"Magyarland," volume 2 (of 2)

[Illustration:

DEFILE OF THE LOWER DANUBE. FRONTISPIECE, Vol. II.]

“Magyarland;”

BEING THE NARRATIVE OF OUR TRAVELS THROUGH THE HIGHLANDS AND LOWLANDS OF HUNGARY.

By

A Fellow Of The Carpathian Society, Author Of ‘The Indian Alps.’

[Illustration]

In Two Volumes.--Vol. II.

With Illustrations.

LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET. 1881.

[_All Rights reserved._]

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED. STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

Contents Of Vol. II.

Chapter XXIX.

Page

Pons Trajani 1

Chapter XXX.

The Heights Of The Danube 12

Chapter XXXI.

Mehadia 29

Chapter XXXII.

The Family Pedigree 43

Chapter XXXIII.

Grosswardein 57

Chapter XXXIV.

Good Friday In The Greek Church 66

Chapter XXXV.

The “Queen Of The AlföLD” 80

Chapter XXXVI.

Hermannstadt 94

Chapter XXXVII.

“The Good Old Times” 107

Chapter XXXVIII.

With The Wallachs 124

Chapter XXXIX.

The Rother Thurm Pass 135

Chapter XL.

The Greek Hermitage Of Bucsecs 146

Chapter XLI.

Westward 160

Chapter XLII.

Debreczin 172

Chapter XLIII.

The Wine Districts Of Tokay 185

Chapter XLIV.

Temples Of The Night 201

Chapter XLV.

DICKENS _alias_ “BOSCH” 215

Chapter XLVI.

The Gold Mines Of Schemnitz 227

Chapter XLVII.

The “Calvary” 239

Chapter XLVIII.

The Modern Babel 247

Chapter XLIX.

óBuda 257

Chapter L.

The Witches’ Carnival 267

Chapter LI.

Partings 276

Chapter LII.

Agram 286

Chapter LIII.

The Impaled RaïA 301

[Illustration: Going Home.]

List Of Illustrations.

Vol. II.

Full-Page Illustrations.

DEFILE OF THE LOWER DANUBE _Frontispiece_

ALL AMONG THE SHEAVES _Facing page_ 68

Small Illustrations.

Page

GOING HOME FROM MARKET vi

A Roumanian Soldier 3

A Priest Of The Greek Church 10

In The Suburbs Of Orsova 11

Island Of New Orsova In The Danube 17

Turkish Boat 28

Trajan’S Tablet 31

Wallachian Women 35

How We Journeyed To Mehadia 42

Grosswardein 62

Study Characteristic! 67

Before A Shrine In A Greek Church 72

Boat On Lake Balaton 79

A Citizen Of Szegedin 80

The MarǒS 89

Listening To The Sermon On Good-Friday At Grosswardein 92

Fishing-Boats On The Danube 93

In The Market At Hermannstadt 103

Lutheran Church At Hermannstadt 106

Fortified Church At Hiltau 109

A Transylvanian Village 113

Church Costume Of A “Saxon” MäDchen 120

Old Tower At Hermannstadt 123

Young Wallach Girl 124

Doorway Of A Wallach House 127

A Wallach Baby 134

The Transylvanian Alps 138

Belfrey Of A Wallach Church 145

Castle Of Terzburg 151

The Hermits’ Cave 157

Way-Side Figures 159

Market-Day At KolozsváR 162

“Common Objects” 258

The Pursuit Of Art Under Difficulties 263

The Blocksberg 270

The Royal Palace Of Buda 277

Our Carriage 285

Sunset On The Plains 288

In A Church At Agram 294

Ferry-Boat On The Save 295

The Impaled RaïA 310

Nearing Belgrade 311

“Magyarland.”

Chapter XXIX.

Pons Trajani.

“_Ihr Pass, meine Herren! Ihr Pass!_” cried a ferocious Roumanian official, speaking German with an unquestionably foreign accent, as we disembark from the steamer at Szörény.

It is the first time we have been asked to show our passport on the arrival at a frontier since leaving England; but we are now in Roumania, and beyond the pale of Western civilisation.

There is also a strict examination of our luggage here; and whilst these ceremonies are proceeding, numerous beggars arrive upon the scene, who whine and supplicate and show their wounds and hideous deformities, thrusting them--when the size and nature of them permit--through the bars of the gates which shut us in. There is considerable competition in the profession, and it is not easy to see which carries off the palm. There are beggars of all sorts, shapes, and sizes; beggars whose shrunk and shrivelled limbs, bound with ragged and dirty bandages, are suggestive of the malady from which _he_ suffered who lay “at the rich man’s door;” beggars with deformed hands, arms, and legs; beggars with no arms at all; whilst in the distance we catch sight of a wretched specimen of humanity, cantering along on all fours, and whining at the top of his voice, but who, with all his speed, only arrives in the nick of time to add his supplication to that of his brethren for “kreuzers, for the love of Heaven.”

Considerable delay was caused here on account of András having failed to provide himself with a passport. The necessity for his doing so had never occurred to us; but there was so much fuss and palaver made about the matter that we began to think it would either end in his being kept for a time in durance vile, or sent back whence he had come. Since the Treaty of Berlin, Roumania together with Servia has obtained its independence, and no longer owns allegiance to Turkey. The Government, however, of the former province is exceedingly afraid of Russian spies, and is also suspicious of its neighbour Austria. Its frontier regulations with regard to passports are consequently very strict.

The incident above narrated caused no small excitement amongst the bystanders. The gendarmes instantly surrounded us with their bayonets, all of whom were barbarous but handsome-looking fellows dressed in a uniform of coarse grey cloth turned up with white, and wearing black lamb’s wool caps with long peaks hanging down behind; whilst the beggars, suddenly taken off their guard, and forgetting for once their respective infirmities, entirely changed their characters. They no longer whined and wept, but spoke to each other quite cheerily in their natural voices. Arms, legs, and feet which had previously been doubled up or turned the wrong way, now assumed their legitimate position; even the man on “all fours” managed to stand upright, and peer through the gates; so great and absorbing was the interest one and all manifested in the dispute that was taking place within. At length, after much expenditure of lungs on our part, and vociferation and gesticulation on that of the Roumanian officials, we succeeded in making them comprehend the harmless and inoffensive nature of András’s vocation and the precise relation in which he stood to us as our guide, and he was permitted to accompany us across the frontier; for which act of grace I feel sure we were indebted to our having an English passport.

[Illustration]

We had already encountered a rather unpleasant episode before landing. András, thinking we might find it difficult to obtain anything to eat here, had thoughtfully laid in a little stock of cold provisions from the steward’s larder; the charge for which was so exorbitant that the two came to high words on the subject. The steward was a German, and the epithet “_Swab_,” and other opprobrious titles of a similar nature, were showered upon him by András, together with the favourite but by no means complimentary Magyar sentence, “_hunczfut a német_,” signifying “thief,” “rogue,” etc.; till, failing to make any impression upon the delinquent by these epithets, he at length appealed to the passengers, declaring before them all that as a Magyar--and here the little man drew himself up to his fullest height--he neither could nor would allow foreigners, much less an _Ángolok_, to be so imposed on. Looking over the bill we certainly did think the steward had been rather over-reaching, having not only charged three florins for a bottle of very ordinary wine, but a florin for a small quantity of biscuits, and other things after the same rate. The public exposure, however, of his exorbitant charges soon brought the recalcitrant steward to reason, who at once deducted half the amount. But the usually calm and even temper of a Magyar once aroused is not easy to subdue, and we began to fear that ere long András would get us into real difficulty, for a third _contretemps_ occurred just as we were at length leaving the custom-house.

Our intention, on arrival at Szörényi, was to hire some sort of conveyance, and, driving to the station of the Bucharest and Orsova line, to leave our luggage there, whilst we made a short excursion to Turnu Severin to see the remains of Trajan’s noblest work, the bridge across the Danube; after which, returning to the station, we purposed picking up our luggage and proceeding to Orsova by train.

The only thing on wheels visible outside the _Douane_ was an indescribably old and battered phaeton, to which a pair of small, lean horses were attached.

We were just about to enter the ancient vehicle, when the driver, in an insolent tone of voice, demanded his fare, viz., five gulden. This, of course, was also a gross imposition, and proved far too much for our guide’s present state of excitability. Finding the driver unwilling to listen to remonstrance, he wrenched the whip out of his hand, and laid it vigorously across his shoulders.

Unaccustomed to take the law into our own hands in so violent a fashion, and dreading the consequences in a country like this, we expostulated with him severely on his behaviour, informing him that if he was no longer able to keep his temper under control he must forthwith leave our service. The little man replied quite calmly, assuring us that, “with all due deference to the august _Ángolok_--his sweet master and mistress”--the mode of reasoning he had adopted in the present instance was not the result of any ebullition of temper whatsoever, but was the only method that ever had the slightest effect upon a Roumanian Jew; and his words proved correct, for our Israelitish Jehu, instead of resenting the assault as we expected, folded his hands, and in the most abject manner begged us to mount, offering to take us for two gulden thirty kreuzers, that being rather less than half the sum he had first demanded.

Contrary to our expectations, no one took the slightest notice of the assault. The delinquent was “only a Jew,” a people cruelly persecuted in Roumania, where the popular feeling against them is scarcely less marked than that which existed in England and other countries in the Middle Ages.

Our luggage deposited in the crazy vehicle, the miserable horses, regardless of holes and ruts, took us up the steep hill at a hand-gallop, during which not only we but our belongings also were more than once threatened with a serious upset.

Having, however, survived the perils and dangers of the way, and seen our _impedimenta_ safely locked up in a little cobwebby office at the station, we drove to Turnu Severin, about a quarter of a mile further down the river, where, climbing a conical mound, upon which still stands a ruined tower of undoubted Roman origin--supposed to have been built by Trajan to defend the passage of the bridge--we threw ourselves down beneath its cool shadow, and partook of our well-earned meal with very _Trojan_ appetites. Beneath us flowed the Danube, at this point more than half a mile broad; while from the “Iron Gate Pass” came the steady but peaceful roar of the cataracts, mingling with the metallic and incessant “clack, clack,” of the _cicadas_ fluttering in the bushes around us. But our leafy retreat proved rather a failure: for mosquitoes of a most venomous species made a violent raid upon us, and, our repast ended, we hastened to the banks of the river, where we were safer from their attacks.

It was just at this point that that noble structure of antiquity, Trajan’s Bridge, was erected, the length of which is said to have been three thousand nine hundred Roman feet--a Roman foot being rather in excess of that of our English measure. Beneath the surface of the water the remains of thirteen truncated piers still exist, which once supported the arches. These piers, which are situated 170 feet apart, are visible at rare intervals when the river is unusually low, seven others being covered with a sandy deposit which in the course of ages has collected round them, and which now forms hillocks in the river’s bed.

A full description of this bridge was written by Dion Cassius, who was Governor of Pannonia during the reign of Hadrian, Trajan’s successor, and who wrote the history of Rome up to the beginning of the first century. Although the greater part of this valuable history has been lost, including that portion of it which described the building of the bridge, an epitome of his writings is still extant containing a short description of this great work, in addition to which it has also been described by Merivale.

This noblest of all Trajan’s achievements, however, was not permitted to be of long duration. Built in A.D. 103, it had virtually ceased to exist in 120, having been destroyed in that year by Hadrian, in order, as he affirmed, to prevent the incursions of barbarians, who might take advantage of the bridge to cross over into the Thracian Provinces. He is, however, generally believed to have been moved to destroy it by a jealous dislike to the architect Apollodorus of Damascus, who erected Trajan’s Column at Rome, as well as the Forum Trajanum, and who when a young soldier in the Roman camp offended the dignity of the Emperor; for, soon after Hadrian’s accession to the throne, he not only overthrew this most ambitious of all Apollodorus’s works, but, on some very slight pretext, caused him to be put to death.

Little exists in the present day above the surface of the water of any interest to the ordinary observer, except the ruined walls on each side rising just above the banks, and which must originally have formed the piers from which the first arches sprang. But how even these shapeless masses of masonry link the past to the present, and bring before us, in living memory, the valour and energy of this great people!

The climate of Europe must have been much colder at that period than now; for we frequently read of Tartars and other barbarian hordes from the surrounding steppes making use of the Danube, in the second century, for the transport from one shore to the other of their infantry, cavalry, and waggons, from which it would appear that the river in winter formed a solid bridge of ice. It seldom freezes now, and even when it does so in exceptionally severe winters the ice lasts only for a very short time.

Not far from Trajan’s Bridge is a hilly promontory belonging to Servia, which stretches out into the Danube, and through which it is proposed to cut a canal to enable ships to pass down the river at low water.

After leaving the banks of the classic stream, we climbed a steep hill through a herd of formidable-looking buffaloes grazing the arid pasture on its slopes, and found ourselves in the town of Turnu Severin, a newly established Roumanian colony situated on the left bank of the river, a mile and a half from the “Iron Gate Pass,” containing extensive docks belonging to the Danube Steam Navigation Company. From this place may be seen, standing on the shore of the river, the Tower of Severus; whilst on the opposite side lies Skela-Gladova, with its Turkish fortifications, and its slender minarets rising above the walls. Twenty years ago Turnu Severin consisted of merely a few houses, but it is now growing quite an important place. On the promenade the beauty and fashion of the town are taking their early evening stroll, dressed in the very extreme of Parisian toilettes, and in skirts so absurdly tight that it is a marvel how they ever get into them; and, as we looked towards the buffaloes with their long horns and outstretched necks, between which and them there existed no fence whatever, we could not help wondering whether, in the event of one of those animals taking it into its head to run after them, the “crack of doom” would immediately supervene to release them from their bondage, or whether the fair ones would double up entirely, and succumb to the attack without making any attempt at flight. Oh, how I longed to see them run! It was evidently with great difficulty that they managed to put one foot before the other, and the simple act of walking appeared to be a laborious process--at least with anything like grace--as they shuffled along in twos and threes, prattling their soft Neo-Latin, and looking at us wonderingly with their long almond-shaped eyes.

We reach the station just as the train from Bucharest draws up to the platform, but its departure is considerably delayed, on account of a search amongst the passengers for a man who was supposed to have stolen three thousand ducats. The Roumanian gendarmes did their very best to look ferocious and important, as they stood at the door of the carriages to prevent egress, whilst others inside were endeavouring to take note of the passengers and find the delinquent, of whom a full description had been telegraphed. But whether he succeeded in eluding the search, or had travelled by some other train, no one seemed to know. At any rate the gendarmes had not the satisfaction of capturing him, and we were permitted to take our seats.

Our only fellow traveller was a Greek priest, an effeminate looking man, with long black hair, which he kept on endeavouring to twist up under his high stiff cap. As we did not know Roumanian we addressed him in Latin; but the only phrase he seemed capable of uttering in that language was “_Non intelligo_.” The priests of the Greek Church are supposed to study theology in Latin; but, as I have elsewhere said, they are very ill-educated men, and I doubt whether he knew much of either one or the other.

At Gladova there is another long delay: two ambassadors are in the train and they must needs have lunch. Extensive preparations have been made for them, and the restaurant is prettily decorated with flowers, whilst waiters in white gloves tear about madly, a young woman in a very pretty costume of red and white, who also waited on the illustrious travellers, being the only person who appeared not to have quite lost her head, and but for whom I suspect they would have had but a sorry chance of any refreshment whatever.

[Illustration]

At length we reach our destination and for the third time in the course of the day have not only to show our passports but submit to an examination of luggage.

It was our intention on arriving at Orsova to have gone to the Hotel “_König von Ungarn_;” but the station is some distance from the old town, and the only carriage we found waiting at the place of exit was harnessed to such miserably lean horses, that we could not make up our minds to get into it. Their cheeks had fallen in and their heads were like those of skeletons. Nor was this all: their flanks were bleeding either from ill-usage or friction against the rope-harness, and we could not find it in our hearts to subject the poor creatures to another journey.--So observing a few hundred yards from the station a small one-storied inn, bearing the imposing title, in colossal letters, of “Hôtel Tivoli,” we decided to make it our headquarters, at any rate for the night.

As we leave the station and walk across to the Hôtel Tivoli--which proves on nearer acquaintance to be about the size of a mouse-trap, nothing in connection with it being large but the name--the sun is setting behind the blue mountains which form the boundary of the Danube. Snake-like vapours are ascending from the river, the air is chill and so suggestive of ague that we are glad to take shelter anywhere till twilight is past. In this climate it is dangerous to be out of doors at sunset. Later in the evening, when night may be said to have fairly set in, one may go out with impunity, for then the air is again warm. It is only when the last touch of the sun’s golden finger has faded upon the highest mountain, and those blue shadows have wrapped the earth in their sombre mantle, that that peculiar chill in the air is felt which I have so frequently described, and which is so dangerous to the traveller to encounter.

[Illustration]

Chapter XXX.

The Heights Of The Danube.

A frugal supper, consisting of fish from the river and Moldavian cheese--the latter served with a plate of carraways--and, thoroughly tired out from our long day’s excitement and fatigue, we seek “nature’s sweet restorer” ere the moon had risen above the mountain tops.

As we ascend the steps leading to the creaky little balcony by which our rooms were approached, the peaks with their tree-fringed summits frowned down upon us black as Erebus, and half shut out the sky, in which here and there a star was trimming its feeble lamp.

The position of “Hôtel Tivoli” is the best thing about it after its name. Standing in the centre of a large open space covered with grass, it is consequently free from the dust with which almost everything at this time of year is smothered. It is quiet too, and here the traveller can, if he happen to be of that disposition, indulge in the “truly rural” to his heart’s content.

The following morning, after dressing--a feat accomplished under considerable difficulties, our rooms being of the most limited dimensions--we descend for breakfast to the restaurant, which, detached from the house, consisted originally of a plot of garden, but now picturesquely roofed in like a châlet, whose pillars are thickly covered with the vine from which hang grapes in thick clusters.

We are reminded of our proximity to Turkey by the deliciousness of the coffee, which, however, is scarcely better than that we have usually partaken of in many northern parts of Hungary; but it is served in small white jugs of such thick delf that they contain hardly more than the cup of Tantalus, a circumstance which causes András, who waits upon us as usual, to inquire sarcastically of our host--a Moldavian Jew--whether it is his intention to charge in the bill for the coffee or the jugs?

Sitting near us at another small table is a man with a little child on his knee, holding by a long string a pet lamb--a beautiful little creature as white as snow, covered all over like a French poodle with tiny ringlets, which glisten like spun-glass. It has a scarlet ribbon round its neck, and feeds out of the man’s hand.

Presently, having tied the fair white thing to the leg of the table, he leaves it for awhile, and, carrying the child with him, enters the hotel. It bleats plaintively, but is quite happy when, going along to where it is, I take my seat beside it.

The people of Hungary often make great household pets of these beautiful little animals, keeping them until they are full grown--when, alas! they sacrifice them on the altar of mutton.

The owner, who has been to fetch a glass of _schnaps_, now returns, and resuming his seat, holds it to the child’s lips, who greedily imbibes the fiery liquid, its little eyes watering notwithstanding. Observing my admiration of the lamb, he offers to sell it for one gulden and a half, and, had we been on our way to England, we might have purchased it; but, in prospect of a tour through the Transylvanian wilds, an elephant could scarcely have proved a greater encumbrance.

The morning is exquisitely fine, the sky violet blue, and the air fragrant with the perfume of oleanders, which are blooming just outside the enclosure. Every now and then from afar, as the breeze bears it towards us on its wing, comes the roar of the breakers of the Greben rapids, inviting us in their direction. We are to climb the majestic heights to-day, for which purpose some strong, sure-footed quadrupeds will be necessary. We have very strong misgivings, however, as to whether these will be forthcoming, but leave our useful guide to make the needful arrangements, whilst we stroll off meanwhile to the Kroncapelle, only a quarter of an hour’s walk, and a spot of great interest, being the place where, during the war of Hungarian Independence, in 1849, the sacred crown of St. Stephen was concealed. This memorable crown, superstitiously supposed to have been fabricated by angels, was for a long time kept in the “_Alba Regia_,” but was removed to the castle of Buda, where it remained until the great Moslem invasion, when it was deposited for safety in that of Presburg, at which place it reposed until the Turks were expelled from Hungary, when it was again restored to Buda. The history of this crown, from the period of its bestowal on St. Stephen in 1001 up to the seventeenth century, has been one of great vicissitude. At the time of Kossuth’s flight it was buried in a box a few feet beneath the surface of the soil by two Hungarian patriots named Fuelep and Szemere, in which place it lay in safety until 1853, when it was unearthed by a peasant; its hiding-place, some affirm, having been betrayed for the sum of 20,000 ducats by an officer who was in Kossuth’s own staff at the time of its concealment; others declaring it to have been the result of miraculous revelation. So great is the veneration of the Hungarians for this sacred relic, that they believe their beloved country cannot prosper without it, and also that it operates powerfully upon its destinies.

In commemoration of its recovery, a small octagonal chapel has been erected, in the Byzantine style, in the centre of which, surrounded by a stone balustrade, is a well, marking the precise spot where the sacred object lay concealed. Over it rests a block of marble, on which an artificial crown is placed, the counterpart of the true one; and above, suspended from the dome, a lamp hangs, which is always burning, whilst opposite the entrance is a life-size figure of the Virgin and Child, encircled with golden rays.

The chapel was shown us by a woman in a very picturesque and Oriental costume, and whose particular mission in life, apart from keeping the keys and nursing a rampagious baby, would appear to consist in driving away lean dogs from the enclosure. We were just on the point of leaving the chapel when she requested us to write our names in a ponderous book kept for the purpose. After having complied with her request we glanced through the volume, which contains the signatures of several hundred visitors, but amongst them, strange to say, we only lighted on one that appeared English, and to it were added the words, Boston, Mass.

As English persons are not given as a rule to avoid opportunities of the kind, the inference would be that even of the comparatively few who “do the Danube,” fewer still stop at Orsova, notwithstanding that this portion of the great river contains objects of real interest to the antiquary and archæologist. The entire district is, in fact, well worthy the attention, not only of the archæological student in search of historical landmarks which have survived the levelling hand of Time, but of the ordinary tourist also, who cannot but be interested in these memorials of a long-forgotten past.

An avenue of poplars leads from the chapel to the banks of the river, which are here beautifully wooded, many of the trees being festooned with the wild vine. The Danube at this spot looks precisely like a lake, being enclosed on all sides by mountains, from which no opening is visible. At their feet lies the island-fortress of New Orsova which commands the frontiers of three countries, Hungary, Wallachia, and Servia, and forms a very picturesque object with its sombre cypress trees and high mosque reflected in the water.

On the opposite side a Turkish cargo boat is struggling with the rapids, and in the foreground some men are raising their fishing net.

This island during the last hundred years has undergone various fortunes, having frequently changed from Christian to Mahomedan rule. In 1738, after a prolonged siege, it surrendered to the Osmanlis, but in 1790 was retaken by the Austrians. By the Treaty of Sistova it was again delivered up to the Turks, who finally evacuated it in favour of the Christians in 1878.

The fortress, though a heap of ruins, is still occupied by Turks, who, after the war was over, preferring to become Austrian subjects rather than return to their own country, entreated the Emperor of Austria to permit them to remain there. In this miserable place, although in the utmost squalor, no fewer than four hundred and fifty men, women, and children manage to live. The men occupy themselves in fishing, while the women and children work at gold and silver embroidery which they sell to visitors to the island, and thus eke out a scanty subsistence.

[Illustration]

Leaving the island and crossing over to the left side of the Danube, we throw ourselves on the ground beneath the shadow of a tree, and revel in the fair and stately beauty of the scene. How lovely is everything! Not a sign is there of human habitation anywhere, whilst from the wooded hills comes the not unmusical but perpetual din of myriads of locusts and living things, bearing witness that not man, but _they_ have dominion here.

Close to our feet a chameleon comes out of a hole and looks cautiously about him. Its rough, granulated skin is of the brightest green, and it measures fully ten inches from head to tail. A large metallic-looking beetle crawling along the sand attracts its attention and whets its appetite, but at this moment the chameleon’s quick ear detects the presence of foes. Turning its curious swivel eyes to the back of its head, it catches sight of us, puts up its back, and then changing colour from green to buff, bursts out all over with black spots; it does not move, but after remaining for a long time as if transfixed, stealthily returns to its hole.

On the other side of the river a long, narrow boat now comes in sight, rowed by two Turkish boatmen, whilst a third, standing at the stern, is using a pole. He wears a scarlet fez, which, creating a small speck of bright colour, is very pleasing to the eye against the background of grey mountains floating in the dreamy haze of sultry noontide. The boat hugs the shore, for there are strong eddies in mid stream even here. The river is broad and the breeze blowing from the north, but when it lulls for an instant, the song of the boatmen reaches us in peaceful and pathetic cadence.

As we sit here and watch the Danube’s majestic waves roll past, and think of the great nations to whom it has in turn belonged, Greeks, Romans, Huns, Avars, Magyars, Turks, French, and Germans, we rejoice in the fact that it has come under the sway of the Magyars once more.

It was near here that Kossuth, that ardent aspirant after political freedom, and the hero of the “War of Independence,” fleeing from his pursuers, crossed the Danube and sought protection in Turkish territory. Before crossing the frontier, he threw himself down for the last time on the soil of his beloved Fatherland for which he had risked so much and fought so hard, pressed on it a sobbing, passionate kiss, and planting his foot on Turkish territory, became, as he himself has so touchingly described it in the memories of his exile, “like a wrecked ship thrown up by the storm on a desert shore.” A Turkish officer greeted him courteously in the name of Allah, led him to a place which he had kindly caused to be prepared for him to rest in for the night, under God’s free heaven, and asked for his sword with downcast eyes, as if ashamed that a Turk should disarm a Hungarian. “I unbuckled it,” he writes, “and gave it to him without uttering a word; my eyes filled with tears, and he, wishing me sound rest, left me alone with my sorrow.

“There I stood in silent meditation on the bank--but no longer the _Hungarian_ bank--of the Danube, the waves of which were mingled with the tears of the Hungarian nation--and which, not far from me, grumbled and roared through the rocky pass of the ‘Iron Gates.’”

“I listened,” he continues, “to this roaring in rude harmony with the storm in my heart, and as I contemplated the annihilation of patriotic hopes so undeservedly extinguished, tears of indescribable grief unconsciously showered down my cheeks.”

This rhapsody from the once Supreme Dictator of Hungary may sound unmanly to the ears of the undemonstrative Briton; but these brave, lion-hearted Hungarians, whom few things daunt, love their country passionately and with a love as tender as that of woman.

It is sad to think that this brave man, who, though disappointed in his attempts at achieving a recognition of Hungary as an independent state, has yet been the means of indirectly conferring lasting benefit upon his country, should--as he describes himself--still be a wanderer, “arrived at the verge of the grave with no hope for the future, and in whose past there is no consolation.” No longer expatriated, he could return to the Fatherland if he would; but he refuses to do so, since, by its own act, it has allowed itself to be merged into the Austrian Empire.

It is gratifying at any rate to know that Kossuth found for many years, together with other Hungarian refugees of the revolutionary period, a safe and peaceful exile in Turkey. The very nation which for so many centuries was Hungary’s most deadly foe, and which, when demanded by Russia and Austria in 1849 to deliver up all those who had sought shelter in its dominions, bravely refused to surrender them.

These thoughts, naturally suggested by this particular spot, concerning the Hungarian hero, whose history has been such a mixture of triumph and humiliation, have kept us lingering too long. It is already past noon; the sun is sending fiery arrows through the topmost branches of the trees, and if we are to make for the heights to-day, it is high time we were on our way.

Back through the long rows of poplars which like sentinels appear to be keeping guard over the little chapel. Still sitting on the steps is the young woman with her baby. She smiles sweetly as we pass, then rises to unlock the door for another visitor, who, at this moment, appears at the wicket gate of the little garden surrounding the chapel.

On nearing “Hôtel Tivoli,” we observe, standing on the green-sward beneath the windows of our room, the steeds which are to carry us “over the hills and far away.” I had no hope from the first of being able to obtain such a modern luxury as a side-saddle in this old-world locality, so that I was not disappointed in that particular at all events, but I was not prepared certainly for the extraordinary arrangement which had been improvised for my especial benefit, and which András, I could see, regarded as quite a clever arrangement. Indeed it was so, and its ingenuity did him wondrous credit, but the whole thing was so droll and altogether original in its conception, that we were speechless. He had found an old wooden chair, and having broken off the legs, he placed it on the creature’s back. This was to form my seat, the _back_ of the chair being placed nearest the horse’s head by way of pummel, to which I was no doubt expected to hold on in case of need!

Having ascertained that the animal was sufficiently padded with rugs to enable it to bear this novel and elaborate erection without injury, and having seen that the girths were safe, we started in triumph, a barbarous-looking muleteer--wearing a lamb’s wool cap very like a mop, preceding us--and András, carrying a basket of the inevitable provisions--oh! that we could live on a periodical lozenge!--gravely bringing up the rear.

Passing through the ancient town we are objects of much astonishment to the natives. Women, carrying baskets and pitchers on their heads, stop to gaze at us, calling the attention of their neighbours to the strange little cavalcade, and no wonder. Others sitting at doorways run in and peep shyly at us through small dust-begrimed windows.

Orsova--pronounced Orshova, the Hungarian _s_ being invariably pronounced as in our English word “shall”--is the last Hungarian town on the Danube, and wears quite an Eastern aspect. The costumes are also entirely un-European. The women wear a long white skirt and a bodice reaching to the throat, generally embroidered with wool in a rich Oriental pattern and well-harmonised combination of green, red, blue, and orange. A broad girdle woven in the same colours encircles the waist, from which hangs a thick fringe extending to the heels. The men, however, wear mocassins, braided jackets, and loose trousers, and look as uncivilised as their surroundings. The roads, which seem to be none other than of Nature’s own making, are formed of sand and large pebbles, over which our horses stumble as they pick their way along. A wooden bridge, and a dark little cemetery as full as it can cram of iron crucifixes, bring us to the outskirts of the town, where the houses are built of unbaked brick and enclosed by strong stockades of closely-plaited withies, bristling throughout with formidable stakes sharpened to the finest point to keep away the wolves which infest this part of the country.

These stockades, which are everywhere seen in the suburbs of Orsova, and which from their thickness and strength might easily have withstood a siege in olden time, interested us immensely. They are perhaps the surviving form of those wooden palisades or hedges called _limes_, with which the Romans surrounded the frontiers of their empire, and which Spartian describes in his account of the life of Hadrian as having been composed of stakes driven into the ground and filled in so as to form a hedge or wall.

In the outskirts of the town, which extend some considerable distance, one of these stockades was being erected, the whole reminding us of the sculpture on Trajan’s Column, on which is represented the construction of the _limes_ that once united the Danube to the Rhine, from which it may be seen that the soldiers, or _riparienses_ as they were called by the Romans, on whom devolved the construction of these stockades, proceeded in their work exactly as we saw the men of Orsova do to-day, their costume even, a short white tunic tied loosely at the waist, and the peaked lamb’s wool cap, scarcely differing from that of the Roman period.

Near the mouth of the Danube the remains of a ditch and mound still exist, supposed to have been made by Trajan at the same epoch as the bridge, for the purpose of connecting the encampments of the various Legions situated along the frontier.

Arriving at the base of the mountains which bound the noble river, we see clouds hanging beneath their summits, and climbing a steep hill, pass an encampment, not, however, of Roman origin this time, but belonging to the “wandering tribe,” from which a number of spindle-legged gipsies rush out and pursue us like a troop of wild animals--_Tschorelo rom_ as they call themselves, words signifying “poor man”--and refusing to leave us, until, quite wearied by their importunity, we bestow upon them a handful of kreuzers.

The climb is steep and toilsome, but we are rewarded by the splendid views which, ever changing, burst upon us continually. On our way we pass through immense flocks of sheep tended by wild-looking shepherds, and presently hear from a distance the hoarse drone of the bag-pipes, the weird music of which seems quite in keeping with the savage grandeur of these rocky fastnesses; and listening to it as we zigzag up the slopes, the thought comes forcibly to the mind, how wonderfully pastoral music, the most primitive adaptation of harmonic sounds, which took its first lessons from Nature herself--the plaintive melody of running brooks meandering through green pastures, and the harsh roar of the mountain torrent dashing over rocks--both gives and takes character for its surroundings. How out of keeping with these stern and majestic solitudes of nature would be the gentle music of the flute, or the crude wild harmony of the bag-pipes with the calm and peaceful plains!

A little further climb, we reach a shepherd’s hut and behold the author of the “crude, wild” sounds sitting at the doorway. An uncanny-looking man, in very truth, with his feet and legs bandaged in coarse linen and tied round with thongs of leather. The hut itself was empty, his dog and bag-pipes apparently being his only companions, and probably for many months together, for these shepherds do not return to the lowlands until winter sets in, nor always even then, some leading their flocks for pasture into Bulgaria, when, as the frosts appear, it becomes scanty on these heights.

And now having reached the summit of the mountain after an ascent of two hours, we alight from our mules, thankful so far as I am concerned with any change of position, András’s impromptu saddle having proved in the using the most perfectly diabolical arrangement it is possible to conceive, and having once descended from it I inwardly determine that, come what may, nothing shall induce me to mount it again.

A good luncheon and some excellent Schiller, a wine made from grapes that grow on the hills near Orsova, go some way towards restoring our peace of body and mind; after which, descending a rocky knoll, we look down upon the Danube gliding majestically between giant precipices and walls of granite, a glorious amphitheatre of weather-beaten rock and hoary crag. As we stand almost spellbound at the grandeur of the scene, something passes over us with a “whirr,” and great stirring of the air. We must have disturbed an eagle’s nest, for an enormous fellow flies screeching across the gorge, his shrill cry echoing from rock to rock, whilst a few moments later another crosses it in the same direction.

Just above us rose a large serrated cone of granite, which F. determined to climb if possible, whilst I made a sketch of the wondrous scene surrounding us. The nest was doubtless there, and its formidable denizens no longer near, he had a great curiosity to have a peep at it.

Looking down a sheer precipice upon the river, we can trace the road which was constructed by the Hungarian Government, between Orsova and Alt-Moldova, as it winds round the rocky buttresses like a tiny thread; whilst opposite, on the Servian side, portions of the Roman road are also distinctly visible even from this dizzy height.

The wind--a mere zephyr in the valleys--blows roughly in our rocky eyrie, and comes howling and hissing against the jutting rocks with a noise similar to that which it makes when blowing in the shrouds of a ship at sea. We are verily in cloudland here. Like a diaphanous curtain drawn silently and gently by an unseen hand, now and then a cloud comes scudding past, encompassing us with mist, and which, veiling all surrounding objects, lends a strange and solemn mystery to the scene. There is something indescribably awful and sublime in our surroundings, and the stillness, in itself so infinite, is broken only by the scream of the eagles which, waking the echoes, seem but to make the silence more profound.

These lofty and solitary crags must be literally full of eagles, for as we sit in calm contemplation of Nature’s wildest and most savage forms as exhibited in the various rock masses around us, they appear to be alive with them. At one moment we count no fewer than five, either perched upon the crags or soaring in the heavens with motionless majestic wing. The eagle is the very terror of the shepherds in these heights, and numbers of their lambs fall victims yearly to the bird of prey.

I need scarcely say the climb to the eagle’s nest proved unsuccessful, for these emperors of the air choose wisely, and fix their abode in places inaccessible to the tread of man.

The shadows were lengthening when--my sketch finished--we hastened from our rocky hiding-place. Clambering over huge boulders, which in some places obstructed our exit, as if Titans had placed them there to bar these solitudes from desecration, we reached once more the peaceful green alp where we had left our horses, and found András and his companion--overcome by their fatiguing climb--lying at full length on the ground sodden in slumber, whilst the mules were grazing close by. We aroused them, eventually, and making them lead our steeds, sent them on ahead, following ourselves on foot.

Thoroughly tired, however, by the time we reach the base of the mountain, we hail the muleteers, and causing them to remove the obnoxious arrangement with which my quadruped is still equipped, and having substituted for it a folded rug, we get on magnificently. Henceforth, till we reach Orsova, we shall be passing over level ground, so that a saddle is no longer of absolute necessity to enable a somewhat practised equestrian to keep her seat, particularly on so dejected and low-spirited an animal as this.

As we enter the old town, the sun is setting and transforming its tumble-down houses into palaces of ruby gold, and bathing with rich purple shadows and vermilion lights their crazy roofs and casements. What bright pictures of semi-eastern life are seen as we proceed along our way! By the roadside is an _ágas_ at which olive-complexioned women are gossiping, dressed as on a gala day, with skirts woven in various tints in which gold thread is largely intermingled. With their gay bodices, also embroidered in gold, and their crimson head-gear, what delicious bits of colour we see everywhere, mellowed by the evening light.

Having passed the crowded cemetery, the wooden bridge, and the hot and dusty town, we dismount at our little inn, and find a snowy cloth laid in readiness for our arrival beneath the vine-covered roof of the outer restaurant. But the air is chill, and, repairing to the inner room, we eat dinner all amongst the happy peasants, who sit playing a game at cards called “_Torrok_”--a quiet, well-behaved, simple folk, whose acquaintance we are glad to make.

Sitting alone, however, at a small table near us, is a Hungarian engineer, engaged at Orsova in some public works. He at first addresses us in Magyar, and finding we cannot converse in that language, tries Spanish with better success. I on my part addressed him in German, which I feel sure, from the fact of his being in the Austrian service, he must thoroughly understand; but he only shakes his head and professes ignorance of what I am saying. How intense is the repugnance with which the Hungarians regard everything German!

Whilst sympathising with the Magyars in their very natural dislike to Austrian rule, it is to be regretted they should carry their antipathy to such lengths; for, after all, it is only “kicking against the pricks” and cannot fail in the end to widen the breach already existing in the Dual Monarchy. For a long time past, the German population, finding themselves shunned by the dominant race, have resorted to the expedient of changing their names into Hungarian form.

[Illustration]

Chapter XXXI.

Mehadia.

What a barbarous scene Orsova presents on market-day, and what a jabber there is of many tongues as the people in their varied costumes scream at the top of their voices and chaffer and haggle over their bargainings; Serbs, Turks, and Wallachians all adding their unintelligible gibberish to that of the Magyar; and gesticulating so violently whilst uttering their sharp, shrill cries that the uninitiated stranger expects each moment to see them come to blows.

Interesting as it is to the traveller from the civilised west to see these people in their strange costumes, sitting by their strange wares, it is still more interesting to watch them hurrying into the market from the surrounding villages.

Having been informed by our Moldavian host the previous evening, that this was the day on which the weekly market was held, we arose early to see them arrive with their merchandise, but on walking down to the Danube we found both river and mountains so shrouded in dense white vapour, that the bold outlines of the latter were alone visible, whilst nearer objects were scarcely recognisable even a few yards ahead.

The people, however, were flocking in, and, looming suddenly out of the semi-obscurity, appeared more like gigantic spectres than common men and women as they passed us in picturesque groups, some walking, others on horse, mule, or donkey-back, one and all clad in many-coloured garments. But besides these, from distant places on the Wallachian or Turkish banks farther down the stream, came now and then a small, crazy-looking craft, its plash heard long before it came in sight itself, laden with vegetables, fruit, fish, and sometimes a living freight of men, women, and children.

Amongst the various kinds of fish found in the river are enormous sturgeon almost as large as sharks, which are cut up and sold in slices in the market.

At ten o’clock we start for “Trajan’s-Tafel,” an excursion that will terminate our visit to Orsova. The mist, which by this time has risen above the river, still hangs amongst the lofty crags of the Kasan Pass, and adds an indescribable gloom to the narrow, but majestic defile.

Just as we arrive at that portion of the Pass, where the tablet is situated, the mist, ascending opens for an instant, and admits a shaft of sunlight, which, shining diagonally across the gorge, creates a beautiful effect of light and shade.

The form of the tablet has already been described in a previous chapter, and the following is an exact copy of the inscription:

IMP. CAESAR. DIVI. NERVAE. F. NERVA TRAJANUS. AUG. GERM. PONTIF. MAXIMUS TRIB. POT IIII. PATER PATRIAE COS. III. MONTIS L. | | AN BUS SUP AT E.

the whole being perfectly legible when viewed closely, in spite of the coating of smoke which for ages has been accumulating upon it in consequence of the Servian fishermen availing themselves of the shelter afforded by the overhanging rock to cook their food. Just as when we passed it in the steamer, a fire was still smouldering there on the present occasion, some sacrilegious boatmen having as usual made the niche their place of bivouac.

[Illustration]

On entering Orsova, after our interesting morning’s excursion, we heard voices shouting lustily, and looking behind us descried a small group of people hastening in our direction with much brandishing of sticks, and waving of hats, of which we were apparently the object. What could it all mean? Had our guide again been committing some indiscretion, and getting us into trouble?

The mystery was speedily solved; for, on turning our backs upon our pursuers and hastening in the direction of the hotel, with the determination to ignore everything and everybody, the shouts were renewed with increased vigour, and some one overtaking us seized F. by the shoulder. This apparently formidable assault, however, was committed by no unfriendly hand, being none other than that of a Magyar, with whom, together with his three companions, we had travelled in the steamer from Pest. By this time all had reached us, and there was a general greeting.

“How glad we are to meet the _Ángolok_ again! What joy,” etc., etc.,--“Where have you been, since we parted on board the ‘Szechenyi,’ three days ago? Here? In Orsova? Is it possible, and so have we, and yet we have not met. How strange!--Well, you _must_ come now we have found you, and dine with us at the König von Ungarn; we will take no denial,” exclaimed they, all speaking at the same time.

Pleased as we should have been to accept their hospitable invitation we were obliged to decline it; for yonder, shading his eyes with his hand to ascertain whether it is his “sweet master and mistress” who are coming, is András standing by a vehicle to which three horses are harnessed abreast; whilst by its side is another in which the luggage is placed in readiness for our journey, on which we should have started an hour ago. We must, therefore, partake of a hasty lunch and be off.

We have only to bid adieu to our new acquaintances for the present, however, who are consoled on discovering that by a “happy coincidence,” we are to be fellow-travellers to Temesvár, they leaving Orsova by the seven o’clock train that evening; and we joining it at Mehadia about twelve miles distant. Near it are the Hercules Baths, where we purpose spending the intervening hours, and it is a place which no one who comes to Orsova, should fail to visit.

At two o’clock we mount our chariot, and off we start as if borne on the wings of the wind, the vehicle containing András and the luggage following slowly behind.

The first portion of our drive is most exciting: the pace at which the horses go, all of them keeping step; the fierce shouts of the Wallachian driver, who half stands up as he urges them into a gallop; the continual flourishes of his whip, which he invariably terminates with a loud crack that rends the air, the clatter of our bells, and the sight of the three horses abreast--wild-looking creatures, with neither collars nor blinkers--all impress us with the idea that we ourselves must be ancient Romans, driving in a triumphal car, until an instant’s glance at the car in question dispels the illusion. It is not long, however, before the horses are permitted to assume the “regulation crawl.” A hill has to be ascended, and then we reach the valley of the Czerna, enclosed on either side by wooded mountains, with their slopes cultivated with the vine. Snowing the summits, the wild cherry and pear are seen in full bloom, whilst plum-trees of immense size growing by the roadside, shower their petals on us as we pass.

The driver, now seated calmly on the box, sings a peaceful melody to encourage his steeds and accompany the plaintive music of their bells. The gurgle of the Czerna, as it winds along, sounds cool and pleasant. On the hill-sides women are hoeing the hard, sun-baked earth, or sowing seed for the late crops; and down by the river’s bank are primitive water-mills, where the villagers grind their corn, and near which are huts surrounded by peach orchards, whose rich pink blossoms contrast gratefully with the green and brown of their immediate surroundings. By the roadside a flock of woolly long-horned sheep are browsing; and a group of peasants recline under the cool shadow of a tree. The horses’ bells jingle in sweet harmony with the torrent at our feet; but the day is hot, the sun shines fiercely on the sandy road, and the driver, giving us the reins, goes down to slake his thirst. Then on we go again till we reach a village with its church and fresco-painted tower, near which stands a priest, surrounded by a number of Wallachian urchins just out of school, wearing white tunics, and lamb’s wool caps, the very image of their elders. As at Orsova, the women here wear an outer skirt of thick fringe suspended from a broad girdle made to fit the figure, and richly woven in various colours, called an “_obreska_,” the fringe, which generally consists of two colours only--scarlet and black arranged in stripes--extending to the hem of the white under-garment. It is a kind of dress which they must find very inconvenient I should imagine when working in the fields, yet all wear it without exception, old and young alike.

The huts we now pass are enclosed by stockades stronger far than even those I mentioned as having seen in the suburbs of Orsova, some being raised to a height of more than eight or ten feet, to protect the inhabitants and their kine from the attacks, not only of wolves, but of bears also, both of which abound in this locality--the latter often doing much harm to the crops of Indian corn.

Wherever we look now women are training the vines, their picturesque costumes gleaming in the sunlight, whilst their lords may generally be seen lying under the shadow of a tree, fast asleep, and the farther we proceed, the more Eastern vegetation becomes, parasite plants festooning many of the loftier trees, with long garlands that sway in the sultry air.

[Illustration]

Coming towards us are three Wallachian women, trudging merrily along the road, and spinning as they go. How graceful they are, and what lovely faces, half Roman, half Grecian, look up at us smiling, as they pass--their fringes flying out behind them like peacocks’ fans!

Now and then we meet a whole family, consisting of two, and sometimes three generations, huddled together in one of the long country carts, from the open ladder-like sides of which hang just such gourds and leathern bottles as we read of in Scripture.

A picturesque wooden bridge crossing the Czerna now appears in sight; the valley contracts, and the mountains become more wild and precipitous. At length, nearing the village of Korabuek, we pass the ruins of a Roman aqueduct, said to have been in existence in the time of Hadrian, and believed to have originally extended from the baths of Mehadia to Orsova, in order to convey the healing waters to the latter place. There are evidences also of this aqueduct having been restored, and used by the Turks for the same purpose, a Pasha having for many years resided at Orsova, which at one period was an important Turkish citadel.

Vines now cluster close to the roadside, from the grapes of which Schiller is made--a delicate ruby-coloured wine, which, though exceedingly cheap, is good after it has been kept three years.

At last, after crossing a brand-new and gaudily painted iron bridge--so out of keeping with the ancient monuments we have passed, such a hideous deformity, so forbidding, ugly and out of tune with the poetry of its surroundings--that one marvels how it ever could have got there, we are greeted by the first glimpse of the little bathing establishment where the Romans, that bath-loving people, founded a colony, calling the place “_Ad aquas Herculi sacras_,” and its site “_ad mediam_.” From the latter, no doubt, the name of Mehadia originated.

A picturesque church, standing on an eminence at the entrance to the gorge, introduces us to this classic ground; and to our surprise, on turning a bend in the road, we find ourselves all at once surrounded by fair palaces and terraced gardens which remind us more of the “Arabian Nights,” than the ancient abode of Roman colonists. Grecian colonnades, fountains, statuary and exotic flowers and grasses, almost take our breath away, so sudden and unexpected is all this luxury in the midst of these lonely solitudes of nature.

These baths, whose discovery, as we have seen, is due to the Romans, are a very favourite resort of the Hungarians, as well as of the Serbs and Wallachians. Here, too, come the rich, luxurious, and pampered Boyards of Bucharest, who, to quote the words of one of our Hungarian friends, come annually to “boil their much-abused livers in the hot springs.”

The _Kurhaus_, a splendid structure in the Roman style, the interior of which is adorned with frescoes, contains colonnades, and beneath their shade the visitors promenade during the scorching hours of day. The most beautiful building of all, however, is the _Elizabethen Bad_.

“Here,” said our conductor, the manager of one of the bathing establishments--as he ushered us into a large apartment filled with steam, and smelling so horribly of sulphur that it might have been Tartarus itself--“Here the people step into the water, and _feel the evil being boiled out of them_!”

There are no fewer than twenty-four springs in this mountain gorge. The rocks, which, like all of this character, consist of limestone, are full of fissures from which water oozes, and beneath which singular rumbling noises are often heard. The springs are of two kinds, sulphur-thermal and alkali-saline, the former said to be the strongest in the world, the largest and hottest being that called by the Romans _Thermæ Herculis_, which bursts forth in a column half a yard in diameter, and produces no less than 5,000 cubic feet of water per hour, of the temperature of 131° Fahrenheit.

Having passed the military hospital, a large building to the left, near which is a fountain surmounted by a statue of Hercules, we ascend to the place containing the source of the spring, which bears the name of the heathen god.

Beneath an almost overhanging rock there exists what may be described as a small natural grotto or fissure, about eight feet high and three broad, on entering which, and descending a flight of rugged steps hewn in the solid rock, we reach an inner cleft filled with dense vapour, whence the stream issues forth and again disappears in the dark recesses of the earth. The air in this cavern is hot and stifling, and we are glad to emerge once more into the outer atmosphere.

Perfectly exhausted, we are endeavouring to cool ourselves on a slab of rock opposite, when the loud clatter of wheels is heard, and a carriage soon makes its appearance, in which are our Hungarian friends. Demonstrative as ever, off go the hats, accompanied by much waving of handkerchiefs and sticks so soon as they recognise us.

Unable to bear the absence of the “charming _Ángolok_” any longer, they had, they said, made up their minds to follow us here, and be our _ciceroni_. I am not at all sure we were as grateful for the attention as we ought to have been, but I trust at any rate that we looked so.

Sedate and melancholy as are the Magyars usually, they are given to great and sudden changes of temperament, their character being an admixture of habitual pensiveness and melancholy, mingled with the most child-like susceptibility to enjoyment. Like their national music, they are tender and passionate by turns, now plunged into a whirlpool of excited fury, and now into the lowest depths of melancholy and despair, but when out for a holiday they shake off dull care, and become as light-hearted as schoolboys. Knowing this locality well, they conducted us to many interesting spots, including a real robbers’ cave, situated in a romantic nook in the wooded gorge, which we might otherwise have overlooked.

Higher up, on a rock about seven or eight feet above the roadway, and not far from the source of _Thermæ Herculis_, are two votive tablets of the Roman period, on which, carved in relief, are the busts of a male and female. The features of each are still quite distinct, but we could ascertain from no one, whom they were intended to represent.

In one of the chambers of the Hercules bath, which is still used, and which remains unaltered since it was built by the Romans--a small dark room a few feet below the entrance--is a large and almost life-size figure of the deity from whom the bath is named. It is carved in relief on an immense block of stone forming one of the walls of the chamber.

* * * * *

Nothing can be more romantic than the situation of this little watering place, where nature and art alike combine to render a summer’s sojourn delightful. The pathways through the wooded gorge; the beautiful Czerna, which is here a foaming torrent clear as crystal; the hotels, with their terraced gardens bright with Grecian vases, statuary, and flowers; the gipsy-music, and interesting associations connected with the place itself; the variety of races; and above all the festivities that take place daily during the season--render it unrivalled as a resort for the idle or hypochondriac. I would, however, warn those of the stronger sex who may happen to be highly susceptible to the tender passion, to think twice ere they come, for the bewitching beauty of these daughters of Roumania and Transylvania is perfectly irresistible, and few there are, I suspect, who, after a sojourn here, could leave entirely heart-whole.

The season lasts from June till September, the one drawback being the cost of living, which, though less than that of most Hungarian baths, is nevertheless great, compared with anything of the kind in England, and I doubt if eight florins a day would cover the expenses of the visitor.

As we loiter in front of the hotel at which we have dined, waiting for our carriages to take us to the station, two miles distant, a young peasant comes to fill her pitcher at the fountain. Like the majority of Wallachian women she is very lovely, and there is a noble and unfettered grace in her dress and carriage. How well, too, her Juno-like head, adorned with gold coins, is set upon her shoulders! Standing beneath the ancient statue of the pagan god, what a model she would form for an artist!

At Mehadia station we almost lost our train, so silently did it glide up to the platform, whilst we were occupied outside the enclosure in endeavouring to effect the purchase of a very handsome “_obreska_,” worn by a young girl. It was new, and its colours brilliant and unsullied, but by no offer could she be tempted to part with it, not even by a bank note for fifty florins, which, taking out his purse, one of our Magyar friends held up to her. She only shook her head in a dignified manner, smiled, and passed on.

“Suppose she had accepted your offer,” I remarked to the Magyar who had tendered her the note.

“I knew I was safe,” was his reply. “The poorer inhabitants of these wilds scarcely know the use of money. With their cow, pig, and little flock of sheep, whose wool furnishes the material for their clothing, which they spin, weave, and dye themselves, and their plot of ground on which they grow their daily bread, what can such persons want with money? Besides, their principal circulating medium is barter;” and I could not help thinking how favourably these Wallachian peasantry, as well as the Slovaks, contrast with our own poor--a supposition that was very soon confirmed.

Twilight’s shadows had given place to night, when, after passing through a mountainous region, we entered another of those narrow gorges, so characteristic of the Carpathian chain, through the eastern portion of which we are now travelling. As we whirled along all was pitch dark; save here and there where a party of travellers, ten or twenty in number, clad in sheepskin cloaks, were bivouacking before a large fire, the flames of which, lighting up the rocky background, only made the darkness visible, and rendered the whole more weird.

This wild and rugged mountain district, however, introduces us to the fertile province of the Banát, one of the most productive districts in the world, and often spoken of as the “granary of Europe.”

Three of our Hungarians having gone with F. into a smoking carriage to offer evening incense, I was left to the companionship of the eldest of the party, a dear old Magyar of about sixty years of age, but who looked much older, his wrinkled weather-beaten face and quivering voice bespeaking eighty rather than sixty winters. There is something infinitely pathetic, not only in the voices, but in the countenances of the aged Magyars, which seem charged as with a bitter memory. Is their habitual sadness caused by the union of the beloved Fatherland with a foreign power? In many instances I am inclined to think it is.

There are three political parties in Hungary: the Liberal party, founded by Deák in 1866; the Extreme Left, which demands disrupture with Austria, and rallies under the name of Kossuth, their great revolutionary leader; and the Opposition.

My _compagnon de voyage_ belonged to the second, and, a patriot of the old school, he stigmatised the conciliatory policy of Deák as cowardly and unpatriotic. As he alluded to the political compromise of this Prime Minister the tears came into his eyes. To foreigners the Hungarians open their hearts freely, and as we were alone, he spoke without reserve. There are grumblers in every nation, but there is no doubt the Hungarians have good reason to complain.

[Illustration]

Chapter XXXII.

The Family Pedigree.

The town of Temesvár contains a population of 33,000 souls, and produces a medley that almost outdoes even Pest itself. Here are Greeks, Wallachs, Hebrews, Serbs, Croats, Bulgarians, a sprinkling of Turks, and a large proportion of Magyars. It consists of an inner town and an outer one, the former surrounded by strong fortifications. Wherever one looks there are bastions and ditches, and great guns and little guns menacing us in all directions, and seeming to dodge our movements continually. Never by any chance do we get out of the way of those guns. As we walk along the road by the side of the people’s park, there is one facing us the whole way; as _we_ turn to the left it seems to turn also. Never can I forget the expression of that one gun, which, for nearly half the day, fixed its hideous muzzle upon us like a great unblinking eye, and kept me in a state of nightmare throughout the live-long hours of slumber.

There has been good reason in the past, however, for all these hostile demonstrations; for Temesvár has twice played a very important _rôle_ in Hungarian history. The town contains but few old buildings, having been nearly destroyed during the bombardment of 1849, when a thousand shells were sent into it, and nearly every house reduced to a heap of ruins. The greatest victory gained by the Imperial army over the Hungarians was fought here under General Haynau.

The Palace, built in 1443 by John Hunyad, one of Hungary’s last kings, has been entirely restored, and is now used as a prison. At the present time Temesvár is one of the prettiest, cleanest, and brightest little towns in the whole of Hungary. The houses are new and lofty and have an Italian look, except beyond the gates where they are nearly all of one story.

The now smiling and beautiful plains surrounding Temesvár were once a huge morass infested with fevers of the most pestilential description, the whole district of the Banát at the close of the last century--up to which time it was the frequent theatre of Moslem incursion--being scarcely better than an uncultivated swamp. After the final expulsion of the Turks, however, foreigners were summoned to people this “luxuriant wilderness,” and Greeks, Bulgarians, Servians, Germans, and even French and Italians availed themselves of the invitation, till the rich alluvial prairie, hitherto unturned by the plough, was soon converted into a fertile garden. The soil yielded the most extraordinary crops, fortunes were speedily made, and some of the wealthiest Hungarian families of the present day are said to be the descendants of poor adventurers in the Banát.

The climate of this region during the summer is all but tropical, and the rich, black, loamy soil capable of producing almost any crop. Besides Indian corn, tobacco, flax, hemp, and sunflowers--from which oil is made--rice also grows in the marshy districts. Nor is cotton missing, for in one district in the Banát we recognised the pretty serrated leaf, and white, fluffy balls of the useful plant.

At Temesvár we took the train to our next destination, our lumbering old carriage coming with us on a truck.

Leaving the old town we travelled through dense forests, and passed the castle where, as the Austrians say, Görgei capitulated, but where the Hungarians, on the contrary, declare that he turned traitor to his country.

In the plains the wheat and rye are being cut, and how many sweet pictures we see! Whole families in brilliant costumes grouped round their _szekér_, or _Leiterwagen_, resting from their toil in the drowsy noontide, and some of them fast asleep. Presently we stop at a station close to a large and thickly populated village, inhabited exclusively by Bulgarian colonists. Their costume is not only distinct, but they retain their own language, and make themselves intelligible to the Hungarians by a smattering of Magyar. In a short time, arriving at Szaderlak, we find ourselves in a district peopled by a race who originally migrated from the Black Forest; almost every village we pass being denizened by a separate and distinct nationality, none of whom can understand the next. And now, leaving villages behind, we are again out on the rolling plains, with their immense herds of horses, cows, and swine. Although the various herds intermingle, they know their owners and their owners know them, and at the sound of the various horns at morn or eve, as at Fűred, they all “sort themselves” and run off helter-skelter to their own villages, which are sometimes many miles away. If the traveller make any sojourn on the Alfőld he will observe that every Sunday morning each peasant takes to his own particular quadrupeds a small quantity of salt and corn, and as soon as his form is seen approaching, when yet a mere speck in the distance, they race off to meet him, the pigs with loud and indignant squeak bringing up the rear.

As we approach the river Marős the plains are almost under water, and there are signs of inundation everywhere. How one pities the peaceful dwellers in the vicinity of these ungovernable rivers! A little further and we come to the Marős itself, winding over its shallow bed, a clear stream reflecting the sunlit sky, with the curious old boats carrying merchandise seen here and there floating calmly on its still and glassy surface. But leaving the plains behind we soon enter a beautiful valley hemmed in by lofty hills, one of which is crowned with an ancient Burg, the first of those many “peasant-fortresses” which, during the troublous times of Turkish invasion, formed a line of fortifications extending throughout this eastern portion of Hungary.

In four hours’ time we reach the plains again and come to the end of our journey. Arriving at the station, we see beyond its enclosure a white carriage and four white horses driven by a white man, waiting to take us across the green and boundless wastes to the home of András’s master, at which we are to stay some days. Casting our eyes round the whole circle of the horizon, however, we see no road whatever. Have we to cross these interminable plains hap-hazard, with nought but the sun to guide our wanderings? Nothing is visible but a long line of white cloud creeping along the ground. But leaving the station behind we soon enter the white cloud, and find that it covers a sandy track which itself forms the roadway, and before we have proceeded half a mile we feel we have swallowed a sand-bank, and, like the horses, the carriage, and the driver, become covered from head to foot with dust. There have been no inundations here at all events, for the ground is as parched as on the desert of Arabia, and instead of pitying the inhabitants of the district of the fertilising Marős, we almost envy them.

The horses gallop the whole way, and our seven miles of road are happily soon covered. In rather less than forty minutes we see through our sand-bedimmed eyes a group of _robinias_ similarly powdered, and in their midst a large one-storied building. Passing through the open gates and a long sweeping carriage drive, we come to anchor at a broad flight of steps, where, seen through the dust that has followed us even here, stands a spectre in black, who, descending the steps in question with measured stately gait, welcomes the ghosts within the carriage and assists them to alight. And we soon hear the words, “My sweet servant,” followed by “My sweet master,” as the white form of András appears, who, stooping low, kisses with deepest reverence the black spectre’s hand.

Other dark forms now appear, coming from the back premises, and there are loud acclamations at the sight of András, and a shower of “_per Kends_” (“your Graces”) falls broad-cast, as these polite people greet each other according to the approved mode of salutation amongst servants in Hungary.

As usual the mansion consists of one story only, and covers a large area. There are no passages, and each room is approached through another. The living rooms form a cluster in the centre of the building, and are connected by lofty folding-doors, all of which being open, give an appearance of space and grandeur to the whole. Although of the very simplest order in architectural design, the mansion is luxuriously furnished, and seems strangely out of keeping with its surroundings. It is heated throughout by hot air, and none of the stoves, which form such an ugly feature in German houses, are visible.

It is only above the roads that the cloud of dust I have alluded to hovers, and, our rooms looking out upon the Alfőld, we see before us a graceful landscape covered with vast stretches of Indian corn, the tall stems of which, already drooping with their ripening ears, are golden in the setting sun. Whilst dressing for dinner, which was at half-past seven, I watched from my window the great scarlet ball sink beneath the horizon, till the plains, drinking in the splendours of the sky, were as a crucible blending all the rainbow’s tints into one delicious harmony.

We found a large family party assembled at dinner: the dowager, our host’s mother, a widowed sister and her son and daughter, besides the young wife--a beautiful woman and a true specimen of Magyar, possessing those graceful and winning manners which are such a charm in all Hungarian society.

During dinner the conversation turned upon the Magyar language, and the obstacles to its acquisition which beset foreigners, the principal one arising from the fact that the prepositions and possessive pronouns instead of preceding are made to follow the noun, and become affixes to it. From this cause a whole sentence of six or seven words is sometimes capable of being expressed in one only; our hostess naïvely instancing two combinations illustrative of the lengths to which this peculiarity of the language may be carried, namely,--“_Hamegkőpenyegesittelennittehhetnélek_,” a word signifying “If I could deprive you of your clothes!” and another--“_Legellenallhatlanabbaknak-bizonyultak_”--meaning “They have proved themselves the most irresistible;” and, as she did so, she uttered these to us unpronounceable syllables with so sweet an intonation that they made us in love with the language.

To render the above peculiarity, so aggravating to foreigners, intelligible to the reader, I will give one or two examples explanatory of the construction of the language in this respect. And first, when András addresses, in the words “my sweet master” and “my sweet mistress”--“_édes uram_” and “_édes asszonyom_”--the substantive nouns are _úr_ and _asszony_, the final syllables, _am_, _om_, being merely the possessive affixes. Again, _anyá_ (mother) becomes, with the possessive pronoun _my_ affixed to it, _anyám_; whilst to instance an example in which both pronoun and preposition are used, we will take the word _haz_ (a house). _Haz-am_ (my house), followed by the preposition _ba_ (_in_, which is affixed to the pronoun), becomes _hazamba_ (in my house).

The construction of verbs too in Magyar differs so widely from that of any other European language that a perfect knowledge of it is extremely difficult to the foreigner, who seldom acquires it perfectly. The structure of the language in some measure resembles Turkish, Magyar, and Finnish, being connected with those of Mongolia and Turkestan just as English is with Persian and Sanscrit. The Magyar language is said to have undergone no changes whatever; that spoken by the Hungarians of to-day being identical with that of the Magyars on their conquest of the country. A great many Turkish, Slavonian, as well as Greek, Italian, and German words have crept in; but all those essential to express common wants are the same as in the language of the Fins at the present time.

* * * * *

The drawing-room was full of English books, some of which were translated into the Magyar language. Hungarian literature is not as yet in a very advanced stage, neither, as a rule, are the Hungarians a very reading people. They have their own novelists, but greatly prefer English authors. They do not, however, care for the “sensational,” preferring the sentimental and romantic.

In their cheap journalistic literature the kind of pabulum known as “penny dreadful” does not exist. The Hungarians of the lower class do not care to take their “horrors hot;” and such things as delight an Englishman of the same calibre fall flat upon the mental palate of a Hungarian.

There is nothing half so charming as a visit to a Magyar family. There is a well-bred ease and cordiality of manner about the Hungarians, that make the guest feel perfectly at home immediately he enters the house. There is no _géne_, and the visitor becomes instantly as one of the family circle.

The following morning, whilst the lord of the domain was closeted with his _Ispán_ (steward), we walked to some of the tenants’ cottages, accompanied by his wife. Although we went into six, I do not think we saw as many children. The Magyars seldom have large families; and so often are they childless that it is a common thing for them to adopt the child of a wandering Slovak, and bring him up as their own. There is also a great mortality amongst children on the Alfőld, the chief reason assigned being the earthen floors; their aged also being said to suffer intensely from rheumatism, from the same cause.

Surrounding these dwellings was a small garden fenced in with the dried stalks of Indian corn, and nothing could have looked more comfortable than the interior of each one, which bespoke the existence of rude plenty. Yet the inhabitants were but the cultivators of the soil, synonymous with our English labourers. On our return we passed through the farm-buildings, and were shown the stud, consisting of about twenty horses. In the adjoining coach-house were carriages of all descriptions and of the most primitive design; whilst in the centre stood one the precise nature of which it was not easy to define.

“That,” remarked our host, who had now joined us (pointing in the direction of the nondescript vehicle in question), “is the family pedigree.” And its history, narrated by himself, showed how appropriate was its title. It had in fact begun its career by being a modest species of _britzska_, but ended in becoming a house on wheels, a veritable genealogical tree.

Our host, unlike his Magyar tenantry, was blessed with a “quiverful,” having eight children, the eldest of whom numbered little more than as many years, all having arrived with the greatest punctuality like daisies and buttercups in May. When the third “hardy annual” was old enough to take his daily exercise with his parents, the _britzska_ was converted into a _barouche_. On the death of our host’s father, at which epoch the dowager took up her abode in the country château of her son, an excrescence was added to the back in the form of a “rumble,” to which the “hardy annuals” were transferred in her favour; and when the sixth arrived, our pater-familias resorted to the ingenious expedient of having the carriage closed in after the manner of a _landau_, and the hood elevated to the top after the fashion of a _banquette_ on the summit of a _diligence_. At last twins came; upon which happy occurrence two small seats were attached to the inside of the doors, which were ingeniously contrived to let up and down like a bracket.

“In this carriage,” he remarked triumphantly, when he had finished its history, his whole countenance beaming with benevolence and paternal pride, “we all travel together to Pest, where we have our winter residence.”

One can picture to one’s self the start. The host and hostess, the dowager--our host’s mother--his sister, the eight small blessings, the governess, the lady’s maid, the footman, the postilion, the six horses and the dowager’s lap-dog; in all a Noah’s Ark of twenty-three bipeds and quadrupeds!

In the early evening our host took us for a long drive across his estate, and as our way was fortunately not confined to the sandy wastes we traversed yesterday, we were not smothered with dust as on our way from the station. Never can I forget that drive, or the railway speed at which we skimmed over the level surface of the _puszta_. Railway speed! It is nothing to it--not that of Hungarian railways, at any rate. We absolutely flew on the wings of the wind. The pace at which a good team of Hungarian horses go is the most madly exciting thing possible to conceive.

The domain of our host covered a large area of _puszta_; but it was small, he assured us, compared with many, which often cover from thirty to forty square miles; whilst formerly there were instances in which some were even seven and eight hundred miles in extent. It is difficult for us, who live in our “tight little island,” to comprehend the existence of such vast estates belonging to one individual. Yet they were managed with great exactness under stewards, the labourers and their families sometimes consisting of an army of from a thousand to fifteen hundred souls. The word _puszta_, now so commonly and incorrectly applied to the great plains, originated in these estates; a nobleman’s property, which was farmed by his own labourers--that is to say, where there were no peasants, and consequently no forced labour--having been called a _puszta_. The revenues are often as enormous as the domains themselves; and the flocks that graze the land not under cultivation numbering hundreds of thousands, remind one of patriarchal times; whilst the ingatherings of wheat, rye, rape, and other cereals grown on the estate each amount to hundreds of thousands of bushels annually.

Having dined before starting, the usual dinner hour in Hungary being two o’clock, we were enabled to prolong our drive, and did not return until a late hour in the evening.

“They are dancing the _csárdás_,” exclaimed our host, as we approached a number of labourers’ dwellings and saw the red petticoats spinning round and round. “Would you like to see it? They dance it every evening; but this is evidently one got up for a particular occasion, for the girls are in full fig, and I hear the clash of spurs as the Magyar dandies knock their heels together to keep time to the scraping of the gipsies’ fiddles.”

It was a pretty scene: the rapid movements of the dancers in their gay costumes, the picturesque background of low sheds covered with the large round leaves of the melon, its tendrils hanging in graceful festoons, and its golden fruit resting on the thatch. We might have been witnessing a Spanish saraband.

The Hungarians dance for their very lives. To them the practice of the Terpsichorean art is no mere languid and graceful undulation of the figure, but a perfect wild _abandon_ of mirth; and they whirl, and spin, and gyrate with the velocity of dervishes, until their long black locks stand out straight, and their faces are ablaze with heat and excitement.

Watch them as they perform the _csárdás_--their national dance--to the strange wild harmony of the _Czigánok_! Watch them as they balance themselves backwards and forwards whilst adapting their subtle movements to the measure of its animating strains!

The _csárdás_ is essentially pantomimic, and describes by mute action the unquiet “course of true love.” The music is at first slow, and the couples walk up and down the room together in a stately manner; then, affecting to have made each other’s acquaintance, and fallen victims to the tender passion, the music grows more lively, and the “courtship” begins in earnest.

The lover advances towards his _innamorata_, she coyly responds and they spin round together for a few seconds, when, as if thinking she has given him too much encouragement, the maiden retires pouting, whereupon he again approaches, but this time she turns her back upon him and dances off in a contrary direction. Following her, however, he overtakes and seizes her round the waist, and away they go again whirling deliriously, until she manages to extricate herself from his grasp. Shy and friendly by turns, now encouraging her partner, and now retreating with offended dignity, the lover at length becomes chagrined at her caprices turns his back upon her, and they dance _dos à dos_ for a while with indignant gestures, till the maid with signs of repentance seeks reconciliation. The music grows faster and faster, the lovers, in the ecstasy of reunion, whirl and twirl madly, nor do they stop until both are quite giddy and out of breath, when, retiring from the scene, another couple takes their place, and the performance begins again.

The _csárdás_, of course, varies slightly in each instance, according to the locality and the spirit of the dancers, but the subject remains the same--love, courtship, jealousy, disappointment, reunion, and happiness “ever after.” Sometimes, in the closing scene, it winds up by the lover throwing himself on his knees before his mistress, whilst she dances round him in token of her complete triumph. Several couples are always occupied at the same time in this dance, in one phase or other of the would-be courtship; whilst the men’s hats, decorated with fresh flowers, the women got up in the most coquettish and picturesque costumes imaginable, the stamping of feet, clashing of spurs, and wildly exciting strains of the gipsies, as they saw away madly at their violins, all combine in rendering the _csárdás_ a most interesting and animating spectacle. Nor is it danced only by the peasants: it is seen in the ball-rooms of the nobles even at the capital, where a gipsy-band is always summoned to accompany it.

The most interesting place in which to witness it is the harvest-field, where, laying down their sickles, half-a-dozen of them will often stand up, as if seized by some irresistible impulse, and begin dancing all amongst the sheaves of corn.

Besides the national _csárdás_, however, there is one called the _Loshau csárdás_, a very slow dance, but it is by no means a favourite with the Magyars, who, so calm and phlegmatic in their ordinary moments, are wont during recreation to give themselves up to the wildest excitement. A third is often seen in the east of Hungary, where a number of men, linking arms, form a ring and dance together, accompanying their gyrations with clapping of hands, shouts, and stamping of feet, whilst the fair ones remain outside the magic circle, till an intrepid Adonis, breaking from his companions, seizes one of them round the waist and waltzes with her for awhile, after which he returns to the ring, and another repeats the ceremony.

But whatever be the form which the Hungarian dance assumes, its constant theme is love, just as patriotism and the joys of home are the chief subjects of their song.

[Illustration]

Chapter XXXIII.

Grosswardein.

It is nightfall at Grosswardein and the fires of sunset have faded into cold grey ashes. All along the river Kőrős the stealthy vapours, following its leaden course, are slowly rising. Shadows deepen on the plains. The gilded steeples no longer glisten in the evening light, but stand out black and sullen, like huge sentinels, against the pale green sky. Everything in nature is sad and gloomy. Within the town, however, “high carnival” is nightly kept.

The Magyars, as we have seen, possess a tinge of melancholy even in their most joyous moments. This, however, cannot be said of the Wallachs. There surely never was such a gay and pleasure-loving people; whilst in their love of dancing they far exceed even the Magyars themselves.

Hark to the sound of music! the rhythmic beat accompanied by the rapid and hollow throb of steps. Let us follow its inviting strains, away through the broad streets to the great square.

Not only here, however, is there music and dancing, but in many of the one-storied houses also. In the cafés too the _Czigánok_ are fiddling away for dear life. Inside, persons, sitting before small tables, sip their coffee and smoke like chimneys. They applaud and sip and smoke, and then smoke and sip and applaud again; whilst the streets are crowded with promenaders and cheerful with the laugh of girls.

Here and there, like moths amongst the butterflies, may be seen a group of middle-aged Wallachs or grave Magyars talking earnestly together, whispering of political complications between Russia and England, the result of the “Danube Commission,” or the rising of the bed of the river Theiss. The beauty of the Wallachs is the same as when last we were here four years ago: the delicate and refined features, the pouting lips, the broad, low forehead, the lithe figures of the women, and the deeply sunken eyes, long hair, and aquiline noses of the male descendants of the Dacians, all are the same; but the ancient costumes of the people and their characteristic traits are fast departing under the facilities which, in these modern days, are afforded for travel. The railways, extending their iron arms into the very centre of Transylvania, are gradually weaving this former _terra incognita_ into the duller web of Western civilisation, and the beautiful and graceful costumes, which so delighted us once, are day by day becoming absorbed and replaced by those Gallic abominations invented to conceal and render hideous the human form.

That monstrous article of female attire, the crinoline, which until recently was exploded by the fair sex of Western Europe, has been adopted by their Eastern sisters, and we recognise it not only beneath the skirts of the gaily dressed Jewess as her long train sweeps the streets, but under those of the Wallach lady also; whilst one peasant girl--though still dressed in her graceful, homespun garments--emulating her superiors--had her narrow but classical _katrincza_ distended to the condition of a sausage by the adoption of this hideous contrivance. We saw, I am thankful to say, only one who had thus travestied the lovely and pictorial costume of her race, but it was sufficient to demonstrate the silent march of--in this case misnamed--“civilisation,” which threatens ere long to obliterate all the distinctive external characteristics of nations and render every country alike.

Off the beaten track the Wallachs still retain the customs of their ancestors both in dress and manner of living, and after our visit to this place is ended we shall be travelling in the interior of Transylvania--of which Grosswardein is the frontier--where we shall see the Wallachs in all their delightful simplicity. It is here that the traveller is first introduced to this people in their own home, of whom, concentrated in the eastern portion of Hungary, there are almost two millions and a half. The Wallachs of Transylvania, however, must not be confounded with the dwellers in the Wallachian or Roumanian Principality, although they are off-shoots of the same race, having been in olden times the overflow of the inhabitants occupying that province. Both races now form a distinct people, although they are alike descendants of the ancient Dacians, originally a Thracian people subjugated by Trajan in his conquests already alluded to in the chapters on the Lower Danube.

The term Wallach is said to be a German version of the appellations “_Welsh_,” “_Welsch_,” “_Wallon_,” etc., given by the Teutonic conquerors to the provincials or subjects of the Roman Empire, whether in Britain, Italy, or Gaul; _Welsh_ being the word still used by the Germans in the present day to denote strangers or foreigners of whatever nation.

Naturally preferring to trace their origin to the conquering, rather than to a vanquished people, the Wallachs affect to be the descendants of the Roman colonists introduced by Trajan after his subjugation of the province, and call themselves, though incorrectly, _Roumans_, or _Rummanyi_, and their country Roumania.

The language spoken by the Wallachs, which greatly resembles in its pronunciation the Italian of to-day, is soft, rich, and melodious, and composed chiefly of Latin, with a considerable admixture of Slav, Turkish, and Greek words. That there should be such a marked Latin element in their language is certainly a singular fact, seeing that the dominion of the Romans over the Dacians extended for a period of 170 years only; a circumstance tending to foster the idea that the Wallachs _have_ some grounds for their pride of ancestry. There are, however, peculiarities about their language which prove that the origin of this people is more Dacian than Roman.

A considerable Roman element was doubtless infused into the primitive inhabitants of Dacia by inter-marriage with the numerous Roman subjects who remained behind after the Emperor Aurelian relinquished Dacia in the middle of the third century, and this would account in a great measure for the resemblance between the Wallachian and Latin languages. Until the time of Alexander, the Dacians scarcely figured in history, and their original language is consequently not accurately determined. It is, however, believed to have been Slávic, not only from the number of Sláv words mingled with their corrupt Latin, but also from the number of Slavonic names given to the rivers and mountains of Wallachia and Transylvania.

In the fifth century the Wallachs peopled Thessaly, whilst the Thracian dialect of that period is said to have borne a strong resemblance to the Neo-Latin spoken alike by the Wallach tribes of the Pindus Mountains--the remnants of the former inhabitants of Thrace--and by the so-called Roumanian people at present occupying the province of ancient Dacia.

So much does their pronunciation resemble Italian that we experienced no difficulty in understanding, or even conversing with them, particularly after having ascertained that they place the definite article at the end of their nouns, joining in fact both noun and article together. This singular construction is also found in the Bulgarian language, but, strange to say, in no other Slavonic dialect whatever, from which circumstance it is supposed that both the Bulgarians and Wallachians--whose countries join each other--must have derived this peculiarity from the same source, viz., from their north-eastern neighbours, the Dacians, whose language is believed to have been neither Neo-latin nor strictly Slavonic.

In ancient time the province of Dacia comprised a district of 1300 miles in circumference, and was bounded on the north by the Niester, on the west by the Theiss or Tibiscus, and on the south and east by the Lower Danube and Black Sea; comprising not only the mountainous country of the Eastern Carpathians, but Bukovina and the district of Banát. The population of Moldavia and Bessarabia is likewise almost exclusively of Dacian origin.

On Trajan’s Column in Rome is sculptured the history of this first campaign of the young and ambitious Emperor, and the forms, cast of features, and dress of the Dacians, as there minutely represented, correspond, strange as it may seem after the lapse of sixteen centuries, in almost every particular with those of the Wallachs of the present day.

Grosswardein, or Nagy-varád, as it is called in Hungarian, is a fortified town of Bihar, the largest county in Hungary. It contains 36,000 inhabitants, the majority of whom are Wallachs, and is, in spite of its gaiety, one of the most ecclesiastical places in Hungary, full of churches and convents. At present there are thirty of the former, whilst at one period it boasted of no fewer than seventy. It is also the see, alike of a Catholic bishop and one of the Greek rite. The suburbs of the town are very pretty, each house being surrounded by a garden and orchard, and shut in behind high walls.

[Illustration]

Like Temesvár, the town of Grosswardein is exceedingly pretty with long streets and numerous marketplaces. From the bridge which crosses the Kőrős, a good view is obtained of the town with its glittering steeples of black and gold, together with that of the new Catholic Church which, standing by the dome of the Jewish Synagogue, looks like a huge coronet of gems. On the river long rafts of pine logs from the Transylvanian forests are leisurely floating down stream, whilst women with skirts tucked up wade in the water and wash their linen, thumping away at it with a big stone, and with a vigour and perseverance as if every blow were aimed at a Turk’s or Austrian’s head.

We were walking through one of the suburbs of the town when we heard the distant sounds of bitter wailing, and a little crowd of people soon approached, in the centre of which was an old Wallach woman who, with tears rolling down her shrivelled cheeks, was evidently telling her wrongs to the group of sympathisers following in her wake. On inquiring the cause of this unusual manifestation of grief, she clasped her hands and giving vent to renewed wailings cried,

“Only a Jew, gentle lady, only for killing a Jew.”

The meaning of which unintelligible sentence the bystanders--who appeared to take no small interest in the case--explained by informing us that her husband had in a street quarrel accidentally killed one of those despised children of Israel, and that the Judge, having taken a somewhat different view from herself of the value of human life as exhibited in that particular type of humanity, had just sentenced him to condign punishment the extent of which however did not transpire.

As in all other towns in Hungary, Grosswardein is pervaded by the usual Hebrew element, and although Jews are no longer taxed as being such, but are permitted to enjoy all the rights and privileges common to the Gentile, they often find it difficult to hold their own even here against the antipathy so universally entertained against them.

All is bright and clean in this prettiest of towns save in the Hebraic quarter, which is full of marine stores where every kind of _bric-à-brac_ is to be met with, even crucifixes, in dark dens which one would fear to enter. The Jew is the same here as elsewhere, the same miserable-looking, down-trodden outcast he has continued to be ever since Pompey the Great entered the Holy City and struck the first blow at the Israelitish nation. How, even to the letter, has the prophetic curse been fulfilled in this once “chosen people”!

The _spécialité_ of the Hungarian Jew in this quarter, as in all others devoted entirely to the class, is “ole clo,” and inside their hovels are found not only dirt and muddle, but pictorial rags, whilst over the doorways are seen such names as the following, Löwenstein Jukab, Kohn Mozesne, Fűred Jőzsef, and Szép Ábrahám, and on the walls sentences are written in Hebrew characters.

The type of Hebrew physiognomy is more marked here than in other parts of Hungary, a consequence possibly of there having been less inter-marriage with the Christian community than elsewhere. Wherever we look we observe the long aquiline nose curving into the moustache, which only partially conceals the protruding lips. Now and then a fair young Miriam may be seen crossing the road and picking up a dirty little Moses who is wallowing in the mud; neither are Hagars and Ishmaels wanting, nor old Sarahs, fat, ugly, and repulsive-looking in their grease-begrimed garments.

Turning now to the Christian quarter, we see how the Gentiles flourish like a green bay-tree. Yonder stands the princely palace of the Roman Catholic bishop, whose income is 300,000 gulden, or £25,000 a year, whilst that of his Lordship of Erlan in the East of Hungary is twice that amount, and that of the Prince Primate £60,000, the revenues being derived in each case from landed estates. Surrounding the palace are beautiful gardens laid out in broad straight walks and long avenues of chestnuts, under the shade of which at eventide the Dom Herren may be seen sauntering in the cool still air. Near the palace are the houses of the residentiary canons, and opposite, the grand church built by Maria Theresa, a building so vast in its proportions that, as the doors are thrown open to admit us and we stand beneath its lofty roof, rising one hundred and twenty feet above, we almost lose our breath.

The church although built in the Doric style is cruciform, and its roof a succession of arches culminating in an immense central dome; the whole a gorgeous blaze of splendid colour, very rich and harmonious, but not adapted to inspire devotion. The Hungarian disposition is not suited to the “dim religious.” They are a people who dislike mysticism of every sort, and with a very few exceptions their churches, garish and sensuous, are better fitted for the gorgeous worship of some heathen goddess or their Pagan _Magyarok Isten_ (ancient Magyar deity) than for the pure and simple worship of Christians.

As we returned to our hotel, the sun just setting was gilding with impartial glory alike the temples of the Christian and the Jew.

Chapter XXXIV.

Good Friday In The Greek Church.

A few miles from Grosswardein lies a valley, where, surrounded by undulating tertiary hills, is a mineral spring; and thither, a few days after our arrival, we made an excursion. Our way leads us through the market, where are milk-white oxen by the score, and hundreds of black swine with long noses and high backs, surrounded by swarms of piglings, the funniest little creatures imaginable, each with its back arched like a cat, and its tiny white legs and little black hoofs looking like shoes and stockings. In the centre of the square women are selling _tisch-wein_ and hot soup thickened with macaroni, and wherever one turns there are gipsies selling baskets and wooden utensils.

Forcing our way through the vegetable baskets and the oxen and the pigs, we reach a broad road in which singular conveyances are jogging along. More strange by far than any we have yet seen in Hungary are the vehicles met with here, which, though apparently belonging to a class far above the ordinary peasant, are so different from any found in the rest of Europe, that we might have arrived at an altogether new world. Under the cool shadows of the _robinias_, which grow luxuriantly in the Alfőld--a tree in England erroneously called _acacia_, but which is the “locust tree” (_Robinia pseudacacie_) of the United States, so strongly advocated for English cultivation by Cobbet--the women stand and gossip, whilst resting their heavy burdens on the ground.

By the wayside are characteristic studies. A woman is making bricks, whilst standing beside her, smoking and languidly watching her movements, is her lord and master; for the male Wallach is a creature who loves to take life easily. A little farther on, and we see another woman hoeing away at the hard, sun-baked ground of her cottage garden, as her inferior half, sitting the while on the doorstep, nurses the baby.

[Illustration]

In this country it would seem that “women must” not only “weep,” but women must also work; whilst, by an inversion of the order of things, the men remain idle. But we are nearing our destination where there is a bathing establishment, for yonder is a broad still pool formed by the hot spring, in which, surrounded by clouds of vapour, washer-women are wading waist deep, as they hammer away at the visitors’ clothes.

It was a pretty sight that at length greeted our arrival at the Bathing Establishment, and one that reminded us of _Fêtes Champêtres_ in olden times. It is situated in the centre of large grounds, where, standing or sitting, were some two hundred people, with here and there knots of young men and maidens dancing to the inspiriting strains of a gipsy band. Beyond a number of chestnut trees, rises a densely forest-clad hill which birds make merry all day with song, and where numerous nightingales trill. There are so few woods in the Alfőld that where they exist birds congregate in great numbers.

The hotel contains eighty rooms, and the people we here see disporting themselves so gaily, and who appear so completely the reverse of invalid, are but the ordinary visitors to the Baths. The Hungarians, like the Romans, are a bath-loving people, and resort during the hot summer season to places of this kind, just as we do in England to the sea-side.

The source of the hot spring lies at the bottom of a crater-like basin, from which the water comes bubbling to the surface as from a volcano, bringing with it a quantity of small shells of two kinds containing living creatures. Looking down into the water, which is clear as crystal, we see them not only being tossed up to the surface, but lying at the bottom of the crater, as well as round its sides.

The water here forms another broad pool, the surface of which is covered in many places with the lotus (_Nymphæa thermalis_) brought from the Nile and kept alive during the winter by the high temperature of the water. It begins to blossom in the beginning of April, and was in perfection at the time of our visit.

[Illustration: ALL AMONG THE SHEAVES.]

Besides the private baths attached to the hotel, there are large public ones also outside the grounds for the poorer classes, thousands of whom flock here during the season, and parboil themselves simply for the love of it. The charge for the use of these public baths is at the rate of thirty kreuzers (tenpence) for every twenty-four hours, so that the people who resort to them may be said at all events to have plenty for their money. They come hither from great distances. Slávs from Csaba, more than fifty miles away, and others from places equally remote, and simply divesting themselves of their top boots and fur jackets, plunge into the steaming tide, the men in their long-fringed _gatyák_, full white sleeves, and embroidered waistcoats, and the women in their gay bodices and coloured skirts. It is in fact an aquatic pic-nic, for they bring their provisions with them, and take their meals in the water, occasionally even dancing the _csárdás_, whilst some of the bathers, who possess a musical turn, sit on the edge of the bath with their feet and legs dangling in the water, and play their primitive instruments or keep time with the dance by clapping their hands, amidst the ringing and bewildering shouts of the dancers. They generally remain in the bath eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, and as our cicerone informed us, all for an “_ausflug_” (outing). Every now and then as they become faint and weak from the effects of the seething, they have recourse to the outer atmosphere for a while, where, lying down on the ground, wrapped in their bundas, they remain until the cool air has revived them, when they return and again join in the aquatic festivities.

Among the new arrivals we noticed two tall, fine-looking men wearing splendid lamb’s wool cloaks, embroidered at the edges in gay colours, and others in curious blanket-cloaks like those worn by the Arabs.

It was late in the evening, and dark shadows were gathering over the plains when, leaving this singular locality behind, we directed our course homewards. From the cottages along the road now and then came the sound of the nervous little _telinka_, embroidering with fitful and fanciful variations, the hoarse snore of the bag-pipes as they droned out their wild, weird music to the night; whilst from a distance reached us the rich, deep throb of the cymbals. In many of the houses there is dancing and revelry, and accustomed as we are to the quiet and sullen habits of our own peasantry, we regard these pleasure-loving people with astonishment.

The Wallachs, like the Slovaks, belong chiefly to the Greek rite, of which there are two separate bodies, the non-united or “Oriental Greek Church,” which acknowledges the Patriarch of Constantinople as its head, and the “United Greek,” which recognises the supremacy of the Pope of Rome.

The recurrence of a high festival affords us an opportunity during the time we are here of witnessing one of the gorgeous services of the Greek Church, the splendid vestments and the imposing, and to us novel, ritual filling us with a new delight. The music was heavenly, the grand old Ambrosial chants, begun by a long-robed priest whose beard extended far below his chest, being taken up by the fresh young voices of the choir, which, welling upwards in a flood of melody, echoed through the vaulted roof.

It is impossible to give any adequate idea of the imposing ritual of the Greek Church to those who have not witnessed it, or of the apparent devotion and ecstatic adoration of the people as they prostrate themselves until their faces touch the marble floor, whilst the singing of the unseen choir seems to be that of a company of angels come down to earth to join in the Christian worship.

It was this music, the most beautiful and touching in the whole world, that melted the stern, cold heart of the Russian prince of old--the Great Vladimir himself--causing him to give up his Pagan gods, and was the indirect origin of the Greek rite becoming the national church of the northern branch of the Slavonian family.

Our visits to Grosswardein have been well-timed. On our last visit we happened to be here in the latter end of April and beginning of May, and were able to witness another, but a very different, ceremonial of these Eastern churches.

It was Good Friday. This day of penitence and fasting falls nearly a month later in the Greek calendar than in our own, and high up in the open towers of both the “United Greek” and “Oriental Greek” churches, instead of the sweet chiming of bells, men were busy with wooden clappers producing such unearthly sounds, as they kept hammering against a beam to call the faithful to worship, that, until undeceived by a friendly passer-by, we were under the full impression that giants with wooden legs were disporting themselves amongst the clock-work.

[Illustration]

Inside the “Oriental Greek” churches the banners, together with the tables on which the sacred relics reposed, were draped with black. Tall tapers burned at sombre shrines erected for the occasion in the centre of the nave, and which were approached by a pathway of trees and flowers growing in large tubs--oleanders, geraniums, roses, lilies, and a variety of other plants, too numerous to mention, but all out of keeping to our thinking, for it was anything but a pathway of flowers which _He_ trod, whose sufferings and death the people were commemorating. At the end of the long pathway was a canopy draped in violet, beneath which, on an altar, rested a silver crucifix and relics, and above a life-size figure of the Saviour hanging on the cross. Towards this men and women, both young and old, pressed reverently, and approaching the table on tiptoe lingered before it with sad faces and sometimes weeping eyes; they kissed the crucifix and relics, and dropped a coin into a bowl, and then stood and gazed again, as if reluctant to turn away; and when they did it was with steps soft and slow. Notwithstanding the immense crowd--for the great nave was as full as it could cram, there was perfect stillness and a hush almost supernatural, and our hearts were moved by the strong faith and love which the people evinced in and for the Holy Hero of the day, as they crossed themselves, and gently and sadly turned away to make room for other worshippers.

There was no sermon here to-day, for their bishop was dead; but crossing the market-place, where men and women were sitting enveloped in black sheepskin cloaks and jackets, we entered the cathedral of the “United” Greek Church, where one was being preached, and where the people were standing and listening attentively to the “old, old Story.”

* * * * *

I have travelled in many lands, but it is in Hungary alone that I have observed such intense devotion of the people. To them the religion they profess is no mere shadow, but a deep, great, and abiding reality. It is, however, principally amongst the Greek Catholics of both rites that this earnestness in devotion is seen. Although the Greek Church is in mourning and its devotees are fasting, it is the vigil of a high festival day in the Roman Catholic.

To-morrow is the first day of May, a month of rejoicing, so the churches are decorated with flowers, whilst in the streets young girls are carrying offerings to lay at the Virgin’s shrine. Following them we enter the church of the San Franciscan Friars, a gorgeous edifice all tinsel and gold, with life-size, gaudily-painted figures of the twelve Apostles, the Virgin, and the Holy Women, all so natural that they seem endowed with sound and motion. Round the ledge of the pulpit are smaller ones in almost every attitude, some of which are poised on one leg, whilst others are hanging to the cornice, all of them so marvellously life-like that as we look at them we tremble lest they should break their little necks by toppling over on to the floor of the nave below. On the sounding-board there is another crowd of puppets, no less bewildering to the devout mind; but near the north entrance hangs a figure of our Saviour upon the cross, the blue lips, the livid face, and the expression of agony all so wonderfully depicted as to be painful to look at.

As we left the church the bells were chiming and the people flocking to the “Benediction;” whilst in another part of the town devout Jews were hastening to their synagogue, for it was the beginning of their Sabbath.

Not far from the hospital of “St. John of God” a funeral passed us. First came a small boy in a white surplice and black cassock bearing aloft a gilt cross veiled in white muslin, accompanied by other small boys; after whom came the priest, followed by several men in the ancient costume of the Magyars, in light blue embroidered _mentes_ and caps of the same colour adorned with white feathers, the last of whom carried on a large white satin cushion a chaplet of flowers. Then came the bier, painted in blue and silver, and drawn by white horses draped in light blue cloth. Resting on the coffin, which was in the shape of a sarcophagus and looked as though it was made of silver, there lay at either end a beautiful wreath of flowers, the whole being covered with a white lace pall. Carriages followed, in which were ladies, but none of them were in mourning.

Meeting a gentleman we asked him whose funeral it was.

“Only that of some citizen,” he replied, and without doing more than turn his head, went on his way.

I never saw such a place as Grosswardein for clocks: almost every church steeple possesses four dials; but none of them agree as to the time, all maintaining a particular one of their own, and none of them being right!

* * * * *

May Day has come. We were awakened at five o’clock by the strains of a military band which according to ancient custom ushers in this golden morning by playing in front of the Palace of the Catholic Bishop, situated not very far from our own sylvan retreat. Everything wears a joyous appearance, even the trains, which are decked with robinia boughs, and full of holiday-makers on their way to a village a few miles from Grosswardein.

In the evening the _cafés_ are full to overflowing, and the gipsies playing in one of them such an exquisite melody as we pass that, after listening outside, we enter softly and take our seat.

Like nearly all in Hungary the _café_ in question was kept by a Jew; whose young and handsome wife sat beside us. So soon as she had ascertained that we were foreigners she sent for her four children and made them dance the _csárdás_ to the music of the gipsies, who immediately began a lively air. The children were between the ages of four and nine, and it was the prettiest and most amusing sight possible to see the little creatures now advancing, now retiring coyly, then pouting with offended dignity as, pretending to make love, they went through all the phases of the dance.

* * * * *

But to return after this digression to the period included in our present visit to Hungary. We get on “swimmingly” in our modest little quarters, and enjoying the quiet and repose which they temporarily afford us, regard them as an oasis in our travels--a brief rest in which to review our past experiences and make plans for the future. All is tranquillity until the fourth day of our residence in our little Wallach’s rustic dwelling, when her husband, who had been absent on our arrival, returned. He was much older than his “better-half,” and, were it not that the Wallachs never intermarry with the Jews, one would unquestionably have said from his general appearance that he belonged to the family of Israel.

From that moment our peace of mind grew less and less. It was quite astonishing the quantity of wine we managed to get through. Our tea also dwindled most unaccountably. I ventured to hint this to the little woman one morning, upon which, throwing her skirt over her head and bursting into tears, she exclaimed in broken accents, “_Es war immer so-o-o!_” and her sobs were quite overpowering.

What could we do but beg her to think no more about it? assuring her that it must be the cat, or the rats, or the mice, all of which are well known to have a weakness for such beverages. How could we bear to see her sweet face distorted by weeping? and peace was once more restored.

At length, our sojourn ended, the day of reckoning came. The bill, which was made out in German characters, was both exorbitant and a marvel of ingenuity. The number of eggs we managed to get through in one week would have sufficed for a banquet of Hannibal. It was surprising, too, the quantity of bread and butter we consumed; and as to our behaviour we must have been the most riotous of lodgers, for we broke three panes of glass, the backs of two chairs, and wrenched a castor off a leg of the sofa; all of which misdemeanours were charged as separate items on the bill.

It was amusing to witness András’s energy as he did battle with our miscreant host, whose wife did not appear upon the scene. It is only fair, however, to say that we saw her more than once during the stormy interview, standing behind the door bathed in tears. At length, after much expenditure of lungs, András came off victorious, the bill was settled to our entire satisfaction, and we were soon rattling over the uneven roads on our way to the station.

Here we were detained some considerable time whilst a train was leaving with a crowd of emigrants on their way to the United States. We had read that morning in a Wallach newspaper that 8000 Slovaks had also started from the north of Hungary for the same happy region, after having sold their property for a mere nothing. But our own train is ready at last, and entering the blazing Alfőld, the heat becomes almost suffocating, the sun shining fiercely as it only does on plains. The sheep-dogs pant as they throw themselves down on the parched ground; in the distant horizon, however, long bands of dark cloud, extending perpendicularly to the thirsty earth, show that a gracious rain is falling. The cattle turn their heads to face the breeze which the storm brings with it. In the marshes the tall pampas canes bow their plumes and rock to and fro, and there is a grateful smell of earth refreshed by falling showers. The water ripples in the pools, and scuds before the wind, which soon increases to a gale. The storm overtakes us and the rain comes pattering down, but it is too fierce to last; in less than an hour it passes over, and the sun shines bright as ever, whilst to our left a rainbow embraces with its splendid arch half the circuit of the plains.

In the carriage with us was a gentleman, a native of Szegedin, returning to that ill-starred city, after having been to Pest on matters connected with its rebuilding.

A thriving place of seventy thousand inhabitants, it is difficult to realise that it has virtually passed away; that interesting city memorable as being near the spot where the first Hungarian Diet under Arpád was held, and which consequently received the name of “The district of organisation;” for here, on the establishment of the Magyar camp, a grand assembly was held, composed of heads of families and the chieftains of the various tribes, and at which the political affairs of the clans were discussed, and their relative positions determined; that strange city of pure Magyars, with its mixture of races; Germans, Christianised Jews, Nazarenes, and ennobled Greeks; above all, that city of Radicals, upon which Kossuth profanely declared he would build his dynasty; the words with which he ended his memorable speech, that was the immediate cause of the civil war of 1848, being, “_De én is mondom néked: Te Szeged vagy, és ezen a kősziklán épitem fel az én egyházamat: és a pokol kapui nem vehetnek azon diadalmat._” (“And I say also unto thee that thou art Szegedin, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”)

But the foundations of that “rock” on which he was to build his dynasty--so much for the prophecies of the wisest of dictators--long undermined, have now crumbled to the dust, and Szegedin--the Szegedin that is that _he_ knew, with its one-storied houses, white gables, and long wide streets, built, one would think, on the model of the camp of the Magyar’s warlike ancestors--is now no more, and a new Szegedin is fast rising like a phœnix from its ashes, a finer and better city with nobler houses, but one that will lack much of the historical interest of the former. Active measures have already been taken for its complete restoration, and the Dual-Monarchy is endeavouring to raise a loan of ten millions of florins to be lent to the inhabitants to enable them to rebuild their unfortunate capital.

Not many years ago this ill-fated district, which has so often been the sport of nature, suffered fearfully from a severe drought which occasioned a terrible famine, and in 1863 from the ravages of cholera. In fact its dwellers have always existed on the confines of two impending calamities, which might occur at any moment--absence of rain, causing the destruction of their crops, and inundation, which might at any time not only overwhelm the surrounding country, but render their city a heap of ruins.

[Illustration]

Chapter XXXV.

The “Queen Of The AlfőLD.”

The terrible catastrophe which overtook Szegedin in the spring of 1879 must still be within the recollection of every English person. No surer destruction fell upon that other great City of the Plain than that which lately visited the “Queen of the Alfőld,”--as Szegedin was called--by an element no less omnipotent, and through whose destructive power seven thousand houses were utterly destroyed, many more rendered uninhabitable, and seventy thousand persons--the whole once thriving population--rendered homeless.

[Illustration]

The floods which converted no fewer than nine hundred English square miles of rich pasture, and tracts of land cultivated with maize, into a turbid ocean, were caused by the bursting of the dykes.

The position of Szegedin had always been a most perilous one. Situated in the centre of an alluvial plain, which lies even below the surface of the river, it was impossible not to foresee that a time might, and no doubt would, come, when the Theiss, no longer capable of being restrained by any human barrier, would gain the mastery, and the imprisoned waters by bursting through the artificial boundaries must render the condition, not only of Szegedin itself, but of all the towns and villages in its vicinity, one of extreme danger.

The greater number of the inhabitants of the unfortunate city, however, “laughed at the idea” of such a calamity befalling them, and pointed to the dykes of Percsora, which enclosed for thirty miles the windings of the river in a northerly direction, and also to that other means of defence, the dam of the Alfőld railway, which likewise afforded the city protection from the north.

But whilst the majority of its dwellers denied the probability, like men who close their minds to a distant danger and will not allow it to take possession of their senses, there were others in whose hearts there always existed a latent dread that it would not be very long before a disaster of the kind would befal them. In the vain hope of averting the calamity, the dykes were raised to keep pace with the increase of the river’s bed each year, but none--not even the most gloomy of Szegedin’s prophets, anticipated how soon Nemesis would indeed descend upon them, or how terrible a catastrophe it would bring when it at length overtook the city.

The river Theiss--the Tibiscus of the ancients--a broad and navigable river, takes its rise in the Carpathian Mountains not far from the provinces of Gallicia and Bukovina; and the inundations, which in a greater or less degree are of annual occurrence in some part or other of the Alfőld, are primarily due to the melting of the snow on the higher peaks, and the wearing away of the rocks through which the infant river passes, together with the sand it necessarily brings with it in its progress southwards, all of which cause its bed to rise slightly year by year. Flowing to meet the Theiss from the eastern frontier of Hungary come the waters of the Marős--the principal river in Transylvania, whose birth-place is in the Transylvanian Alps, and which empties itself into the Theiss at Szegedin. It was in the triangular space formed by the junction of these two great rivers, the Theiss flowing due south, and the Marős due west, that the fearful disaster occurred, the space in question being, as we have already shown, an immense alluvial plain.

Our fellow traveller, before alluded to as a native of Szegedin, spoke German fluently, and we had consequently no difficulty in conversing with him.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, referring to the fall of the city, “you see me an old man and my hair is grey, though before that time it was not so. Scarcely more than two years have passed since it happened, yet full twenty have been added to my life.”

His appearance truly bore out his words; he was one who looked prematurely old, as those do on whom some overwhelming shock has passed, and whose nervous system has no strength to rally from the blow. He had somehow a kind of scared look, and as the harrowing memory of those long nights and days came over him his face grew inexpressibly sad.

“Did you lose any friend during the floods?” we asked, not liking to cause him pain, yet at the same time unwilling to appear unsympathising in forbearing to make the inquiry.

“Yes,” he replied after a pause, sighing deeply, “yes, I lost--a _friend_,”--adding, “It was not only the loss of kith and kin--which, considering the colossal nature of the catastrophe, was comparatively small--that made shipwreck of the lives of so many of us big, strong fellows; it was the sight of the women and the children. Ah! there were scenes by the hundred occurring every day during that period that were dreadful enough to turn the hair of men far younger than I am as white as snow. Would you learn a little of the melancholy story from an eyewitness? It will make you sad, for you English have kind hearts as we in very truth experienced then.”--“Yes.”

“Well, it was on the fourth day of March that the danger began. The waters which had already inundated the surrounding country, impatient of restraint, made a wide breach in the dyke running to the north of the river, and rushed towards the one which extended to the eastern extremity of the town. From this moment the peril to the city became imminent, and measures were immediately taken to provide for the safety of other parts of the dykes, as well as to repair the ruptures already caused. Soldiers were summoned from Temesvár, and lifeboats from distant ports to rescue, in case of need, the threatened lives of the inhabitants. Every man in Szegedin worked night and day to barricade the dams, but all was vain, for after eight days’ agonising suspense, during which the water like a greedy monster continued to rise and swallow up the land, a fearful tempest of wind and rain, like a visitation from the avenging powers of Heaven, broke over the condemned city, and added to the might of the rivers.

“In the darkness of the following night, just before dawn began to break, the Alfőld dam, the very bulwark of Szegedin, gave way also, and the inundation of the town itself began. The waters burst in upon us with a roar, like that of a mighty cataract. Alarm-bells sounded to warn the citizens to flee the danger, and from that moment the scene was one of wild confusion, for all knew then that their beloved homes were doomed.

“As soon as daylight enabled those who manned the pontoons to see their way through the turbid, seething volume of water, which tore through the thoroughfares, many thousands were borne in comparative safety to New Szegedin on the opposite side of the river, but most of the poor, frightened, panic-stricken souls clung with tenacity to their homes in the vain hope that the tempest might abate and the waters subside, till they were compelled at length to take refuge on the house-tops from the cruel death that assailed them on every side. But even here they found no safety, for the foundations of their dwellings--sapped by the raging current which tore up everything before it--gave way one by one, and their houses, crumbling beneath their feet, fell with a dull crash.

“A boat having capsized, belonging to one of the rescuing parties, and all hands having perished, I volunteered to join the band. I had lost sight of my wife and children on that first terrible night, and knew not where they were, or if alive. Of the latter’s safety, however, I learnt two days after; for they had been found, and carried to a village six miles distant. It was quite impossible in those awful days of confusion and turmoil for families to keep together. Some lost their reason from the fright, whilst others--children especially--got overwhelmed and separated from their parents by the very vehemence and pressure of the crowd.

“But as I have said I was alone, and having none to care for, I joined those who went to the rescue with an aching heart, yet hoping that in this way I might chance to light upon my dear ones, and maybe save them. The shrieks of women and children were dreadful to hear above the terrific roar of waters, the deafening noise of the falling buildings, and the shouts of the rescuing parties as they poled their way along. It needed a strong, clear head, and a steady hand to steer through the floating timber and avoid the numerous objects that, collecting as they went, heaped themselves one upon another, and formed eddies and whirlpools strong enough to suck us under if we had not taken care. The piteous cries for help, too, that greeted us on every side were bewildering; sometimes we knew not to whose rescue first to go. Nor only this. Often, when we had succeeded in getting the pontoon alongside, and were just about to take a family on board, the swift current bearing down upon us with tremendous force, bringing down with it a tangled heap of household goods, with now and then a human body in the midst, would come against it, and hurl us ten or twenty yards away. My God! to hear the shrieks of the women then, as we were borne thus irresistibly away, and they knew that with us their hopes of safety vanished! The men, though, uttered not a groan, but as we left them, folded their arms as if to confront the king of terrors with a steady gaze, whilst others took the swooning women in their arms, and gently laid them down beside them, and chafed their hands and feet, as if, poor souls, it were better to bring life to them again, than to leave them to die all unconscious as they were.

“Never can I forget one poor woman who was standing alone upon some scaffolding which, with a child in her arms, she had managed to climb. Carried along by the swift current we were passing down the middle of a broad thoroughfare with fearful speed, when looking up I saw her preparing to throw herself into the surging waters under the belief that we should be able to take her into the boat. We had lost our rope, however, the pontoon having been almost swamped a moment before, and without this it would have been impossible to save her.

“‘Stay where you are,’ I shouted, ‘and wait for the next. It is your only chance of safety.’

“Tearing the child from her bosom and uttering a despairing cry she threw it down in the direction of the boat. ‘Then, save my child,’ she cried, ‘or it will fall from my grasp, my strength is gone.’

“One of my comrades caught it in his arms, and taking off his jacket he wrapped the little creature in it--it was but a mere infant--and laid it in the bottom of the boat, half dead as it seemed from long exposure to the cold.

“As night wore on the horrors of the situation increased tenfold. Complete darkness reigned. There was no gas nor light of any kind to lessen the all-pervading gloom. The waters still rose, whilst, to add to our cup of misery already more than full, another hurricane more terrific than the first burst over us and ceased not to rage till morning broke. As I sit here and look back upon that awful night I wonder how any of us survived it, so exhausted were we by hunger and fatigue.”

“But what of the child?” we enquired, interrupting him; for we were anxious to hear its fate.

“Washed away,” was the reply. “Our pontoon struck against a raft that came bearing down upon us, and upon which we ourselves had to take refuge whilst we baled the water out, for we had again been well-nigh capsized, and when we had accomplished this we found the little bundle--_Häufchen_, as our narrator called it--_gone_, washed away, though we perceived it not in the din, confusion, and difficulty consequent upon righting ourselves, for we were this time nearly made a wreck.

“Hearing the following morning from the crew of a passing boat that numbers of persons had fled to the woods on the previous day, and knowing what their fate must be, we hastened to their rescue. As the waters rose they had climbed the trees, where, exhausted by fatigue and benumbed with cold, they were dropping off the branches one by one like flies. Some few poor creatures with a harrowing scream appeared to _throw_ themselves in voluntarily to put an end to their misery, whilst others fell quietly with no sound beyond a dull, dull ‘plash’ which will haunt me to my dying day.

“We had managed to save several, and were just poling off with our human freight, when a woman floating in the water clutched violently at the boat.

“In an instant I realised the danger. She would drown us all, for we were so heavily laden that the boat was scarce above the surface of the water. Stooping I seized her hands and wrenching them off the boat I pushed her back with all my strength. She recognised and called me by my name, but it was _too late_, she sank, and was--may Heaven forgive me!--_my wife_.”

He was, alas! but one out of many, who, during this our last visit to Hungary--when men’s minds were still full of bitter recollections connected with the catastrophe--gave us a thrilling account of the fearful tragedies which occurred during that prolonged period of agony. Parents lost their children and husbands their wives, and in some instances were uncertain of their fate for weeks together, so great was the confusion that existed long after the source of the disaster had passed away.

As we listened to these sad tales, feeling thankful our own lot had been cast in a more favoured land, we were gradually nearing Arád, and it was not long ere we reached the station, when with a hearty shake of the hand the Hungarian left us for a train that would take him on to Szegedin.

* * * * *

A group of men were here engaged in the construction of a new line, and as we watched them we marvelled that anything was ever completed in this land of slow workers. Every man was smoking. Leisurely taking up a small shovel-full of earth he deposited it on the heap; then leaning on his implement he paused to take a whiff at his pipe to enable him to gather the needful strength to take up another shovel-full; after which followed another pause, and so on. These slow but strong, broad-shouldered, and muscular Hungarian navvies would soon drive an English engineer absolutely mad.

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At Arád we stay to dine, and ere we journey on again, the shadows have begun to lengthen on the plains, and peasants are returning from their toil. The pastures, which an hour ago were full of life, are now almost deserted, and by the time we see the first dim outline of the Transylvanian Alps, the sky’s deep orange has paled into citron, citron into faint green, green into pink and violet. Each moment the hills grow higher, bluer they rest their summits on the sky, and evening is falling fast. A long row of stately poplars rearing their heads aloft guard the entrance to a peaceful village, where women in short red petticoats and blue kerchiefs round their heads are driving home herds of long-haired goats. At the station men in large, high lamb’s wool caps like mops come in groups to meet their friends, greeting them with words that sound like “_Sobosh! sobosh!_” An aged “pilgrim father” descends from the train and walks across the platform leaning on his staff, his long white hair hanging in tangled masses over his shoulders. Girls bring water in classical-shaped pitchers, and hold up glasses of it to the thirsty passengers, crying “_Frisches Wasser!_” And again starting on our way we reach the Marős, a beautiful stream, bounded on either side by lofty mountains. On the spur of a rocky promontory stands what appears to be an imposing castle, but which on nearer approach proves to be one of those fortified Burgher citadels of which we shall see so many in Transylvania and which add so great an interest to that land. The sun is setting behind the loftiest peak and casting its crimson reflection into the deep and winding river, on the margin of which some fishermen, having moored their boat, are cooking their evening meal. Away, beneath the mountain summits, and behind us out in the solitary plains, long belts of fires are gleaming red. Are the people burning down the precious forests as the Wallachs are known to do in the mountains of the Danube, or are they merely those of the thoughtful husbandmen burning the useless stubble of last year’s maize?

In the marshes the frogs begin their concert, each tribe inhabiting one marsh doing its best to outdo their neighbours like “loud-contending factions;” whilst in the moist warm grasses of the surrounding plains the locusts do the same, and we are everywhere favoured with a deafening serenade.

About eight o’clock the following morning we reach Karlsburg, the fortress of which stands on a prominent hill surrounded by mountains of very singular and unquestionably volcanic origin. It is here that the gold found in the districts of Abrudbánya and Verespatak is sent to be coined. The mineral riches of Transylvania are both various and abundant, gold, silver, and nearly all the less precious metals being found in these mountains.

It is only 170 miles from Arád to Hermannstadt--our first stopping-place in Transylvania--but it takes eighteen hours to accomplish that distance, and we shall not reach the pleasant little capital till to-morrow morning if we ever do. Fortunately a gentleman with whom we travelled from a place called Radna-Lippa, and who alighted at a lonely little village containing nothing, so far as we could see in the moonlight, but a few wattled huts and a wayside shrine, bestowed upon us ere he left the carriage a bottle of old Tokay which he had brought with him for his own refection. How we blessed him afterwards for the generous gift which alone imparted the necessary strength to enable us to survive the tedium of the journey. Were I but a poet and a man I would write an ode to thee, oh, thou fragrant, topaz-coloured wine of wines, sweet, full-bodied, but never-cloying “pick-me-up,” immortal Tokay!

At length dawn comes creeping over the mountain-tops, followed by little crimson cloudlets winging their messages to man that night is over, and the toils of day must soon begin. One by one the sleepy villages awake, smoke curls upwards through the roofs of the wattled huts, and we pass a crucifix beneath which two persons are already kneeling. It is only in “Christian England” where men are ashamed to be seen praying.

It is another saint’s day. Every day would seem to be one in Hungary! “Tinkle, tinkle” go the cracked bells from the small steeples which rise above the melancholy cemeteries filled with large square ungainly mounds, one of the peculiarities of the Greek Church in this part of Hungary, for we have now entered Transylvania which constitutes its most eastern portion, “The land beyond the forest,” as its name implies. On the low wall of a hut sits a youthful shepherd playing his pastoral pipe--a simple little instrument made of a piece of green stick, whilst his swine feed below on the hard dry stalks of last year’s maize and the thistles which grow between.

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Beyond all is a glorious background of snow-clad Alps; till, arriving at a junction, at which we learn we have to wait two mortal hours for another train, we alight for breakfast, after which, lumbering on again, we enter a barren country surrounded by immense sand-hills, covered with stunted grass on which herds of buffalo are grazing.

The lowlands are white with deposits of salt, which lying upon the soil greatly