree-stump represents the town, we are\ntold, its roots the _Burzen_, or _Wurzel_, _land_, while the crown is\nfigurative of the Hungarian monarch.[78] The original crown is said\nto have been long treasured up in the guildhall of Kronstadt, and\njealously guarded by the citizens, who showed it but rarely, and as\nspecial mark of favor to some potentate. An old writer of the year 1605\ndescribed this crown as being of gold and decorated with golden plumes,\nand mentions that it was Gregory, the despotic king of M\u0153sia, who,\nobliged to withdraw from the siege of Kronstadt, and defeated by the\nTurkish pacha Mizetes, laid down his crown on the stump where it was\nafterwards found by Kronstadt citizens.\n\nThere is another story, which relates that this crown belonged to\nSolomon, King of Hungary, who died dethroned in the eleventh century,\nand spent his last years living as a hermit in a romantic valley near\nKronstadt which still bears his name. Feeling his death approach,\nhe concealed his golden crown in a hollow beech-tree, where long\nafterwards it was discovered by some shepherds, when the tree, becoming\nold and rotten, had fallen to the ground.\n\nThe Feast of St. John the Baptist (June 24th) was generally regarded\nas the anniversary of the crown-finding, to commemorate which it used\nto be customary to hoist up at the end of a high Maypole a crown woven\ntogether of ripe cherries, roses, and rosemary, and adorned with\ngingerbread figures and cakes of various sorts. The youth of both sexes\ndanced round this pole to the sound of music, and whoever succeeded in\nscaling the height and carrying off the crown received a handsome prize.\n\nA dilapidated crown carved in the stone fa\u00e7ade of an old house in the\n_Purzelgasse_ at Kronstadt gives evidence that here King Matthias, once\ntravelling _incognito_, as was his wont, entered and consumed the\nfrugal meal of six eggs, leaving behind him on the table-cloth a paper\non which were written the Latin words:\n\n \u201cHic fuit Matthias rex comedit ova sex.\u201d[79]\n\nThe principal church at Kronstadt, dating from the end of the\nfourteenth century, contains many objects of interest, besides an\norgan which is of European reputation. In the sacristy are preserved\nrich old vestments remaining from Catholic times, perfect masterpieces\nof elaborate embroidery, such as I have not anywhere seen surpassed.\nSometimes a cope or chasuble is covered with a whole gallery of figures\nexecuted in raised-work, each detail of expression and every fold of\nthe drapery being rendered in a manner approaching the sculptor\u2019s art.\n\nIn the church itself hang some of the most exquisite Turkish carpets\nI have ever seen\u2014such tender idyllic blue-green tints, such gloomy\npassionate reds, such pensive amber shades, as to render distracted\nwith envy any amateur of antique fabrics who has the harrowing\ndisappointment of ascertaining that these masterpieces of the Oriental\nloom are not purchasable even for untold sums of heavy gold!\n\n\u201cThere was _ein verr\u00fcckter Engl\u00e4nder_ (a mad Englishman) here some\nyears ago,\u201d I was told by a church-warden, \u201cwho would have given any\nprice for that pale-blue one up yonder, and he remained here a whole\nmonth merely to be able to see it every day; but he had to go away\nempty-handed at last, for these carpets, like the vestments, are the\nproperty of the Church, and not even the bishop himself has power to\ndispose of them.\u201d\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[78] According to others, the name of Kronstadt would be derived\nfrom the _Kronenbeeren_ (cranberries) which grow profusely on the\nsurrounding hills.\n\n[79] It is of this monarch that the people still say, \u201cKing Matthias is\ndead, and Justice along with him.\u201d He was, in fact, a sort of Hungarian\nHaroun-al-Raschid, going about in disguise among his people, rewarding\nthem according to their deserts.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX.\n\nSINA\u00cfA.\n\n\nFrom Kronstadt we made an excursion to Sina\u00efa, a fashionable\nwatering-place and summer residence of the King of Roumania, about two\nhours\u2019 distance over the frontier.\n\nWe had provided ourselves with a passport from Hermanstadt, for just\nat that particular moment the regulations about crossing the frontier\nwere rather strict, in consequence of some temporary coolness between\nthe two crowned heads on either side. Usually the _entente cordiale_\nbetween both countries is most satisfactory, and Austrian officers\nwishing to pay their respects to his Roumanian Majesty can always\ncount on a gracious reception; but we happened, unfortunately, to have\nhit off a brief period of international sulks. Austrian officers were\nforbidden to show themselves in uniform within the kingdom, or, indeed,\nto cross the frontier at all, and were consequently reduced to the\nsubterfuges of passports and plain clothes.\n\nIt ultimately proved to be much easier to cross from Hungary to\nRoumania than _vice versa_; for on our way back that same evening, we\nwere detained an eternity by the suspicious pedantry of the Hungarian\nofficials, contrasting unfavorably with the genial simplicity of\narrangements on the other side.\n\nThe whole route from Kronstadt to Sina\u00efa is very beautiful, the railway\nrunning through a deep valley which sometimes narrows to the dimensions\nof a close mountain gorge, densely wooded on either side by noble beech\nforests, bordered by fringes of wild sunflowers, which marked the way\nin a line of unbroken gold. One might almost have fancied that some\nmunificent fairy had thus chosen to show the way to the King\u2019s abode,\nby strewing gold-pieces along the road.\n\nThe glimpses of peasant life we got by looking out of the\ncarriage-window already showed us costumes more varied and fantastic\nthan on the Hungarian side; an air of Eastern luxury as well as of\nEastern indolence pervaded everything, and it was impossible not to\nfeel that we had entered another country\u2014the land _beyond_ the land\nbeyond the forest.\n\nAt Sina\u00efa itself the valley has somewhat widened out, affording room\nfor numerous handsome villas and luxurious hotels which have sprung up\nthere of late years. On a low hill stands the convent where the royal\nfamily have taken up their residence till the new-built castle is ready\nto be inhabited.\n\n[Illustration: CASTLE PELESCH AT SINA\u00cfA. SUMMER RESIDENCE OF THE KING\nOF ROUMANIA.]\n\nProceeding on our way towards the convent, we were puzzled for a\nmoment by the appearance of the peasant women we met\u2014their surprising\nrichness of costume and profusion of ornament surpassing the limits of\neven Roumanian gorgeousness. Their straight-cut scarlet aprons were\nliterally one mass of rich embroidery, and each movement of the arm\ncaused the sleeve to glitter in the sun like the scales of gold and\nsilver fish; but why, in place of the customary sandals, did they wear\ndelicate high-heeled _chaussure_ strongly suggestive of Paris? Why,\ninstead of the twirling distaff, did we see Japanese fans in their\nhands? And why, oh why, as we came within ear-shot, did we make the\nstartling discovery that they were not talking Roumanian at all, but\nspeaking French with more or less successful imitations of a Parisian\naccent?\n\nThese various \u201cwhys\u201d were soon put to rest by the information that\nthese were not peasants at all, but Roumanian Court ladies, who,\nfollowing the example of their queen, adopt the national dress for\ndaily wear during the summer months.\n\nIt being Sunday, mass had just finished as we reached the convent,\nwhence a motley congregation of officers and ladies, soldiers,\npeasants, and monks came pouring out. A sentry walking up and down\nin a somewhat _nonchalant_ manner, as though merely taking a mild\nconstitutional, and a red-and-blue flag waving above the low roof of\nthe old-fashioned, shabby building, were the only symptoms of royalty\nabout the place.\n\nPresently a low basket-carriage, drawn by two handsome cream ponies\nwith distressingly long tails and ill-cut manes, came round to the\nconvent door, close to where we were standing, and was entered by a\nslender lady attired in the national costume, bareheaded, and holding\nup a Chinese parasol to protect herself from the broiling sun. She\nappeared to be on easy, cordial terms with the respectable-looking\nfamily servant who assisted her to get in, and had quite a pleasant\nchat with him as he stood on the door-step. It was evident, from the\nway she was saluted on her passage, that the Queen is a great favorite\nwith people of all classes.\n\nThe King, whom we came across a little later in the day, seemed of more\nunapproachable species, and the little incident connected with his\nappearance savored rather of Russian than of Roumanian etiquette.\n\nWe were walking in the direction of the newly built castle, which,\nsituated on the banks of a torrent at the opening of a steep mountain\nravine, and deliciously shrouded in gigantic trees, is the most perfect\nbeau-ideal of a summer chateau I ever saw. Already I had had occasion\nto remark the appearance of several semi-military-looking beings\n(whether policemen or soldiers I cannot precisely define) dodging about\nmysteriously in and out between the tree-stems, when suddenly one of\nthem came rushing towards us, waving his arms aloft like a windmill\ngone mad, and with an expression of the wildest despair hurriedly\nrepeating something we failed to understand, but which evidently was\neither a warning or a threat. Before we had time to request this\ncurious being to explain himself more intelligibly, he had disappeared,\njumping over the steep, precipitous bank of the ravine, and vanishing\nin the brushwood.\n\nWe now looked round in alarm, half expecting to see a furious\nwild-boar, possibly even a bear, appearing from the mountain-side,\nbut could only perceive a tall, dark, handsome officer approaching\nus, and behind him a correct-liveried servant carrying a railway\nrug. The meaning of the mysterious warning now began to dawn on our\ncomprehension; this could only be the King, from his resemblance to\nthe portraits we had seen, and we had probably no business to be here\nprying on his private premises. Our feeling of tact was, however, not\nexquisite enough to induce us to risk our necks in endeavoring to\nconceal ourselves from his august gaze, so we bravely stood our ground,\nand nothing worse happened than our bow being very politely returned.\n\nWhen his Majesty had disappeared I went to the bank to see what had\nbecome of the unfortunate soldier or policeman who had effaced himself\nin so foolhardy a manner; but though I half expected to see his corpse\nlying shattered at the foot of the rock, no trace of him was there to\nbe seen.\n\nThe castle, now completed, and since 1884 inhabited every summer by\nthe royal family, is built in the old German style, and has, I hear,\nbeen fitted up and furnished in most exquisite fashion\u2014each article\nhaving been carefully selected by the Queen herself, whose artistic\ntaste is well known. Deeper in the forest, at a little distance from\nthe castle, is a tiny hunting-lodge, where in the hot weather the Queen\nis wont to spend a great part of the day. It is here that she loves to\nsit composing those graceful poems in which she endeavors to reflect\nthe spirit and heart of her people; and visitors admitted to this royal\nsanctuary are sometimes fortunate enough to see the latest rough-cast\nof a poem, bearing the signature of Carmen Sylva, lying open on the\nwriting-table.\n\nThe villas about Sina\u00efa are rather bare-looking as yet, especially on\na burning summer day; for parks and gardens have not had time to grow\nin proportion to the hot-headed mushroom speed with which this whole\ncolony has sprung into existence. The bathing establishment is one of\nthe most delightful I ever saw\u2014a large marble basin, roofed in and\nlighted from above, framed with a luxuriant fringe of feathery ferns\nand aquatic plants trailing down on to the surface of an exceptionally\nclear and crystal-like water. When the Queen comes hither to bathe\nthe walls are further adorned by hangings of Oriental carpets and\nembroidered draperies.\n\nThere are in the place several good restaurants whose cookery might\nrival any Vienna or Paris establishment, and, for prices, indeed\nsurpass them. Everything we found to be very dear at Sina\u00efa. As we were\nreturning to Kronstadt in the evening and intended to walk about all\nday, we did not engage a bedroom at the hotel, but merely asked for\nsome place where we might deposit our wraps and umbrellas. For this\npurpose we were given a sort of small closet, semi-dark, being only\nlighted from the staircase, and containing, besides a broken table, but\ntwo deal chairs and an unfurnished bedstead. Yet for this luxurious\naccommodation, which our effects enjoyed during a period of about eight\nhours, we were charged the modest sum of fifteen francs.\n\nI spent some time at a very fascinating bazaar, where I purchased a\nfew specimens of Roumanian pottery, dainty little red-and-gold cups\nfor black coffee, some grotesque birds, and an impossible dog, which\nhave somewhat the appearance of ancient heathen household gods. There\nwere also carpets for sale, but mostly over-staring in pattern, and of\nterrifically high prices.\n\nWe had brought with us a letter of introduction to a _ci-devant_\nAustrian officer settled here, and married to a daughter of Prince\nG\u2014\u2014, one of the principal notabilities of the place, which\nintroduction procured us a very pleasant invitation to dine with his\nfamily on the terrace overlooking the public gardens.\n\nOur beautiful dark-eyed hostess, whose graceful _\u00e9lanc\u00e9e_ figure seemed\nmade to show off to perfection all the fascinations of the national\ncostume, was kind enough to dress expressly for my benefit before\ndinner, putting on a profusion of jewellery to heighten the effect of\nrobes fit for Lalla Rookh or Princess Scheherezade. One can hardly\nwear too much jewellery with this attire: three jewelled belts, one\nadorned with turquoises, another with garnets, and a third with pearls\nand emeralds, were disposed across the hips one above the other, like\nthose worn in old Venetian paintings; several necklaces, forming a\nbewildering cascade of coral and amber over the bosom; a perfect wealth\nof bracelets; and more jewelled pins than I was able to count held back\na transparent veil, further secured by loose golden coins falling low\non the forehead.\n\nHer father, Prince G\u2014\u2014, gave us some interesting details about the\nfoundation of this promising colony, which is the only establishment\nof the sort in the kingdom. He himself was the principal moving spirit\nin its foundation, and it was owing to his persuasions chiefly that\nthe King formed the resolution of founding a national watering-place,\nwhich, by becoming the resort of the Roumanian _noblesse_, would keep\nthem at home, instead of spending their money at French or German baths.\n\n * * * * *\n\nGladly would I have prolonged my stay in Roumania by some days, or\neven weeks; and it was tantalizing to have to leave these attractive\nunknown regions after such a cursory glance. Still more so was it to\nbe obliged to refuse a friendly invitation to return there to join a\nprojected expedition of eight to ten days across the mountains, to\nbe organized as soon as the weather had grown cooler. It was to be a\nlarge cavalcade\u2014about twenty persons in all\u2014the ladies in Roumanian\ndress and riding in men\u2019s saddles. \u201cPerhaps it is because of this you\nrefuse,\u201d said my hostess. \u201cI have heard that you English are always so\nvery particular; but here everybody rides so\u2014even the Queen herself\nhas no other saddle.\u201d\n\nI had, alas! no opportunity to correct this impression, by showing that\nan Englishwoman may be as enterprising as a Roumanian queen.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L.\n\nUP THE MOUNTAINS.\n\n\n\u201cWhen I was young our mountains were still locked up,\u201d I was told by a\ngentleman native of the place, who accompanied me on my first mountain\nexcursion in Transylvania. \u201cWhoever then wanted to climb hills or to\nshoot chamois had to travel to Switzerland to do so; and at school they\nused to teach us that there were no lakes in the country.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: THE NEGOI\u2014THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN IN TRANSYLVANIA, 8250\nFEET HIGH.[80]]\n\nIt is, in fact, only within the last half-dozen years that some attempt\nhas been made to unlock the long range of lofty mountains which tower\nso invitingly over the Transylvanian plains, and render practicable\nthe access to many a wild, rocky gorge and secluded loch hitherto\nunknown save to wandering Wallachian shepherds. A most praiseworthy\ninstitution, somewhat on the principle of the Alpine Club, has been\nformed, thanks to whose energy suitable guides have been secured\nand rough shelter-houses erected at favorable points. All this,\nhowever, is still in a very primitive state, and the difficulties and\ninconveniences attending a Transylvanian mountain excursion are yet\nsuch as will deter any but very ardent enthusiasts from the attempt. It\nis not here a question, as in Switzerland, of more or less hard walking\nor clambering before you can reach a good supper and a comfortable\nbed. Here the walking is often hard enough, but with this essential\ndifference\u2014that no supper, whether good or bad, can be obtained by\nany amount of effort; and that the bed, if by good-luck you happen\nto reach a hut, consists at best of a few rough boards with a meagre\nsprinkling of straw. You cannot hope to purchase so much as a crust\nof bread on your way, and the crystal water which gurgles in each\nmountain ravine is the only beverage you will come across. Everything\nin the way of food and drink, as well as cooking utensils, knives,\nforks, cups, and plates, along with rugs and blankets for the night,\nmust be carried about packed on baggage-horses. Therefore, when a\nparty consists of half a dozen members, and when the length of the\nexpedition is to exceed a week, the caravan is apt to assume somewhat\nimposing proportions. Luckily, in the land beyond the forest prices are\nstill moderate in the extreme, and without rank extravagance one may\nindulge in the luxury of two horses and one guide apiece. One florin\n(about 1_s._ 8_d._) being the usual tax for a horse per diem, and\nthe same for a man, the daily outlay thus amounts to five shillings\nonly\u2014a very small investment indeed for the enjoyment to be derived\nfrom a peregrination across the mountainous parts of the country. I\nhave no doubt that all true lovers of nature will agree with me in\nthinking that precisely the rough and gypsy-like fashion in which these\nexcursions are conducted forms their greatest charm, and that beautiful\nscenery is more thoroughly appreciated undisturbed by any seasoning\nof French-speaking waiters, _table-d\u2019h\u00f4te_ dinners, and wire-rope\ntram-ways.\n\nThis way of travelling has, moreover, the incontestable advantage of\nbeing select, and escaping the inevitable discords which continually\njar upon us when moving in a tourist-frequented country. What beautiful\nview does not lose half its charm if its foreground be marred by a\ngroup savoring of cockneyfied gentility? Which magnificent echoes do\nnot become vulgar when awakened by the shrieking chorus of a band of\nGerman students? Does not even a broken wine-bottle or a crumpled sheet\nof newspaper, betraying the recent presence of some other picnicking\nparty, suffice to ruin miles of the finest landscape to an eye at all\nfastidious?\n\nHere we may walk from sunrise to sunset without meeting other sign of\nlife than some huge bird of prey hovering in mid-air above a lonely\nvalley; and once accustomed to the daily companionship of eagles, one\nis apt to feel very exclusive indeed, and to regard most other society\nas commonplace and uninteresting.\n\nFrom the moment we set foot on the wild hill-side, we have left\nbehind us all the mean and petty conditions of every-day life. At\nleast we have no other littlenesses to bear with than what we bring\nwith us ready-made\u2014our own stock-in-trade (which, of course, we\ncannot get rid of) and that of our chosen companions. Therefore, if\nI may offer a friendly piece of advice to any would-be mountaineer\nin these parts, let him look at his friends\u2014not twice, but full\ntwenty times at least\u2014before he contemplates cultivating their\nuninterrupted society at an altitude of six thousand feet above\nsea-level. Indeed a Transylvanian mountain excursion is not a thing\nto be lightly entered upon out of simple _gaiet\u00e9 de c\u0153ur_, like any\nother pleasure-trip. It is a serious and solemn undertaking\u2014almost\na sort of marriage-bond\u2014when you engage to put up, for better for\nworse, with any given half-dozen individuals during an equal number of\ndays and nights. Like gold, they must previously have been tried by\nfire; and you will find very, very few people, even among your dearest\nfriends, who, when weighed in the balance, will not be found wanting in\none or other of the many qualifications which go towards making up a\nthoroughly congenial companion.\n\nThe pure ozone of these upper regions seems to act like the lens of a\npowerful microscope, bringing out into strong relief whatever is mean\nor paltry. Sweetly feminine airs and graces which have so entranced us\nin the ball-room develop to positive monstrosities when transplanted\nto the mountain-top; an intellect which amply sufficed for the\nrequirements of small-talk on the promenade or at morning calls shows\npitiably barren when brought face to face with the majesty of nature;\nand a stock of amiability always found equal to the exigencies of\nconventional politeness very soon runs dry under the unwonted strain of\na genuine demand. As in the palace of truth in the fairy tale of Madame\nde Genlis, nothing artificial can here remain undiscovered. You can as\nlittle hope to hide your false chignon while camping-out at night as to\nconceal the exact quality of your temper; and defects of breeding will\nleak out as surely as the rain will leak in through the inferior fabric\nof a cheap water-proof cloak.\n\nOn the other hand, however, be it said, that many people who in town\nlife have appeared dull and commonplace now rise in value under the\naction of this powerful microscope; sterling qualities, whose existence\nwe had never suspected, now come to light; and hidden delicacies of\nthought, which have had no room for expansion in the muggy atmosphere\nof conventionality, put forth unexpected shoots.\n\nSuch reflections are, nevertheless, but pointless digressions from\nthe subject in hand, having nothing whatever to do with my own\nindividual experiences; and present company being always excepted, I\nwould have it distinctly understood that we were _all_ amiable, _all_\nentertaining, _all_ refined and noble-minded, when in the second week\nof September we started on one of these excursions\u2014a long-cherished\nwish of mine whose execution had been hitherto baffled by the\ndifficulty of finding suitable companionship.\n\nOur party consisted of four gentlemen and two other ladies besides\nmyself, and a six hours\u2019 drive had taken us from Hermanstadt to the\nfoot of the hills, where horses and guides awaited us\u2014an imposing\nretinue of fully a dozen steeds and nearly as many men: the former\nstarved, puny-looking animals, weak and spiritless at first sight,\nbut sure-footed as goats and with endless resisting power; the latter\nwild, uncouth fellows, with rolling black eyes and unkempt elf-locks,\nattired in coarse linen shirts, monstrous leather belts, and wearing\nthe national opintschen on their feet.\n\nOur provisions and utensils were packed, according to the custom of\nthe country, in double sacks made of a sort of rough black-and-white\nchecked flannel, and these, along with our bundles of wraps, secured\nto the backs of the pack-horses\u2014a somewhat complicated business, as\nthe weight requires to be extremely nicely balanced on either side. It\nwas wonderful to see how much could be piled up upon one small animal,\nwhich wellnigh disappeared beneath its bulky freight.\n\nWhile this packing was going on we rested by the river-side, already\nenjoying a foretaste of the beauties in store for us. Dense beech woods\nclothed the sides of the valley down to the water\u2019s edge, terminating\nas usual in a golden fringe of wild sunflowers standing out in broad\nrelief from the dark background; clumps of bright-blue gentians and\nrosy rock-carnations were sprouting between the stones, and here and\nthere the luxuriant trails of the wild hop hung down till they touched\nthe water; a pair of water-ousels perched on opposite banks were making\neyes at each other across the roaring torrent, and the deep quiet pools\nwere occasionally stirred by the leap of a silvery trout.\n\nAt last we were told that all was ready; so, mounting our\nriding-horses, we commenced the ascent. The saddles were the usual\nrough Hungarian wooden ones, only softened by a plaid or rug strapped\nover. Side-saddles are here useless, as the horses cannot be tightly\ngirthed for climbing, and are not accustomed to the one-sided weight;\nso the only way to ride with comfort and safety is to imitate the\nexample of the Roumanian queen. A very little contrivance about the\ncostume is all that is necessary in order to sit comfortably on a man\u2019s\nsaddle; but I found the unwonted position rather trying at first, and\nsought occasional relief by sitting sidewise, using the high wooden\nprominence in front as the pommel of a lady\u2019s saddle. However, I soon\nrelinquished these experiments, having very nearly come to serious\ngrief from the saddle turning abruptly, which undoubtedly would\nhave landed me on my head had I not extricated myself by a frenzied\nevolution. After this experience I thought it wiser to tempt fate no\nfurther and meekly resign myself to the degradation of a temporary\nchange of sex.\n\nOn this particular occasion, however, I did not for long tax the powers\nof my steed, it was so much pleasanter to walk up the mountain-path\nstep by step, and enjoy at close quarters all the wonders of the forest.\n\nFor upwards of two hours our way led us through splendid beech woods\nrichly carpeted with every species of ferns and mosses, an endless\nvista of shining gray satin and soft emerald velvet. Then by-and-by\nthe first shy irresolute fir-tree appears on the scene, like a bashful\nrustic strayed unawares into the presence of royalty. The tall majestic\nbeeches look down contemptuously on the puny intruder; for, like\nancient monarchs fallen asleep on their thrones, they do not conceive\nit possible that their reign should ever come to an end.\n\n\u201cWhat means this rough interloper?\u201d they seem disdainfully to ask, as\nthey nod in the evening breeze. \u201cAre not we the sole lords in these\nrealms? What seeks this insolent upstart in our royal presence?\u201d\n\nBut scarcely have we gone a hundred paces farther, than again we meet\nthe intruding pine, larger and stronger this time; nor is he alone, for\nhe has brought with him a motley group of his prickly brethren. Onward\nthey press from all sides, impudently sprouting up at the very feet\nof the indignant beeches\u2014their rough green arms ruthlessly brushing\nagainst the delicate gray satin of those shining pillars, trampling\ndown the emerald velvet of the carpet, like revolutionary peasants\nbroken into a palace.\n\nThe lordly beeches make a last effort to assert their supremacy, but\nthe limits of their kingdom are reached; the sharp wind sweeping over\nthe mountain-top, making them shake with impotent rage, is too keen\nfor their delicate constitutions. They dwindle away, perish, and die,\nleaving the field to their hardier foe.\n\nAnd now King Pine has it all his own way. _Le roi est mort. Vive le\nroi!_ A minute ago we had been revelling in the beauties of the beech\nforest, and now, courtier-like, we find ourselves thinking that the\npine woods are more beautiful yet by far. What can be more exquisite\nthan those feathery branches trailing down to the mossy carpet?\nwhat more glorious than those straight-grown stems, each one erect\nand strong, worthy to be the mast of a mighty ship? what scent more\nintoxicating than the perfume they breathe forth?\n\nOur reflections are presently broken in upon by a scramble close\nat hand. One of our baggage-horses has trod upon an underground\nwasp\u2019s-nest, which intrusion having been duly resented by the indignant\ninsects, the horse takes to kicking violently, and finally rolls down\nthe wooded incline, scattering our baggage as he goes. Luckily, nothing\nis lost or damaged, and after a little delay, the fugitive being\ncaptured and reladen, we are able to proceed on our way. A little more\nclimbing, and then at last the forest walls unclose, and we stand on\nan open meadow of short-tufted grass, where is built the rough wood\nhut which is to give us shelter. To the right and left the pine woods\nslope upward, their shadowy outlines gradually losing themselves in\nthe fast-gathering twilight; and in front, at a distance of some five\nhundred yards, is a wall of rock overwashed by a foaming cascade, whose\nmusic has been growing on our ears during the last few minutes.\n\nThe horses are relieved of their respective burdens and set loose to\ngraze; neither hay nor oats has been provided, nor do they expect\nit. Our Wallachian guides busy themselves in collecting firewood and\nkindling a large camp-fire, for the triple purpose of cooking the\nsupper, keeping themselves warm, and scaring off possible bears or\nwolves that may come prowling about at night in quest of a horse. There\nis here no difficulty in providing firewood enough for a splendid\nbonfire, and no tree burns with such spirit as a dead fir-tree.\n\nIt is my duty here to forestall all possible anticipation, by frankly\nacknowledging that no bear ever did come to disturb us on this\noccasion. Yet the thought of the shaggy visitor who might at any moment\nbe expected to drop in upon us went a long way towards enhancing the\nromance of the situation. During our whole stay in the mountains Bruin\nwas like a vague intangible presence hovering around, and causing us\ndelicious thrills of horror at every step. If we plucked a branch\nof late raspberries on our path, it was with a trembling hand, lest\na furry paw should appear at the other side of the bush to claim its\nrightful property; and we lay down to rest half expecting to be wakened\nby an angry growl close at hand. Consequently, the raspberries we ate\nand the sleep we snatched were sweeter far than common raspberries and\nevery-day sleep, feeling, as we almost got to do, as though each had\nbeen fraudulently extorted from the bear.\n\nOur shelter-hut, roughly put together of boards, consisted of a small\nentrance-lobby with stamped earth floor, and of one moderate-sized room\nabout six paces long. All down one side, occupying fully half the depth\nof the apartment, ran a sort of shelf covered with straw, supposed to\nact as bed, where about a dozen persons might have room lying side by\nside. A long deal table, a wooden bench, and a row of pegs for hanging\nup the clothes completed the furniture. Besides the wooden shutters,\nthere were movable glass windows, which were regularly deposited in\na hiding-place under the foot-boards, lest they should be wantonly\nbroken by the all-destroying Wallachians. Each authorized guide only\nis apprised of their place of concealment, to which he is careful to\nrestore them when the party breaks up.\n\nThis particular shelter-hut is an exceptionally well-built and\nluxurious one, most such being devoid of windows, and often closed on\none side only.\n\nBy the time we had prepared our supper and cheered ourselves with\nnumerous cups of excellent tea it had grown quite dark, and we were\nthankful to seek our hard couches. A railway rug spread over the\nstraw-covered boards rendered them quite endurable, and all superfluous\ncoats and jackets were pressed into the pillow service. All of us\nlay down in our clothes, merely removing the boots; for it is hardly\npossible to dress too warmly for a night passed in these Carpathian\nshelter-huts; and despite the day having been so warm as to necessitate\nthe thinnest summer clothing for walking, the nights were piercingly\ncold, and even a heavy fur sledging-cloak was not superfluous.\n\nThough the splash of the water-fall and the tinkling bell of a grazing\nhorse were the only sounds which broke the stillness of the night, yet\nour unwonted surroundings did not allow of much uninterrupted slumber.\nBut it is surprising to note to what a very minimum the necessary dose\nof sleep can be reduced on such occasions; the body, renovated as by a\nmagic potion, seems unaccountably delivered from all physical weakness;\neven the sore throat we had brought with us from the lower world has\nvanished in the pure atmosphere of the upper regions.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[80] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian\nSociety.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI.\n\nTHE BULEA SEE.\n\n\nNext morning we proceeded to the real object of our excursion, the\nBulea See, a lake which lies at the foot of the Negoi, 6662 feet\nabove the sea-level, and situated about three hours distant from our\nshelter-hut.\n\nThere was a steep climb till we had reached the top of the water-fall,\nand then we found ourselves in a second valley, larger and wider than\nthe first, and of a totally different character. Here were neither moss\nnor ferns, neither beech nor pine woods\u2014only a deep and lonely valley\nshut in by pointed rocks on either side, and thickly strewn throughout\nwith massive bowlder-stones, each of which would seem to mark the\nresting-place of a giant. The only form of vegetation here visible,\nbesides the short scraggy grass sprouting in detached patches betwixt\nthe stones, were the stunted irregular fir-bushes (called _krummholz_),\nwhich, blown by ever-recurring gales into all sorts of fantastic\nshapes, resemble as many wizened goblins playing at hide-and-seek among\nthe giant tombstones, crawling and creeping into every hollow which\ncan afford them shelter from the inclemency of the winter storm; for\nnow we have entered a third kingdom, and the reign of the pine-tree\nis at an end. Having once overpassed the height of 1800 metres (5905\u00bd\nfeet), above which fir-trees do not thrive, these once stalwart and\noverbearing giants have degenerated to the misshapen and crooked\ngoblins we see.\n\nYet here again we are forced to acknowledge this new metamorphosis to\nbe but another step in the scale of loveliness. We had been enchanted\nby the beech woods, ravished by the pine forest, yet now all at once\nwe feel that with the desolate wildness of these upper regions a yet\nhigher note of beauty has been struck; for here Nature, seeming to\ndisdain such toilet artifices as trees or ferns or cunningly tinted\nmosses, like a classical statue, boldly reveals herself in her\nglorious nudity, with naught to distract the eye from the perfection\nof her sublime curves.\n\nSomething of the charm of this desolate stony valley lay no doubt, for\nme, in its marked resemblance to Scottish scenery, recalling to my mind\nsome of the wilder parts of Arran, the upper half of Glen Rosa, or\nportions of Glen Sannox, seen long ago but never forgotten; and for a\nmoment I experienced the pleasurable sensation of recognizing the face\nof a beloved old friend in a strange picture-gallery.\n\nThe fierce barking of dogs aroused me from my comparisons, and now for\nthe first time I perceived that at one place the large loose stones had\nbeen piled together so as to form a rude sort of hovel or cavern, the\nheadquarters of some shepherds come hither to find pasture for their\nflocks during the brief mountain summer.\n\nWe approached the _stina_, as these _bergeries_ are called, and made\nacquaintance with the shepherd, some of the gentlemen at my request\ncross-questioning him as to his habits and occupation. He was ready\nenough to enter into conversation with us and our guide, seemingly\nrejoiced at the sight of other human beings after a long period of\nisolation. We learned from him that the shepherds are in the habit of\ncoming up here each summer about the end of June, to remain till the\nmiddle of September, after which date snow may be expected to set in,\nand the shepherd, proceeding southward as the year advances, leads his\nflocks into Wallachia and Moldavia to pass the winter. These flocks are\nnot the property of one individual, but each village inhabitant has his\nparticular sheep marked with his own sign. All the mountain pastures in\nthese parts belong to a Count T\u2014\u2014, who receives forty-five kreuzers\n(about 9_d._) per sheep for its summer pasturage.\n\nThis particular flock consisted of about eight hundred head, herded by\nfour shepherds only, and six or eight large wolf-dogs. The men receive\nthirty florins (\u00a32 10_s._) yearly wages, besides a pair of sandals\neach, and a certain proportion of food, principally maize-flour, to\nbe cooked into _mamaliga_, and whatever cheese and sheep\u2019s milk they\nrequire. These wages are considered high enough in these parts, but\nthe work required is hard and fatiguing. The whole day the shepherd\nmust creep along the crags with his flock, at places where scarce a\ngoat could obtain footing, and at night he must sleep in the open air\nwhatever be the weather, ready to spring up at the slightest alarm of\nwolf or bear.\n\n\u201cWhen did you last see a bear?\u201d inquired our interpreter of the\nsolitary shepherd.\n\n\u201cThis very night, _dommu_\u201d (master), he replied, \u201cthe _ursu_ came\nprowling about the camp, and had to be driven away by the dogs. Most\nnights he does come, and four of my sheep has he carried off this year.\nNot one of our dogs but has been torn or wounded by him in turn.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd where are your sheep at present?\u201d was the next question, as we\nlooked round at the deserted camp.\n\nThe man pointed upward and uttered a shrill, unearthly cry, which\npresently was repeated as by an echo coming from the topmost ledges\nof the crags overhead; and there, looking up to where the jagged\npeaks were sharply defined against the blue sky, we could see the\nwhite sheep clinging all over the face of the precipitous cliffs like\npatches of new-fallen snow. It was wonderful to see how these seemingly\nsenseless animals obey the slightest call of their shepherd, who by\nthe inflections of his voice alone guides them in whatever direction\nhe pleases; and it is almost incredible that out of a flock of eight\nhundred sheep the shepherd should be able to recognize and identify\neach separate animal.\n\nWhen we came to see those sheep at close quarters later in the day, we\nwere surprised at the whiteness and fine quality of their wool\u2014each\nsingle animal looking as though it had been freshly washed and\ncarefully combed out, like the favorite poodle of some fine lady, and\npresenting therein a striking contrast to the flocks down below on the\nplains, whose appearance is dirty and unkempt. This superior toilet\nof the mountain sheep seems due to the constant mists and vapors ever\nflitting to and fro in these upper regions, which thus enact the parts\nof cleansing spirits; but why, when they are about it, do not these\nbenevolent _kobolds_ wash the shepherd as well?\n\nBesides the dogs, there is usually a donkey attached to each shepherd\u2019s\nestablishment. It serves to carry the packs of cheese and milk, or the\nheavy _bunda_ (sheepskin coat) of the shepherd, and follows the flock\nabout wherever its legs permit. On this occasion we met the inevitable\nass some few hundred yards farther up the valley, standing on one of\nthe giant tombstones, and with head thrown back, loudly braying up in\nthe direction of the mountain heights. He, too, had caught sight of\nhis beloved sheep scrambling so far out of reach up there, and weary\nof his loneliness, was thus passionately entreating his eight hundred\nsweethearts to return to his faithful side.\n\nTwo hours more up the lonely valley brought us to our destination.\nThere was one last rocky wall to be overcome, and, having scaled it, we\nstood with panting breath before the Bulea See, a curiously suggestive\nlittle loch, dark greenish-blue in color, which nestles in the stony\nchalice formed by the rocks around.\n\nNothing but gray bowlder-stones lying here cast about; no plant save\nthe deadly monk\u2019s-hood growing rank in thick, short tufts of deep\nsapphire hue; no sign of life but one solitary falcon soaring overhead,\nand some scattered feathers lying strewn at the water\u2019s edge.[81]\n\nThe brooding melancholy of this solitary spot has a charm all its\nown. This would be the place, indeed, for a life-sick man to come and\nend his days, and if there be such a thing as a voluptuous suicide,\nmethinks these were the proper surroundings for it. Death must come so\nswiftly and so surely in those still green waters, which have such an\ninsinuating glitter; no danger here of being saved and brought back to\nunwelcome life by a meddlesome log of floating wood, or the officious\narm of an out-stretched branch. Everything here seems to breathe of the\nvery spirit of suicide; the cold green waters, the deadly monk\u2019s-hood,\nthe hovering falcon, all seem to agree, \u201cThis is the end of life\u2014come\nhere and die!\u201d\n\nBut let the hapless wretch bent on leaving this world beware of looking\nround once more before executing his resolve, for if he but turn and\ngaze again at the magnificent panorama at his feet, he will assuredly\nbe violently recalled to life.\n\nI do not recollect having seen any single view which in its glorious\nvariety ever impressed me as much as what I saw that day, looking from\nthe platform beside the Bulea See; neither a framed-in picture nor\nyet a bird\u2019s-eye view, it rather gave me the feeling as though I were\nstanding at the head of a giant staircase whose balustrades are formed\nby the nicked-out peaks of the crags on either side, and whose separate\nsteps present as many gradations of variegated beauty.\n\nClose to our feet lay the stony valley we had just been traversing,\nwith its gigantic tombstones and wizened dwarf bushes, and the flashing\ncrest of the water-fall, just visible, like a silver thread, at the\nfarthest point. Then, after a sudden drop of several hundred feet, our\neye lights upon the pine valley, with the shelter-hut where we had\npassed the previous night. With a telescope we could just make out the\nplace of the camp-fire and the figures of some grazing horses. Of the\nthird step of this giant ladder\u2014namely, the beech forest\u2014we could see\nonly the billowy tops of the close-grown trees, a mass of waving green,\ntouched here and there by the hand of autumn into russet and golden\ntints; then far, far below lay stretched the smiling plain, streaked\nwith occasional dark patches we knew to be forests, and sundry white\ndots we guessed at as villages, and the serpentine curves of the river\nAlt, winding like a golden ribbon between them.\n\nA long bank of clouds which had been hovering over the plain now sank\ndown, gradually obscuring that part of the view, but not for long. This\nwas but another freak of nature, one more turn in the kaleidoscope; for\nnow the mist has sunk so low that the plain itself appears above it,\nand we behold the landscape framed in the clouds, like a delusive _Fata\nMorgana_.\n\nThis is indeed a picture never to weary of, and after gazing at it for\nten ecstatic minutes, I defy the life-sick man to turn away and carry\nout his suicidal intentions. The cold green waters have lost their\nattraction for him, and the spell of the deadly monk\u2019s-hood is broken;\nfor another voice whispers in his ear, and it tells him of life and of\nhope: a few minutes ago he had felt like a condemned criminal in sight\nof his grave, but now, with this glorious world at his feet, he is fain\nto think himself monarch of all he beholds.\n\nThe giant\u2019s ladder contains one more step, for by scrambling up the\nrocks at one side of the loch one may reach the crest of the mountains,\nand walking there for hours on the confines of Roumania, gain an\nextensive view into both countries.\n\nThis is what some of the gentlemen of our party did, in hopes of coming\nacross chamois; while the rest of us remained below, well content\nwith what we had achieved, settling down, not to suicide, but to such\nhealthier, if more commonplace, pursuits as luncheon and sketching. At\nleast the luncheon was eaten and the sketch was begun; but beginning\nand finishing are two very different things in these regions, and\none cannot reckon without the mountain-sprites, who were this day\nmischievously inclined.\n\nA tiny white cloudlet, snowy and innocent-looking as a tuft of\nswan\u2019s-down, had meanwhile detached itself from the bank of clouds\nbelow the plain, and was speeding aloft in our direction. Incredibly\nfast this mountain-sprite ascended the giant staircase\u2014gliding over\nthe space it had taken us three hours to traverse in not the tenth part\nof that time; jumping two steps at once, it seemed in its malicious\nhaste to spoil our pleasure. Now it has reached the terrace where we\nare sitting; we feel its cold breath on our cheek, and in another\nminute it has thrown its moist filmy veil over the scene. The lake at\nour side has disappeared; we cannot see ten paces in front, and we\nshiver under the warm wraps we just now despised.\n\nThe mist, which feels at first like a soft, invisible rain, gradually\nbecomes harder and more prickly; there is a sharp, rattling sound in\nthe air, and we realize that we are sitting in a hail-storm, from which\nwe vainly try to escape by dodging under the overhanging rocks.\n\nAs quickly as it came it is gone again, for scarce ten minutes later\nthe sun shone out triumphant, dispersing the ill-natured vapors. Yet\na little longer will the sun lord it up here as master, and come\nvictorious out of all such combats; but these impish cloudlets are the\noutrunners of the army of the dread ice-king, and will return again day\nby day in greater numbers, soon to be no more driven away from these\nregions.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[81] These feathers, of a bluish color, we identified as those of\nthe garrulous roller, _Coracias garrula_; and as this bird is never\nto be found at the aforementioned height, it must apparently have\nbeen crossing the mountains to migrate southward, when its travelling\narrangements were disturbed by the watchful falcon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII.\n\nTHE WIENERWALD\u2014A DIGRESSION.\n\n\nI shall never forget the shock to my feelings when, shortly after\nleaving Transylvania, I went to spend the summer months in the\nmuch-famed Wienerwald near Vienna. In former years I had often\nvisited this neighborhood, and had even retained of it very pleasant\nrecollections; but now, fresh from the wild charm of undefiled and\nundesecrated nature, the Wienerwald and everything about it appeared\nin the light of a pitiable farce. In fact, I do not think I had ever\nrightly appreciated the Transylvanian mountain scenery till forced to\ncompare it with another landscape.\n\nThe country about Vienna\u2014of which its natives are so proud\u2014is\nbeautiful, it is true, or rather it has been beautiful once; but,\nalas! how much of its charm has been destroyed by that terrible\n_Versch\u00f6nerungs Verein_ (Beautifying Association), as those noisome\ninstitutions are called, loathsome abortions of a diseased German\nbrain, which have the object of teaching unfortunate mankind to\nappreciate the beauties of nature in the only correct fashion\nauthorized by science.\n\nViewed in the abstract, an ignorant stranger unacquainted with the\nhabits of the country might be prone to imagine taking a walk up any\nof those beautiful wooded hills to be a comparatively simple matter,\nprovided his lungs and his _chaussure_ be in adequate walking trim.\nRidiculous error! to be speedily rectified by painful experience before\nyou have spent many days in the neighborhood of the Austrian capital.\nIt is here not a question of boots, but of books; of science, not of\nsoles; your lungs are useless unless your mind be rightly adjusted;\nand the latest edition of Meyer\u2019s \u201cConversations Lexicon\u201d will be far\nmore necessary to fit you for a walk in the Wienerwald than a pair of\nEuknemida walking-shoes.\n\nTo go into a civilized Austrian forest requires at least as much\npreparation as to enter a fashionable ball-room; and unless you have\nbeen thoroughly grounded in contemporary literature, general history,\nand the biographies of celebrated men, you had far better stay at home.\n\nThere you are not left to yourself to make acquaintance with trees and\nflowers, as your ignorant rustic fashion has hitherto been; but your\nexact relations to the botanical world around you are precisely defined\nfrom the very outset. At every step you make you are overwhelmed with\nalternate doses of advice, admonition, entreaty, or threat; but never,\nnever by any chance are you left to your own devices! You cannot feel\nas if you were alone even in the most hidden depths of the forest,\nfor the tormenting spirit of the _Versch\u00f6nerungs Verein_ will insist\non following you about step by step, its jarring voice ever breaking\nin on your most secret reveries. It _warns_ you not to tread on the\ngrass; it _entreats_ you to spare the pine-cones; it _instructs_ you to\navoid meddling with the toadstools; it _recommends_ the flowers to your\nprotection; it _advises_ you to be careful with your cigar-ashes; it\n_commands_ you to muzzle your unhappy terrier; it weighs you down with\na crushing sense of your own unworthiness by appealing to your sense\nof honor, of probity, of refinement, of patriotism, and to a hundred\nother noble qualities you are acutely conscious of _not_ possessing;\nthen passing from fawning flattery to brutal menace, it growls dark\nthreats against your liberty or your purse, should you have remained\ndeaf to its hateful voice, and presume to have overstepped the limits\nof familiarity prescribed towards an oak-tree or a bush of wild-rose.\n\nIf, chafing in spirit at these reiterated pinpricks, you would take\nsome rest by sitting down on one of the numerous benches placed there\nfor the accommodation of exhausted but perfectly educated individuals,\nyou are abruptly called upon to choose between Goethe and Schiller,\nKant or Hegel, Lessing or Wieland, to the immortal memory of each of\nwhich celebrities the proud monument of six feet of white-painted board\nhas been dedicated.\n\nA harmless enough looking little bridge is designated as Custozza\nbridge, and a delicious opening in the forest redolent of wild\ncyclamen desecrated by the base appellation of _Philosophen Wiese_\n(Philosopher\u2019s meadow). Even the source where you pause to slake your\nthirst has been christened by some such preposterous title as the\nfountain of friendship or the spring of gratitude. You cannot, in fact,\nmove a hundred yards in any given direction without having the names\nof celebrated men, cardinal virtues, or national victories forced down\nyour throat _ad nauseam_, and\u2014what to my thinking is the cruelest\ngrievance of all\u2014you are there debarred the simple satisfaction of\nlosing your way in a natural unsophisticated manner, every second\ntree having been converted into a sign-post, which persists in giving\ninformation you would much rather be without.\n\nLatitude and longitude are dinned into your ears with merciless\nprecision; staring patches of scarlet, blue, and yellow paint, arranged\nto express a whole series of cabalistic signs, disfigure the ruddy\nbronze of noble pine-stems; gaunt pointing fingers, multiplied as\nin a delirious nightmare, meet you at every turn, informing you of\nyour exact bearings with regard to every given point of the landscape\nwithin a radius of ten miles. \u201cTwo hours from B\u00fcrgersruhe,\u201d they tell\nyou; \u201cFive hours from Wienerlust;\u201d \u201cAn hour and a half from Philister\nBerg\u201d\u2014and oh, how many weary miles away from anything resembling\nnature and freedom, eagles and poetry!\n\nYou long to be gone from the mournful spectacle of nature profaned\nand debased; your independent spirit chafes and frets under the\noppressive tyranny of a vulgar despot, who, not content with directing\nyour movements and restricting your actions, would further extend\nhis detested interference to the inmost regions of your thoughts\nand feelings. Why should I be confronted with Hegel, when I wish to\ncultivate the far more congenial society of an interesting stag-beetle?\nWherefore disturb the luxurious feeling of gloomy revenge my soul is\nbrooding by the suggestion of any sentiment as sickly and as utterly\nfabulous as friendship or gratitude? Why dishonor the fragrance of\npale cyclamen by a bookworm odor of mustiness and mildew? Why, O cruel\n_Versch\u00f6nerungs Verein_, skilful annihilator of all that is beautiful\nand sublime, have you left no margin for poetry or imagination, romance\nor accident, conjecture or hope, in visiting these regions? \u201c_Lasciate\nogni speranza voi ch\u2019 entrate_\u201d it is indeed the case here to say; or\nrather, if you be wise, do not enter these hopeless regions at all, but\nturning your back on all such, go straight through to Transylvania,\nwhere you will find in profusion all those charms of which the\nWienerwald has been so cruelly robbed!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII.\n\nA WEEK IN THE PINE REGION.\n\n\nOur quarters at the shelter-hut in the pine valley were so\nsatisfactory, and its situation so delightful, that instead of\nremaining only two nights, as had been originally intended, we stayed\nthere a whole week, exploring the valley in all directions, making\nsketches of the principal points, and collecting supplies of the rare\nferns and mosses with which the neighborhood abounded, along with the\nalpen-rose, which we often discovered still flowering at sheltered\nplaces.\n\nA thorough dose of nature enjoyed in this way acts like a regenerating\nmedicine on a mind and body wearied and weakened by a long strain of\nconventionalities. It is refreshing merely to look round on a beautiful\nscene as yet untainted by the so-called civilizing breath of man, who,\ntoo often attempting to paint the lily, invariably vulgarizes when\nhe seeks to improve the work of the Creator. What unmixed delight to\nsee here everything unspoiled and unadulterated, each tree and flower\nliving out its natural life, or falling into beautiful decay, without\nhaving been turned aside from its original vocation, or distorted\nto an unnatural use to minister to some imaginary want of sensual,\ncruel, greedy, rapacious man; to find one little spot where nature yet\nreigns supreme; to be able to gaze around and say that those splendid\nfir-stems will _not_ be cut up in a noisy saw-mill, nor yet defiled by\nvulgar paint; those late scarlet strawberries hanging in coral fringes\nfrom pearl-gray rocks will _not_ be sold at so much a pint and cooked\ninto sickly jams; those prickly fir-cones will _not_ be abstracted from\ntheir rightful owners, the red-coated squirrels, to adorn the tasteless\nveranda of some popular beer-house; the swelling outlines of those\nglorious blue gentians will be flattened in _no_ improved herbarium,\nnor those gorgeous butterflies invited to lay down their young lives to\nfurther the interests of science; those brown leaping trout will, thank\nHeaven, never, never figure on an illuminated _menu_ card as _truites\n\u00e0 la Chambord_, to flatter the palate of some dissipated sybarite! The\npure light of the north star alone will point out my direction, and\nneither Kant nor Hegel will rise from his grave to torment me here.\n\n[Illustration: THE PINE VALLEY.[82]]\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt is wonderful how soon one gets accustomed to roughing it, and\ndoing without the comforts and luxuries of daily life, and it is\ndelightful to discover that civilization is only skin-deep after all.\nOn the second morning it seemed no hardship to perform our toilet at\na mountain spring shrouded in a pine-tree boudoir; empty bottles were\nvery worthy substitutes for silver candlesticks; and for brushing our\ndress and cleansing our boots, a wild Wallachian peasant quite as\nuseful as a trained _femme de chambre_.\n\nDress and fashion, uniforms and coffee-houses, the wearisome chit-chat\nof a little country town, as well as the intricacies of European\npolitics, had all passed out of our lives as though they had never\nexisted, leaving no regret, scarcely even a memory. It seemed hardly\npossible to believe that such useless and unnatural things as false\nhair, diamond ear-rings, military parades, cream-laid note-paper,\ncalling-cards, sugar-tongs, intrigue, envy, and ambition existed\nsomewhere or other about the world. Were there really other forms of\nmusic extant than the lullaby of the water-fall, and the wild pibroch\nof the wind among the fir-stems? other sorts of perfumes than the pine\nwood fragrance and the breath of wild thyme?\n\nWhile we were thus revelling in the pure ozone above, two emperors\nwere meeting in some dull corner of the dingy earth below,[83] and all\nEurope was looking on and holding its breath, in order to catch some\necho of the royal syllables interchanged.\n\nFor our part, we completely skipped this page of European history, and\nfelt none the worse of it. Everything changes proportion up here, and a\nreal eagle becomes of far more absorbing interest than a double-headed\none. We were virtually as isolated as though cast on a desert island in\nthe Pacific; and but for one messenger despatched to assure us of the\nwelfare of our respective families, we had no communication with the\nworld we had left.\n\nHere we had a hundred other sources of interest of more absorbing\nand healthier kind than the so-called pleasures we had left below.\nFirst there was the water-fall, a never-failing element of beauty and\ninterest. It was delightful to sketch it, sitting on a moss-grown stone\nat the edge of the torrent; it was yet more delightful to clamber up to\nits base, and clinging on to a rock, receive the breath of its spray\nfull on our face, and enjoy at close quarters the musical thunder\nof its voice. Not far from this was the place where, three years\npreviously, the great avalanche had swept over the valley, felling\nprostrate every tree which came in its passage. All across one side of\nthe glen, and half-way up the opposite hill, can still be traced the\nravaging march of the destroying forces; for here the woodman never\ncomes with his axe, and each tree still lies prostrate where it was\nstricken down, like giant ninepins overthrown; and here they will lie\nundisturbed till they rot away and turn to soft red dust, mute vouchers\nof the terrible power of unchained nature. One felt inclined to envy\nthe bears and eagles for this glorious sight, of which they alone can\nhave been the fortunate spectators.\n\nAnother point of interest indicated by our guides was the bridge of\nfir-stems over a steep ravine, where years ago a terrified flock of\nsheep, pursued by a bear in broad daylight, had leaped down over the\nprecipitous edge, upwards of three hundred breaking their legs in their\nfrenzied attempts to escape.\n\nThe shepherds who lived above in the stony valley came frequently down\nto our shelter-hut, and we used to find them comfortably ensconced at\nour camp-fire, in deep conversation with the guides. In their lonely\nexistence it must have been a pleasant experience to have neighbors at\nall within reach, and our hospitable camp-fire was doubtless as good\nas a fashionable club to their simple minds. They brought us of their\nsheep\u2019s milk and cheese. The latter, called here _brindza_, was very\npalatable, and the milk much thicker and richer than cow\u2019s milk, but of\na peculiar taste which I failed to appreciate.\n\nThere was a shepherdess, too, belonging to the establishment; but let\nno one, misled by the appellation, instinctively conjure up visions\nof delicate pastel-paintings or coquettish porcelain figurines, for\nanything more utterly at variance with the associations suggested\nby the names of Watteau and Vieux Saxe, than the uncouth, swarthy,\none-eyed damsel who inhabited the bergerie, cannot well be imagined.\nThe male shepherds were four in number\u2014two of them calling for no\nspecial description; the third, a boy of about fourteen, with large,\nsenseless eyes and a fixed, idiotic stare, looked no more than\nsemi-human. The most distinguished member of the party, and, as we\nladies unanimously agreed, decidedly the flower of the flock, was\na good-looking young man of some twenty years, with straight-cut,\nregular features, a high brown fur cap, and a wooden flute on which he\nplayed in a queer, monotonous fashion, resembling the droning tones\nof a bagpipe. He had come from Roumania, he told us, and had been for\na time tending flocks in Turkey, where he had picked up something of\nthe language. It was a curious country, he observed, and the people\nthere had curious habits\u2014such, for instance, as that of keeping\nseveral wives; the richer a man was, the more wives he kept. Our\nyoung shepherd shrugged his shoulders as he made this remark in a\nsupercilious manner, evidently of opinion that women were an evil which\nshould not be unnecessarily multiplied; and certainly, judging from the\nsolitary specimen of female beauty which the stony valley contained, no\nman could feel tempted to embark in a very extensive harem.\n\nWe afterwards ascertained that the interesting shepherd with the fur\ncap and wooden flute had committed a murder over in Roumania, and been\nobliged to fly the country on that account. This disclosure rendered us\nsomewhat more reserved in our intercourse with our romantic neighbor,\nand though we could not exactly put a stop to his visits, we avoided\nover-intimacy, and always felt more at ease in his society when there\nwas a gun or revolver within handy reach.\n\nOur Wallachian guides proved thoroughly satisfactory in every\nway\u2014active, obliging, and full of inventive resources. They were\nvery particular about keeping their fast-days as prescribed by the\nGreek Church, and would refuse all offers of food at such times. When\nnot fasting they were easily made happy by any scraps of cheese or\nbacon left over from our meals, or by a glassful of spirits of wine\njudiciously adulterated with water. On one occasion a parcel containing\na dozen hard-boiled eggs, grown stale (to put it mildly) from having\nbeen overlooked, was received with positive rapture by one of these\nunsophisticated beings, who devoured them every one with a heartfelt\nrelish not to be mistaken.\n\nHam, sausages, and bread and cheese, formed the staple of our\nnourishment in this as in other Transylvanian mountain excursions\u2014for\nafter the first day, of course, no fresh meat could be procured. Also,\nthe Hungarian _paprica speck_\u2014viz., raw bacon prepared with red\npepper\u2014is useful on these occasions, as it gives much nourishment\nin a very small compass. I never myself succeeded in reaching the\npoint demanded by Hungarian enthusiasm for this favorite national\nfood; so that all I can conscientiously say for it is that, given the\ncircumstances of a keen appetite, bracing mountain air, and no other\navailable nourishment, it is quite eatable, and by a little stretch\nof indulgence might almost be called palatable. The Magyars, however,\npronounce this bacon to be of such superlatively exquisite flavor as\nonly to be fit for the gods on a Sunday! So I suppose it can only be\nby reason of some peculiarly ungodlike quality in my nature that I am\nunable to appreciate this Elysian dish as it deserves.\n\nThe Roumanians have, like the Poles, a certain inbred sense of courtesy\ntotally wanting in their Saxon neighbors; it shows itself in many\ntrifling acts\u2014in the manner they rise and uncover in the presence of\na superior, and the way they offer their assistance over the obstacles\nof the path. One day that I had hurt my foot, and was much distressed\nat being unable to join a longer walk, I found in the evening a large\nnosegay of ripe bilberries, surrounded by red autumn leaves, lying at\nthe foot of my sleeping-place\u2014a delicate attention on the part of our\nhead guide, who wished thereby to console me for the pleasure I had\nlost.\n\nThe peasants were always pitying us for the disadvantages of our\n_chaussure_: how could we be so foolish as to submit to the torture\nand inconvenience of shoes and stockings, instead of adopting the\ncomfortable opintschen they themselves wore? And they almost succeeded\nin persuading me to make the attempt on some future occasion, although\nI feel doubtful as to how far a foot corrupted by civilization could be\ninduced to adapt itself to this unwonted covering.\n\nWe celebrated our last evening in the pine valley by ordering an extra\nlarge bonfire to be made. Accordingly, three good-sized fir-trees were\nfelled, and bound together to form a sort of pyramid. A glorious sight\nwhen the flames had scaled the heights, turning each little twig into a\ngolden brand, and drawing a profusion of rockets from every branch\u2014far\nmore beautiful than any fireworks I had seen.\n\nOne of our guides, called Nicola\u00efa\u2014the tallest and wildest-looking\nof the group\u2014especially distinguished himself on this occasion. He\nhad evidently something of the salamander in his constitution, for he\nseemed to be absolutely impervious to heat, and to feel, in fact, quite\nas comfortable inside the fire as out of it. By common consent he was\ngenerally assigned the part of cat\u2019s-paw, to him being delegated the\noffice of taking a boiling pot off the fire or picking the roasted\npotatoes from out the red-hot embers. Standing as he now was, almost in\nthe centre of the glowing pile, supporting the burning fir-trees with\nhis sinewy arms, while a perfect shower of sparks rained thickly down\nall over his ragged shirt and bare, tawny chest, it required no stretch\nof imagination to take him for a figure designed by Dor\u00e9 and stepped\nstraight out of Dante\u2019s Inferno.\n\n * * * * *\n\nOur last morning came, and with heartfelt regret we prepared to leave\nthe lovely valley where we had spent such a truly delicious week. An\nadditional pack-horse having been sent for from the village below, we\nwere surprised to see the animal in question make its appearance led by\nthe Roumanian cure of the parish, who, having heard that a horse was\nrequired, had bethought himself of earning an honest penny by hiring\nout his beast and enacting the part of driver. Anywhere else it would\nbe a strange anomaly to see a clergyman putting himself on a level with\na common peasant, attired in coarse linen shirt and meekly carrying\nour bundles; but here this is of every-day occurrence. The Roumanian\npeasant, however rigorously he may adhere to the forms of his Church,\nhas, as I said before, no inordinate respect for the person of his\nclergyman, whose infallibility is only considered to last so long as he\nis standing before the altar; once outside the church walls he becomes\nan ordinary man to his congregation, and not necessarily a particularly\nrespected or respectable individual. This particular popa was, as it\nappeared, not only accustomed to serve as driver, but likewise as beast\nof burden himself\u2014as he genially volunteered to carry all the mosses\nand ferns we collected on the way. I am ashamed to say that we basely\naccepted his services, and loaded him unmercifully with the spoils\nof the forest, thus unceremoniously apostrophizing him: \u201cHere, popa,\nanother hart\u2019s-tongue;\u201d or, \u201cTake this ivy trail, will you?\u201d till he\nwas wellnigh smothered in sylvan treasures.\n\nOur path to the foot of the mountains, where our carriages were to\nawait us, was a walk of about three hours; but soon after starting,\nour sacerdotal porter having volunteered to show us a short cut, which\nshould take us down in two-thirds of that time, we gladly grasped\nat this proposition and at the prospect of seeing a new part of the\nforest; and our other guides being on ahead with the horses, we blindly\nintrusted ourselves to the guidance of the holy man, who forthwith\nbegan to lead us through the very thickest forest-mazes, over rocks\nand torrents, through bogs and brier, up hill and down dale, till\nour clothes were torn, our hands were bleeding, and our tempers were\nsoured. \u201cThe way must be very short, indeed, if it is so bad,\u201d was the\nreflection which at first kept up our spirits; but we had yet to learn\nthat brevity and badness do not always go hand in hand, and that an\nexecrable path may be lengthy as well. Like jaded warriors overcome by\nthe fatigue of an excessive march, we now disburdened ourselves of our\nrich spoils, having no further thought but to find our way from out\nthis bewildering labyrinth of smooth beech-stems. Clumps of exquisite\nmaidenhair ferns, but now so tenderly dug up, were callously cast\naside, and the much-prized layers of velvety moss were brutally left\nto perish. All noble instincts seemed dead within us, our weary limbs\nand empty stomachs being all we cared for. The forest had suddenly\ngrown hideous, and we wondered at ourselves for ever having thought it\nbeautiful. The priest was a ruffian luring us on to our destruction.\nUtterly losing sight of his sacerdotal character, we abused him in\nharsh and vigorous language, which he meekly bore\u2014I must say that\nmuch for him. Perhaps he had heard similar language before, and was\naccustomed to it.\n\nWhether the popa had lost his way and did not wish to acknowledge\nit, or whether, as I rather suspect, he had never been in the forest\nbefore, remains an unsolved mystery; the result was, however, that\nafter nearly seven hours of remarkably hard walking we were still lost\nin the depths of the forest, and apparently no nearer our destination\nthan when we had set out.\n\nAt this juncture one of the ladies lay down on the ground, declaring\nherself incapable of going a step farther. She was nearly fainting\nwith fatigue and hunger, for all our provisions had been sent on with\nthe horses. The predicament was a most unpleasant one; for although\nthe popa swore for at least the twentieth time that we should arrive\nin less than half an hour, we had been too cruelly deceived, and our\nconfidence in him was gone. Half an hour might just as well mean three\nor four hours farther; and even if he spoke the truth our unfortunate\ncompanion was far too much exhausted to proceed.\n\nAfter a brief consultation we determined that, leaving two gentlemen\nin charge of the invalid, some of us should go on with the miscreant\npriest as guide, sending back a horse and some restoratives to the\nspot. This plan proved successful; for after about three-quarters of an\nhour more of clambering and climbing, we reached the forest edge, and\nfound our guides waiting for us and much perplexed at our nonappearance.\n\n\u201cThe devil take the popa!\u201d was their hearty and unanimous exclamation\nwhen we had related our adventure; \u201cwho could be fool enough to follow\nthe priest? Did we not know that it was bad-luck even to meet a popa?\u201d\nthey asked us pityingly; and certainly, under the circumstances, we\nfelt inclined for once to attach some weight to popular superstition,\nand inwardly to resolve never again to trust ourselves to the guidance\nof a Roumanian popa.\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[82] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian\nSociety.\n\n[83] The meeting of the Emperors of Austria and Russia at Skiernevice,\nin September, 1884.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV.\n\nLA DUS AND BISTRA.\n\n\nThis first taste of the delights of a Transylvanian mountain excursion\nhad but stimulated our desire for more enjoyment of the same kind.\nAfter revelling so unrestrainedly in the pure mountain air, it was not\npossible to settle down at once to the monotony of every-day life.\nSome touch of the restless, roving spirit of the gypsies had come over\nme, and I began to understand that the life they lead might have a\nfascination nowhere else to be found. I positively hungered for more\nair, more sunshine, for deeper draughts of the pine wood fragrance,\nfurther revelations of the mountain wonders. I could not afford to\nwaste the very last days of this glorious summer weather cooped up\nwithin narrow streets; and as one or two of my late companions were of\nthe same way of thinking, another expedition was speedily resolved upon.\n\nIt was, however, not without difficulty that we organized this second\nexcursion, which could not possibly be attempted by two ladies without\nat least an equal number of gentlemen. Especially if there were going\nto be any more fainting-fits, a second protector was an imperative\nnecessity; and who could tell (women being proverbially incalculable in\ntheir doings) whether we might not both select the self-same moment for\nswooning away? As yet only one of the stronger sex had been secured,\nand a second seemed to be nowhere forthcoming. As I before remarked,\nit is no easy matter to find a person with exactly the requisite\nqualifications for a mountaineering companion, and I am inclined to\nbelieve that Diogenes must have been contemplating some such ascent\nwhen he ran about the streets of Athens with a lantern. We had gone\nover the list of our dearest friends, and had rejected most of them,\nfeeling convinced that we should get to detest them in the course\nof the first forty-eight hours. Of those few who remained some were\nunwell and others unwilling; some had no time and others no boots; the\ncavalry officers rarely cared to walk at all, and infantry officers\nwere of opinion that they had quite enough walking already in their\nusual routine of military duty; and it is mournful to have to record\nthat out of a population of about twenty-two thousand inhabitants, not\nanother man could be found both willing and able to walk up a hill with\na couple of ladies.\n\nOur plan, therefore, seemed doomed to dire disappointment, when a\nbright thought struck me\u2014the very brightest I ever had. Besides the\npopulation of 13,000 Germans, 3737 Roumanians, 2018 Magyars, 238 Jews\nand Armenian gypsies, and 443 infants, shown by the latest statistical\nreturn of the town, Hermanstadt could boast of something else\u2014namely,\none Englishman; and on this one solitary countryman all my hopes were\naccordingly fixed.\n\nThe gentleman in question, who had made his appearance here some months\npreviously along with his wife and child, had long been a source of\ndeep and perplexing interest to the inhabitants of Hermanstadt. None\nof them knew his name, and no name was required, \u201cDer Engl\u00e4nder\u201d being\nsufficient to describe the fabulous stranger who had found his way\nto these remote regions. No one spoke of him in any other way, and\nhis bills and parcels were sent to him invariably addressed to \u201cDer\nEngl\u00e4nder.\u201d His wife and his hat, his umbrella and his stockings, his\nboots and his baby, were as many sources of puzzling conjecture to\nthese worthy people, who regarded him with all the deeper suspicion\njust because the life he led was so apparently harmless.\n\nWhat had brought him to this out-of-the-way corner of Europe? was\nthe question which troubled many a Saxon mind; and more than one was\nof opinion that he was a British spy sent by Mr. Gladstone for the\nexpress purpose of studying the military resources of the country\nand corrupting the population. No one would, I think, have been much\nsurprised if some dark crime had been brought home to him, or if a\nsupply of nitro-glycerine had been found concealed in the baby\u2019s\nperambulator\u2014the two most suspicious circumstances about him being,\nthat he had occasionally been seen looking on at the military parade,\nand had an uncanny habit of taking long walks in the country. It\nwas, however, precisely this last ominous symptom which had directed\nmy thoughts to him on this occasion; and having formed a slight\nacquaintance with Mr. P\u2014\u2014 and his wife, I felt sure that he would\nprove equal to the occasion.\n\nA deep analysis of international character has led me to the conclusion\nthat, in a contingency like the present, one Englishman may be fairly\nbalanced against a trifling majority of some twenty thousand other\nmixed races; so I put forward my candidate, expressing a conviction\nthat my countryman would in no way fall short of the national standard\nwhich demands that every Englishman shall do his duty.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said my friend, half reluctantly, \u201clet us ask \u2018Der\nEngl\u00e4nder,\u2019 if you really think it safe.\u201d So after I had pledged my\nhonor that the country\u2019s security would in nowise be imperilled, I\nsecured the valuable and agreeable companionship of Mr. P\u2014\u2014, and we\nset out once more, a small party of four people, with the requisite\nnumber of guides and baggage-horses.\n\nThis second expedition was to be conducted on a somewhat different\nprinciple from the first; for, instead of taking up our quarters at one\ngiven point, we proposed wandering over the mountains in true gypsy\nfashion, sleeping wherever we happened to find shelter in shepherds\u2019\nhuts or foresters\u2019 lodges, or, in the absence of these, camping under a\nsail-cloth tent we carried with us. It had been planned that we were to\nremain out fully ten days, returning by a different route, and making a\nshort excursion into Roumania.\n\nWe drove to the foot of the hills, and then commenced our ascent from\na Roumanian village, where the white-veiled women plying the distaff\nin front of their doors sent us courteous salutations as we passed.\nThe weather was radiantly beautiful, the atmosphere of a faultless\ntransparency, without a breath of air to hasten the falling leaves, or\na cloud to mar the effect of the deep-blue vault. There were still wild\nflowers enough\u2014campanulas, gentians, and wild carnations\u2014growing on\nthe steep grassy slopes, to make us fancy ourselves in midsummer; and\nthe gaudy insects disporting themselves thereon\u2014butterflies blue and\npurple, gold and scarlet grasshoppers, and shining bronze beetles\u2014were\nas many brilliant impostors luring us on to the belief that winter was\nstill far away.\n\nBut the furry caterpillars scuttling across our path at headlong speed,\nin their haste to wrap themselves up in their warm winter cocoons, knew\nbetter; and so did the ring-doves and martens, which, with other tribes\nof migrating birds, were all winging it swiftly towards the south,\nmaking dark streaks in the blue sky overhead.\n\nFor our part, we felt it almost too hot to walk uphill in the sun, and\nwere thankful when, after an hour\u2019s ascent, we gained the shade of the\ndense pine forests which, without admixture of beech, clothe all this\npart of the country.\n\nThere is no sense of monotony in these beautiful pine woods, though\none may walk in them for many days without reaching the end of the\nforest, for no two parts of it are alike, and surprises await us at\nevery turn. Thus one region is distinguished by a profusion of coral\nornaments, the huge red toadstools, sprouting everywhere on the\nemerald moss, looking like monster sugar-plums which have fallen from\nthese gigantic Christmas-trees; then suddenly a new transformation\ntakes place, and we are walking in a mermaid\u2019s grove far beneath the\nsea\u2014for are not the trees here adorned with tremulous hangings of\npalest green sea-weed? Yet this is no other than a lichen, the _Usnea\nbarbata_, or bearded moss, also called R\u00fcbezahl\u2019s hair, which with such\nstrange perversity will sometimes seize upon a whole forest district,\nthus fantastically decking it out in this long, wavy fluff, hanging\nfrom each twig and branch in fringes and bunches like a profusion of\ngray-green icicles; while elsewhere, under apparently the self-same\nconditions of soil and vegetation, we may seek for it in vain.\n\nFarther on we come upon a scene still more weird and suggestive, as\nwe seem to have stepped unawares into a land of ghosts. Hundreds of\ndead fir-trees, bleached and dry, are standing here upright and stark.\nUntouched by the storm, and unbroken by old age, with every branch\nand twig intact, they have been stricken to the heart\u2019s core by a\ntreacherous enemy, the _Borkenk\u00e4fer_ (_Bostrichus typographus_), a\nsmall but baneful insect, which for years past has been plying its\ndeadly craft, and, vampire-like, sapping their life away. It is a\nrelief to quit this death-like region, and return to the exuberant life\nexpressed in every line of those gorgeous trees, growing scarce fifty\npaces ahead of their stricken brethren, whose lower branches, weighed\ndown beneath the burden of their own magnificence, have sunk to the\nground, where they lie voluptuously embedded in the rank luxuriance of\nthe moss-woven grass. Yet here, too, the deadly insect will come, in\nscarce half a dozen years, to turn those emerald giants into staring\nwhite ghosts. Day by day it is creeping nearer, and though they know it\nnot, those deluded trees, their days are already counted. Let us pass\non; life is not blither than death after all!\n\nOur first halt was made at La Dus, a small group of huts tenanted in\nsummer by Hungarian gendarmes, there stationed for the purpose of\nkeeping a lookout on smugglers and possible military deserters, who may\nhope to evade service by concealing themselves among the shepherds, or\ngoing over the frontier into Roumania. The immediate surroundings of\nthis little establishment are somewhat bleak and desolate, the forest\nhaving been of late much cleared out at this spot. A tiny cemetery\nbehind the houses seems to act the part of pleasure-ground as well;\nfor right in its centre, separating the seven or eight graves into two\nrows, is a primitive skittle-ground\u2014which curious arrangement can only\nbe explained by the supposition that here the skittles had the right of\npriority, the dead men being but dissipated interlopers, who, having\nloved to play at skittles during their lifetime, desired to be united\nto them even in death. The remains of a camp-fire I observed in one\ncorner was another sign of the peculiar way the defunct are treated in\nthis obscure church-yard, the ashes on closer investigation showing the\ncharred wrecks of some of the crosses and railings missing from more\nthan one grave.\n\nIn a wooden _ch\u00e2let_ reserved for the occasional visits of inspection\nof a head forester we obtained night-quarters, proceeding next\nmorning on our way, which again took us through similar pine woods,\nreaching this time a comfortable shooting-lodge lying deep in the\nforest of Bistra, where we were made welcome by a hospitable Roumanian\ngame-keeper and four or five remarkably amiable pointers, which\nthreatened to stifle us with their affectionate demonstrations.\n\nThe weather had now begun to change, and a small drizzling rain had\nalready surprised us on the way. Reluctantly we acknowledged that the\ncaterpillars were by no means so devoid of sense as had appeared at\nfirst sight; and those migrating winged families, which had seemed\nso unreasonably anxious to start for Italy, were now slowly rising\nin our estimation, and as we were very comfortably installed at the\ngame-keeper\u2019s lodge, we resolved to stay there two nights in order to\ngive the weather time to improve before venturing on to higher ground.\n\nThis intervening day of rest was spent pleasantly enough in walking\nabout and sketching, despite occasional showers of rain; while the\ngentlemen proceeded to shoot _haselh\u00fchner_ in the forest. For the\nbenefit of those unacquainted with these delicious little birds, I\nmust here mention that they are about the size of a partridge, but\nof far superior flavor. They are mostly to be found in pine forests,\nwhere they feed on the delicate young pine-shoots, along with\njuniper-berries, sloes, and heather-nibs, which gives to them (in a\nfainter degree) something of the sharp aromatic taste of the grouse.\n\nClose to the game-keeper\u2019s lodge there was a dashing mountain torrent\nof considerable volume, and this point had been selected for the\nconstruction of a _klause_ (literally cloister)\u2014or to put it more\nclearly, a monster dam\u2014across the torrent-bed, with movable sluices.\nBy means of the body of water obtained in this way, the wood of the\nforest is conveyed to the lower world. The river-banks are here\nenlarged till they form a small lake, and the dam, built up securely\nof massive bowlder-stones, is, for greater preservation against wind\nand weather, walled and roofed in with wooden planking, which gives\nto it the appearance of a roomy habitation. In connection with this\nlake are numerous wooden slides or troughs, which, slanting down from\nthe adjacent hills, deposit whole trunks at the water\u2019s edge, there\nto be hewn up into convenient logs and thrown into the water. When a\nsufficient quantity of wood has been thus collected the sluices are\nopened, and with thunder-like noise the cataract breaks forth, easily\nsweeping its wooden burden along.\n\nEven greater loads sometimes reach the lower world by this watery road,\nand occasionally twenty to twenty-five stems, roughly shaped into beams\nfor building purposes, are fastened together so as to form a sort of\nraft, firmly connected at one end by cross-beams and wooden bands,\nbut left loose at the opposite side to admit of the beams separating\nfan-like, according to the exigencies of the encountered obstacles, as\nthey are whirled along. Two men furnished with lengthy poles act as\nsteersmen, and it requires no little skill to guide this unwieldy craft\nsuccessfully through the labyrinth of rocks and whirlpools which beset\nthe river\u2019s bed. The perils of such a cruise are considerable, and used\nto be greater still before some of the worst rocks were blasted out of\nthe way. Sometimes the whole craft goes to pieces, dashed against the\nbowlders, or else a fallen tree-stem across the river may crush the\nsailors as they are swept beneath. From this fate the navigators may\nsometimes barely escape by throwing themselves prostrate on the raft,\nor by leaping over the barrier at the critical moment; or else, when\nthe obstacle is not otherwise to be evaded, and seems too formidable\nto surmount, they find it necessary to make voluntary shipwreck by\nsteering on to the nearest rock. The thunder-like noise of the cataract\nrenders speech unavailing, so it is only by signs that the men can\ncommunicate with each other.\n\nThis particular klause is not in use at present, as there are similar\nones in neighboring valleys; so the little colony of log-huts built\nfor the accommodation of workmen is standing empty, and single huts can\nbe rented at a moderate price by any one who wishes to enjoy some weeks\nof a delightful solitude in the midst of fragrant pine forests.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV.\n\nA NIGHT IN THE STINA.\n\n\nAs on the second morning the rain had stopped, we thought we might\nventure to proceed on our way, the next station we had in view being\nthe J\u00e4eser See, a mysterious lake lying high up in the hills, of which\nmany strange tales are told. This _meeresauge_ (eye of the sea, as all\nsuch high mountain lakes are called by the people) is the source of the\nriver Cibin, and believed by the country-folk to be directly connected\nwith the ocean by subterraneous openings. The bones of drowned seamen\nand spars from wrecked ships are said to have been there washed ashore;\nand popular superstition warns the stranger not to presume to throw\na stone into its gloomy depths, as a terrible thunder-storm would be\nthe inevitable result of such sacrilege. According to some people, the\nJ\u00e4eser See would be no other than the devil\u2019s own caldron, in which\nhe brews the weather, and where a dragon sleeps coiled up beneath the\nsurface.\n\nNo wonder we felt anxious to visit such an interesting spot, and that\nwe pressed onward without heeding the driving mists which every now and\nthen obscured our view. We had now reached the extremity of the pine\nregion, and were walking along a mountain shoulder where short stunted\nbushes of fir and juniper afforded shelter for countless _krametsv\u00f6gel_\n(a sort of fieldfare), which flew up startled at our approach, uttering\nshrill, piercing cries. Several birds were shot as we went along; but\nas we had no dog to seek them out, they were mostly lost in the thick\nundergrowth where they had fallen.\n\nThe sun had now hidden itself, and a sharp piping wind was blowing\nfull in our faces. We struggled on manfully notwithstanding, for some\ntime, in face of discouragement; but when at last the mist had turned\nto a driving snow-storm, blinding our eyes and catching our breath,\nwe forcedly came to a stand-still, to consider what next was to be\ndone. There was no shelter to be obtained by going on, as our guides\nexplained; even did we succeed in reaching the lake, which was doubtful\nin this weather, there was neither hut nor hovel near it, nor for\nmany miles around, and we ruefully acknowledged that our much-vaunted\nsail-cloth tent would afford but scanty shelter against such a storm\nas was evidently coming on. It was too late to think of returning to\nthe forester\u2019s lodge, being near four o\u2019clock, and darkness set in soon\nafter six. By good-luck, as we happened to remember, we had passed a\nseemingly deserted shepherds\u2019 hut about half an hour previously, the\nonly habitation we had seen that day. By retracing our steps we might\nat least hope to pass the night under cover.\n\nIt proved no such easy matter, however, to find the place in question,\nfor the heavy mists which accompanied the snow-storm enveloped us on\nall sides as with a veil, and we could not distinguish objects only\ntwenty paces off; and although the hut stood out upon an open slope of\npasture, we passed it close by more than once without suspecting. At\nlast, despatching a guide to ascertain the exact bearings, we waited\ntill his welcome shout informed us that our place of refuge was found,\nand a few minutes later we had reached the stina.\n\nThis hut, very roughly put together of logs and beams, had been\nevacuated by the shepherds some ten days previously; its walls were\nvery low, the roof disproportionately high; there were no windows,\nand none were required, for there were as many chinks as boards, and\nfully more holes than nails about the building, and these, in freely\nadmitting the wind and the rain, furnished enough daylight to see by\nas well. Yet such as it was, it was infinitely better than our flimsy\ntent, and we felt heartily thankful for the shelter it afforded.\n\nThe hut inside was divided off into two compartments, one for living\nand sleeping, the other a sort of store-room where the shepherds are\nin the habit of keeping their milk and cheeses. Some rude attempt at\nfurnishing had also been made; one or two very primitive benches, some\nslanting boards to serve as beds, and a rickety table, weighted down\nby stones to keep it together. Bunches of dried juniper were stuck\nat regular intervals along the eaves of the roof inside by way of\ndecoration; perhaps, also, as a charm to keep the lightning away. Some\nlittle objects carved out of wood, knives, spoons, etc., came likewise\nto light in our course of investigation.\n\nThere was no such thing as a fireplace or chimney, but a heap of gray\nwood-ashes in the centre of the stamped earth floor testified that a\nfire could be made notwithstanding, and only the patient smoke of many\nsummers could have polished those beams inside the hut into that shiny\nsurface of rich brown hue.\n\nWe took the hint, and presently the welcome sight of dancing flames\nlit up the scene. At first a dense smoke filled the building, and\nthere seemed really no choice between freezing and suffocation, when\nsome inventive spirit bethought himself of knocking out a portion of\nthe roof by means of a long pole, and so making an improvised chimney.\nThe current of air thus effected instantaneously carried off the dense\nsmoke-clouds, and left the atmosphere comparatively clear.\n\nLike fire-fly swarms the sparks flew upward, probing the mysterious\ndarkness of the cavernous roof; and now as the blast swept by outside,\nshaking the walls and fanning the flames to an angry growl, the dead\nwood-ashes were likewise stirred to life, and, wafted aloft in the\nguise of fluttering white moths, they joined in a whirling dance with\nthe golden fire-flies.\n\nWe had suspended our drenched cloaks from the cross-beams near the\nfire, and were beginning to prepare our supper, when a startling\ninterruption gave a new current to our thoughts. One of the guides who\nhad been collecting firewood outside now rushed in, exclaiming, \u201cA\nbear! a bear! There is a young bear up there among the rocks.\u201d\n\nBreathless we all hurried to the door, and Count B\u2014\u2014 seized his gun,\ntrembling with joyful anticipation, and almost too much agitated to\nload. The snow-storm had momentarily relaxed its violence, and there,\nsure enough, on the rising ground a little above the hut, we espied\na black and shaggy animal gazing at us furtively from over a large\nbowlder-stone. It could be nothing else but a bear.\n\nWith palpitating hearts we watched the huntsman steal upward till\nwithin shot, terrified lest the bear should take alarm too soon. But\nno; this was not the sort of disappointment in store for us! The animal\nlet itself be approached till within a dozen paces; it was a perfectly\nideal bear in all respects, coming as it seemed with such obliging\nreadiness to be shot at our very threshold.\n\nDelusive dream! too beautiful to last! One moment more and the shot\nwould be fired; we held our breath to listen\u2014and then\u2014oh, woful\ndisappointment!\u2014the gun was lowered, and the would-be bear-hunter\ncalled out in heart-rending accents, \u201cIt is only a dog!\u201d\n\nOnly a poor half-starved dog, forgotten by the shepherds on their\ndescent into the valley, and which probably had been prowling round\nthe hut ever since in hopes of seeing his masters return. The animal\nwas shaggy and uncouth in the extreme, gaunt and wild-looking from\nhunger, with glaring yellow eyes which gazed at us piteously from out\nits bushy elf-locks. Even at a very short distance, the resemblance to\na bear was striking.\n\nWe called the poor outcast, and would fain have given him food and\nshelter; but he was scared and savage, and misunderstanding our\nbenevolent intentions, could not be persuaded to approach. We had\ntherefore to content ourselves with throwing food from a distance,\nwhich he stealthily devoured whenever he thought himself unobserved.\n\nAfter this bitter disappointment we returned to the hut, and there made\nourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, completing our\ncooking arrangements, not without a sigh of regret for the delicate\nbear\u2019s-paws we had just now been expecting to sup upon; though a brace\nof haselh\u00fchner shot the previous day in the Bistra forest, and now\nroasted on a spit, gave us no cause to complain of the quality of our\nfood.\n\nOur next care was to prepare our sleeping-couches, for here there was\nnot even a sprinkling of straw to soften the hard boards. Luckily,\nthese forests contain an endless supply of patent spring mattresses,\nand a few armfuls of fresh-cut fir-branches, with a rug spread over,\nmakes as good a bed as any one need desire. A Scotch plaid (my faithful\ncompanion for many years) hung along the wall kept off the worst\ndraughts, and a roaring fire sustained the whole night prevented us\nfrom perishing with cold. Our sleeping-boards were close alongside\nthis improvised hearth, with barely room enough to pass between\nwithout singeing one\u2019s clothes; yet while our faces were roasting, our\nbackbones were often as cold as ice, so it became necessary to turn\nround from time to time when in imminent danger of getting over-done at\none side. Opposite us slumbered the guides, taking turns to sit up and\ntend the fire.\n\nMany a massive log was burned that night, and not only trunks and\nbranches, but much of the rustic furniture as well, was pressed into\nservice as fuel. The shepherds will require to furnish their house anew\nnext summer.\n\nIt was late ere sleep came to any of us, and when it came at last it\nbrought strange phantoms in its train; visions of ghosts and sorcerers,\nof bears and bandits, flitted successively through our brain; and\nscarcely less strange than dream-land was the reality to which we\nwere occasionally roused by alternate twinges of cold and heat\u2014the\nsmouldering fire at our elbow, the slumbering guides, and the white\nmoths and fire-flies whirling aloft in the frenzied mazes of a wild\nSabbath dance, to which the moaning wind, like the wailing voice of\nsome unquiet spirit, played a mournful accompaniment.\n\nWhen morning came we reviewed our situation dispassionately. The storm\nwas over, and the day, though dull, was fair as yet; but the horizon\nwas clouded, and some peasants coming by told us of snow lying deep on\nthe mountains we were bound for. We could no longer blind ourselves to\nthe fact that summer was over, and that the troublesome mists, which\nbut a fortnight ago could easily be dispersed by the sun\u2019s disdainful\nsmile, were now the masters up here.\n\nIt was clearly impossible to proceed farther under the circumstances;\nso, remembering that discretion is often the better part of valor,\nwe resolved to cut short our expedition, postponing all further\nexplorations to a more favorable season.\n\nWhen our little caravan was set in motion, I turned round to take a\nlast look at the hut which had sheltered us, and which most likely\nI shall never see again. There, motionless on a neighboring rock,\ncrouched the gaunt figure of the hungry dog, gazing intently before\nhim. Then, as I watched, he crept stealthily down till he had reached\nthe half-open door of the empty stina, where, after a cautious\ninvestigation to assure himself of the coast being clear, he entered,\nand was lost to my sight. Doubtless he thought to warm himself by the\nfire we had left, and to discover some food-scraps remaining from our\nmeals.\n\nThat dog haunted my thoughts for many days afterwards, and I could\nnot refrain from speculating on its fate, which can only have been a\ntragic one. Did it perish of cold and hunger, or else fall a prey to\nthe wild beasts of the forest? After having but yesterday unconsciously\nenacted the part of the bear, perhaps Bruin himself came to fetch it on\nthe morrow. It would, after all, have been more merciful if the error\nhad lasted a little longer, and a kindly bullet been lodged in its\nunsuspecting heart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI.\n\nFAREWELL TO TRANSYLVANIA\u2014THE ENCHANTED GARDEN.\n\n\nSo the end of our Transylvanian sojourn had actually come, and like\nmany things whose prospect appears so unconditionally desirable when\nviewed in the far distance, the realization of this wish now failed to\nbring altogether the anticipated satisfaction.\n\n[Illustration: THE CAVERN CONVENT, SKIT LA JALOMITZA.[84]]\n\nWhoever has read Hans Andersen\u2019s exquisite tale of the fir-tree will\nunderstand the indescribable pathos assumed by commonplace objects as\nsoon as they are relegated from the present tense into the past; and\nthose who have not read this fairy tale will understand it equally\nwell, for is not the story of the fir-tree the history of each of our\nown lives?\n\nI had indeed often longed to be back again in the world; I had yearned\nto be once more within reach of newspapers and lending-libraries, and\nto be able to get letters from England in three days instead of six. Of\ncourse I would return to the world some day or other; but that day need\nnot have come just yet, I now told myself, and I should have liked to\nspend one more summer in face of that glorious chain of mountains I had\ngot to love so dearly.\n\nAll at once I became acutely conscious of a dozen projects not yet\naccomplished\u2014of points of interest as yet unvisited, of pictures I had\nnot yet looked upon, of songs I had not heard. The proud snowy Negoi\nI had so often dreamed of ascending now smiled down an icy smile of\nunapproachable majesty upon my disappointment; the dark pine forests I\nhad expected to revisit seemed to grow dim and shadowy as they eluded\nmy grasp, and with them many other objects of my secret longing. That\nother mountain, the Bucsecs, where live those solitary monks, snowed up\nduring the greater part of the year in their cavern convent scooped out\nof the rock; the noble castle of the great Hunyady, pearl of medi\u00e6val\ncitadels; those wondrous salt-mines of Maros-Ujvar, whose description\nreads like a vision in a fairy tale; and those rivers whose waters may\nliterally be said to \u201cwander o\u2019er sands of gold\u201d\u2014the thought of these,\nand of many other such items, now rose up like tormenting spectres to\nswell the mournful list of my blighted hopes. There were dozens of\nold ruined towers whose interior I had not yet seen, scores of little\nway-side chapels I had proposed to investigate. Why, even in this very\ntown of Hermanstadt there were nooks and corners I had not explored,\nchurch-towers I had not ascended, and mysterious little gardens as yet\nunvisited. Precisely the most inviting-looking of these gardens, the\nmost mysteriously suggestive, and the one which showed the richest\npromise of blossom peeping over the wall, had hitherto baffled all\nattempts at entrance. Nearly every day for the last two years I had\npassed by that garden, which towered over my head like a sea-bird\u2019s\nnest perched on a steep rocky island, and always had I found the gate\nto be persistently locked against the outer world. Was I actually\ngoing to leave the place without having set foot within its enchanted\nprecincts? without having plucked that head of golden laburnum just\nbreaking into flower, which nodded so mockingly over the wall? and all\nat once an irresistible longing came over me; I felt that I _must_\nenter that garden, _must_ gather that flower, even were it defended by\ndragons and witches.\n\nAnd my wish did not seem to be impracticable at first sight\u2014the\ngarden, as I knew, belonging to the cure, a jovial-faced old man, with\nwhom I had merely a bowing acquaintance, but who, I felt sure, would\nbe delighted to show me his garden. Accordingly one forenoon, about a\nweek before my departure from Hermanstadt, I sent my two boys with a\ncalling-card, on which was indited my request in the politest terms and\nmost legible handwriting at my command.\n\nThe small messengers I had despatched to the presbytery came back even\nsooner than I had expected, but their mien was crestfallen, and their\neyes suspiciously moist.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter?\u201d I asked, in surprise. \u201cHave you not brought me\nthe key of the garden? Did not the cure say Yes?\u201d\n\n[Illustration: CASTLE VAJDA HUNYAD BEFORE ITS RESTORATION.]\n\n\u201cHe said nothing; we never saw him. The whole house was full of doctors\nand of pails of ice,\u201d was the somewhat incoherent explanation. \u201cAnd\nthen there came an old woman with a broom and made us go away.\u201d\n\nEvidently the subject of the broom was too painful to be dwelt upon,\nfor the moisture in the eyes showed symptoms of reappearing. Further\ninquiries elucidated the situation. Alas! it was but too true; the\ncure had been seized with a stroke of apoplexy that morning; and after\nwaiting for two whole years, I had appropriately selected that very\nmoment to request the loan of his garden key!\n\nTwo days later he died, and was buried with much pomp; and then, after\nwaiting for three days more, I thought I might without indelicacy\nrepeat my request, applying this time to the sacristan.\n\nThe branch of laburnum had now burst into full flower, and the more\nI gazed the more absolutely impossible it seemed to leave the place\nwithout it.\n\nThis time, in consideration of the broom and the old woman, I had\ndespatched a full-grown messenger, desiring him on no account to\npresume to return without the key; but the answer he brought, though\npolite, was yet more hopeless, and he, too, had come back empty-handed.\n\u201cHave you been to the sacristan?\u201d I sternly inquired. He had, as he\nhumbly informed me, and not only to him, but likewise to the next\npriest in rank, as well as to the sister and nephew of the deceased,\nand to his best friend.\n\n\u201cThe gentlemen were all very polite, and much regretted not being able\nto oblige me,\u201d he said; \u201cbut the garden gate had been closed with the\nofficial seal immediately after the death, and this key, along with all\nothers, deposited at the _gericht_ (court of justice) till a successor\nshould be elected.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when will that be?\u201d\n\n\u201cIn about six months probably.\u201d\n\nIn six months! They dared talk to me of six months, when I should be\ngone before as many days! And what cared I for their hypocritical\nexpressions of regret, now that I knew them to be dragons in disguise?\nHope was now dead within me, for even British pertinacity cannot cope\nwith supernatural agency, and expect to penetrate realms defended by\nwitches and dragons.\n\n * * * * *\n\nDriving to the station, we passed for the last time by the impenetrable\nstone-wall which masked the object of all this useless longing and\neffort, and which, like all unattainable things, looked more than\never desirable on the balmy May evening we turned our backs upon\nHermanstadt. In vain my eyesight strove to penetrate the dense screen\nof flowery shrubs hiding from my view\u2014I know not what. Perhaps an old\ntemple with shattered columns, or a fountain which has ceased to play?\nMaybe an ancient statue draped in ivy, or a tombstone bearing some\nlong-forgotten name?\n\nNaught could I see but the dense-grown tops of gelder-rose and\nbird-cherry pressed tightly together, and one clustering branch of\noverblown laburnum dropping its petals in amber showers on to the road.\n\nWere you mocking me, or weeping for me, enigmatical golden flower?\nShall I ever return to gather you?\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n[Illustration: TRANSYLVANIA.]\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[84] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian\nSociety.\n\n * * * * *\n\n[Transcriber\u2019s Note: A number of typesetting errors in the original\nwhere \u2018e\u2019 and \u2018c\u2019, and \u2018u\u2019 and \u2018n\u2019 appear to have been used\ninterchangeably have been corrected without note. In addition, the\nfollowing changes have been made to this text:\n\nPage ix: Sehaguna changed to Schaguna.\n\nPage 27: su\u00e9de changed to su\u00e8de.\n\nPage 47: Engene changed to Eugene. Forgarascher changed to Fogarascher.\n\nPage 125: Gerando changed to G\u00e9rando.\n\nPage 168: Cogalnitseheann changed to Cogalnitscheanu.\n\nPage 209: Sch\u00e4sburg changed to Sch\u00e4ssburg.\n\nPage 210: Maros-Varshahely changed to Maros-Vasharhely.\n\nPage 236: Grellnan changed to Grellman.\n\nPage 281: badak changed to hadak.\n\nPage 339: Vizkana changed to Vizakna.\n\nFootnote 26: Nyagon changed to Nyagou (twice).]","title":"The Land Beyond the Forest: Facts, Figures, and Fancies from Transylvania","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":147662}