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Title: The Land Beyond the Forest

Facts, Figures, and Fancies from Transylvania

Author: Emily Gerard

Release Date: May 16, 2018 [EBook #57168]

Language: English

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OLD TOWN GATE AT HERMANSTADT (ELIZABETH
THOR).

THE

LAND BEYOND THE FOREST

 FACTS, FIGURES, AND FANCIES
FROM
TRANSYLVANIA

BY E. GERARD

AUTHOR OF
“REATA” “THE WATERS OF HERCULES” “BEGGAR MY
NEIGHBOR” ETC.

WITH MAP AND ILLUSTRATIONS

NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1888
 PREFACE.
IN the spring of 1883 my husband was appointed to the
command of the cavalry brigade in Transylvania, composed
of two hussar regiments, stationed respectively at
Hermanstadt and Kronstadt—a very welcome nomination,
as gratifying a long-cherished wish of mine to visit that part
of the Austrian empire known as the Land beyond the
Forest.
The two years spent in Transylvania were among the most
agreeable of sixteen years’ acquaintance with Austrian
military life; and I shall always look back to this time as to
something quaint and exceptional, totally different from all
previous and subsequent experiences.
Much interested in the wild beauty of the country, the
strange admixture of races by which it is peopled, and their
curious and varied folk-lore, I recorded some of my
impressions in short, independent papers, of which three
were published in Blackwood’s Magazine, one in the
Nineteenth Century, and one in the Contemporary Review. It
was only after I had left the country that, being desirous of
preserving these sketches in more convenient form, I began
rearranging the matter for publication; but the task of
retracing my Transylvanian experiences was so pleasant
that it led me on far beyond my original intention. One
reminiscence awoke another, one chapter gave rise to a
second; and so, instead of a small volume, as had been at
first contemplated, my manuscript almost unconsciously
developed to its present dimensions.
When the work was completed, the idea of illustrating it
occurred to me: but this was a far more difficult matter; for,
though offering a perfect treasure-mine to artists,
Transylvania has not as yet received from them the
attention it deserves; and had it not been for obliging
assistance from several quarters, I should have been
debarred the satisfaction of elucidating some of my
descriptions by appropriate sketches.
In this matter my thanks are greatly due to Herr Emil
Sigerus, who was good enough to place at my disposal the
blocks of engravings designed by himself, and belonging to
the Transylvania Carpathian Society, of which he is the
secretary. Likewise to Madame Kamilla Asboth, for
permission to copy her life-like and characteristic
photographs of Saxons, Roumanians, and gypsies.
I would also at this place acknowledge the extreme courtesy
with which every question of mine regarding Transylvania
people and customs has been responded to by various kind
acquaintances, and if some parts of my work do not meet
with their entire approval, let them here take the assurance
that my remarks were prompted by no unfriendly spirit, and
that in each and every case I have endeavored to judge
impartially according to my lights.
EMILY DE LASZOWSKA-GERARD.
 CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. INTRODUCTORY 1
II. HISTORICAL 6
III. POLITICAL 11
IV. ARRIVAL IN TRANSYLVANIA—FIRST IMPRESSIONS 14
V. SAXON HISTORICAL FEAST—LEGEND 25
VI. THE SAXONS: CHARACTER—EDUCATION—RELIGION 31
VII. SAXON VILLAGES 39
VIII. SAXON INTERIORS—CHARACTER 50
IX. SAXON CHURCHES AND SIEGES 62
X. THE SAXON VILLAGE PASTOR 71
THE SAXON BROTHERHOODS—NEIGHBORHOODS AND
XI. 79
VILLAGE HANN
XII. THE SAXONS: DRESS—SPINNING AND DANCING 85
XIII. THE SAXONS: BETROTHAL 94
XIV. THE SAXONS: MARRIAGE 101
XV. THE SAXONS: BIRTH AND INFANCY 111
XVI. THE SAXONS: DEATH AND BURIAL 117
XVII. THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR ORIGIN 122
THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR RELIGION, POPAS, AND
XVIII. 125
CHURCHES
XIX. THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR CHARACTER 132
XX. ROUMANIAN LIFE 139
XXI. ROUMANIAN MARRIAGE AND MORALITY 146
THE ROUMANIANS: DANCING, SONGS, MUSIC, STORIES,
XXII. 151
AND PROVERBS
XXIII. ROUMANIAN POETRY 158
XXIV. THE ROUMANIANS: NATIONALITY AND ATROCITIES 173
 XXV. THE ROUMANIANS: DEATH AND BURIAL—VAMPIRES AND 180
WERE-WOLVES
XXVI. ROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION: DAYS AND HOURS 188
ROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION—CONTINUED: ANIMALS,
XXVII. WEATHER, MIXED SUPERSTITIONS, SPIRITS, SHADOWS, 196
ETC.
SAXON SUPERSTITION: REMEDIES, WITCHES, WEATHER-
XXVIII. 207
MAKERS

SAXON SUPERSTITION—CONTINUED: ANIMALS, PLANTS,

XXIX. 212
DAYS
XXX. SAXON CUSTOMS AND DRAMAS 218
XXXI. BURIED TREASURES 229
XXXII. THE TZIGANES: LISZT AND LENAU 236
XXXIII. THE TZIGANES: THEIR LIFE AND OCCUPATIONS 242
THE TZIGANES: HUMOR, PROVERBS, RELIGION, AND
XXXIV. 253
MORALITY
XXXV. THE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER 260
XXXVI. THE TZIGANE MUSICIAN 265
XXXVII. GYPSY POETRY 273
XXXVIII. THE SZEKLERS AND ARMENIANS 279
XXXIX. FRONTIER REGIMENTS 288
XL. WOLVES, BEARS, AND OTHER ANIMALS 292
XLI. A ROUMANIAN VILLAGE 299
XLII. A GYPSY CAMP 306
XLIII. THE BRUCKENTHALS 309
XLIV. STILL-LIFE AT HERMANSTADT—A TRANSYLVANIAN CRANFORD 317
XLV. FIRE AND BLOOD—THE HERMANSTADT MURDER 326
XLVI. THE KLAUSENBURG CARNIVAL 331
XLVII. JOURNEY FROM HERMANSTADT TO KRONSTADT 339
XLVIII. KRONSTADT 348
XLIX. SINAÏA 357
 L. UP THE MOUNTAINS 364
LI. THE BULEA SEE 372
LII. THE WIENERWALD—A DIGRESSION 377
LIII. A WEEK IN THE PINE REGION 380
LIV. LA DUS AND BISTRA 388
LV. A NIGHT IN THE STINA 394
LVI. FAREWELL TO TRANSYLVANIA—THE ENCHANTED GARDEN 399
 ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Old Town Gate at Hermanstadt (Elisabeth Thor) Frontispiece
Saxon Burgher in Olden Times 9
The Thorda Spalt 19
Old Fortress-tower on the Ramparts at
23
Hermanstadt
Mounted Peasants, from the Historical
28
Procession
Saxon Peasant House 40
Old Town Gate at Hermanstadt (on the Heltau
43
side)
Michelsberg 47
Saxon Peasant at Home 51
Saxon Embroidery 53
Saxon Embroidery and Pottery 55
Fortified Saxon Church 63
Ruined Abbey of Kerz 70
Saxon Pastor in Full Dress 73
Saxon Peasant going to Work 84
Dressing for the Dance 93
Saxon Betrothed Couple 97
Archbishop Schaguna 131
Roumanian Costumes 141
Roumanian Women 143
Saxon Girl in Full Dress 221
Gypsy Type 237
A Gypsy Tinker 245
Basket-maker 247
Bear-driver 249
Gypsy Girl 258
Gypsy Mother and Child 261
Gypsy Musicians 269
Szekler Peasant 279
The Rothenthurm Pass 291
The Bruckenthal Palace 310
Baron Samuel Bruckenthal 315
Street at Hermanstadt 319
Schässburg 341
Castle of Törzburg 347
King Matthias Corvinus 355
Castle Pelesch at Sinaïa 359
The Negoi 365
The Pine Valley 381
The Cavern Convent, Skit la Jalomitza 399
Castle Vajda Hunyad before its restoration 401
MAP OF TRANSYLVANIA At end

THE LAND BEYOND THE FOREST.

 CHAPTER I.

INTRODUCTORY.
LEAVING Transylvania after a two years’ residence, I felt
somewhat like Robinson Crusoe unexpectedly restored to
the world from his desert island. Despite the evidence of my
own senses, and in flat contradiction to the atlas, I cannot
wholly divest myself of the idea that it is in truth an island I
have left behind me—an island peopled with strange and
incongruous companions, from whom I part with a mixture
of regret and relief difficult to explain even to myself.
Just as Robinson Crusoe, getting attached to his parrots and
his palm-trees, his gourds and his goats, continued to yearn
for them after his return to Europe, so I found myself
gradually succumbing to the indolent charm and the drowsy
poetry of this secluded land. A very few years more of
unbroken residence here would no doubt suffice to efface all
memory of the world we had left behind and the century in
which we live.
I remember reading in some fairy tale, long ago, of a
youthful princess who, stolen by the gnomes and carried off
into gnomeland, was restored to her parents after a lapse of
years. Their joy was great at recovering their child, but it
turned to grief when they discovered that she had grown
estranged from them, and had lost all interest in the actual
world. The sun was too bright, she said, it hurt her eyes, and
the voices of men were too loud, they scorched her ears;
and she could never feel at home again amid the restless
glitter of her surroundings.
I do not recollect how the story concludes—whether the
young lady became in time reconciled to her father’s
brilliant court, or whether she ran away and married a
gnome; but this tale somehow reminded me of my own
experiences, and I caught myself wondering whether a few
years hence, perhaps, the summons to return to the world
might not have come too late.
Parrots and palm-trees are all very well, no doubt, to fill up
the life of a stranded mariner, but it is questionable whether
it be wise to let such things absorb the mind to the extent of
destroying all taste for wider interests. Life in an island is
apt to consist too entirely of foreground—the breadth of a
panorama and the comprehensiveness of a bird’s-eye view,
only gained by constant friction with the bustling, pushing
outer world, being mostly here wanting.
Luckily, or unluckily, as one may choose to view it, the spirit
of the nineteenth century is a ghost very difficult to be laid.
A steady course of narcotics may lull it to rest for a time; but
the spirit is but stupefied, not dead; its vitality is great, and
it will start up again to life at the first trumpet-blast which
reaches from without, eager to exchange a peaceful dream
for the movement of the arena and the renewed clank of
arms.
Some such feelings were mine as I beheld the signal waving
from the ship which was to carry me back to a world I had
almost forgotten; and though I heaved a sigh of regret, and
possibly may have dropped a tear or two in secret for the
peaceful and familiar scenes I was leaving, yet I would not
have steered round the vessel to return to my island.

Not the mere distance which separates Transylvania from

Western Europe gives to it this feeling of strange isolation.
Other countries as far or farther off are infinitely more
familiar even to those who have never visited them. We
know all about Turkey, and Greece is no more strange to us
than Italy or Switzerland. But no one ever comes to
Transylvania in cold blood, unless it be some very rabid
sportsman eager for the embrace of a shaggy bear; and as
for those rushing travellers, bound for the Black Sea, who
sometimes traverse the country in hot-headed haste, they
mostly resemble the superficial swallow which skims the
surface of a placid lake, without guessing the secrets of the
blue depths below.
Situated by nature within a formidable rampart of snow-
tipped mountains, and shielded by heavy curtains of
shrouding forests against the noise and turmoil of the outer
world, the very name of Transylvania tells us that it was
formerly regarded as something apart, something out of
reach, whose existence even for a time was enveloped in
mystery. In olden times these gloomy forest gorges were
tenanted only by the solitary bear or packs of famished
wolves, while the mistrustful lynx looked down from the
giddy heights, and the chamois leaped unchecked from rock
to rock. The people who lived westward of this mountain
rampart, knowing but little or nothing of the country on the
other side, designated it as Transylvania, or the land beyond
the forest, just as we sometimes talk of the “land beyond
the clouds.”
Nothing, however, can remain undiscovered on the face of
our globe. That enterprising creature man, who is even now
attempting, with some show of success, to probe the
country beyond the clouds, has likewise discovered the way
to this secluded nook. The dense forests, once forming such
impenetrable barriers against the outer world, have in great
part disappeared; another voice is heard besides that of the
wild beasts of the wood; another breath comes mingled
along with the mountain vapors—it is the breath of that
nineteenth-century monster, the steam-engine.
This benefactor of the age, this harbinger of civilization,
which is as truly the destroyer of romance, and poetry’s
deadly foe, will undoubtedly succeed in robbing this country
of the old-world charm which yet lingers about it.
Transylvania will in time become as civilized and cultivated,
and likewise as stereotyped and conventional, as the best
known parts of our first European States—it will even one
day cease to be an island; but as yet the advent of the
nineteenth-century monster is of too recent a date to have
tainted the atmosphere by its breath, and the old-world
charm still lingers around and about many things. It is
floating everywhere and anywhere—in the forests and on
the mountains, in mediæval churches and ruined watch-
towers, in mysterious caverns and in ancient gold-mines, in
the songs of the people and the legends they tell. Like a
subtle perfume evaporating under the rays of a burning sun,
it is growing daily fainter and fainter, and all lovers of the
past should hasten to collect this fleeting fragrance ere it be
gone forever. This is what I have endeavored to do, to some
small extent, since fate for a time cast my lines in those
parts.
And first and foremost let me here explain that my
intentions in compiling this work are nowise of an ambitious
or lofty nature. I desire to instruct no one, to influence no
one, to enlist no one’s sympathies in favor of any particular
social question or political doctrine. Even had such been my
intention, I have been therein amply forestalled by others;
nor do I delude myself into the belief that it is my proud
vocation to correct the errors of all former writers by giving
to the world the only correct and trustworthy description of
Transylvania which has yet appeared. I have not lived long
enough in the country to feel myself justified in taking up
the gauntlet against the assertions of older inhabitants of
the soil, but have lived there too long to rival that admirable
self-possession which induces the average tourist to classify,
condemn, ticket, and tie up every fact which comes within
his notice, never demeaning himself to grovel or analyze,
nor being disturbed by any doubts of the reliability of his
own unerring judgment.
Whoever wishes to study the history of Transylvania in its
past, present, and future aspects, who wants to understand
its geological formation or system of agriculture, who would
thoroughly penetrate into the inextricable net-work of
conflicting political interests which divide its interior, must
seek his information elsewhere.
Do you wish, for instance, to see Transylvania as it was
some forty years ago? If so, I can confidently advise you to
read the valuable work of Mr. Paget and the spirited
descriptions of Monsieur de Gérando.
Do you want to gain insight into the geological resources of
the country, or the farming system of the Saxon peasant?
Then take up Charles Boner’s comprehensive work on
Transylvania. And would you see these Saxons as they love
to behold themselves, then turn to Dr. Teutsch’s learned
work on “Die Siebenbürger Sachsen;” while if politics be
your special hobby, you cannot better indulge it than by
selecting Mr. Patterson’s most interesting work on Hungary
and Transylvania.
If, moreover, you care to study the country “contrariwise,”
and would know what the Roumanians are utterly unlike,
read the description of them in the aforementioned book of
Mr. Boner; while for generally incorrect information on
almost every available subject connected with the country, I
am told that the German work of Rudolf Bergner cannot be
too highly recommended.
Recognizing, therefore, the superiority of the many learned
predecessors who each in their respective lines have so
thoroughly worked out the subject in hand, I would merely
forewarn the reader that no such completeness of outline
can be looked for here. Neither is my book intended to be of
the guide-book species—no sort of ornamental Bradshaw or
idealized Murray. I fail to see the use of minutely describing
several scores of towns and villages which the English
reader is never likely to set eyes upon. If you think of
travelling this way, good and well, then buy the genuine
article for yourself—Murray or Bradshaw—unadulterated by
me; or, better still, the excellent German hand-book of
Professor Bielz; while if you stay at home, can you really
care to know if such and such a town have five churches or
fifty? or whether the proportion of carbonate of magnesia
exceed that of chloride of potassium in some particular
spring of whose waters you will never taste?
All that I have attempted here to do is to seize the general
color and atmosphere of the land, and to fix—as much for
my own private satisfaction as for any other reason—certain
impressions of people and places I should be loath to forget.
I have written only of those things which happened to excite
my interest, and have described figures and scenery, such
as they appeared to me. For some of the details contained
in these pages I am indebted to the following writers: Liszt,
Slavici, Fronius, Müller, and Schwicker—all competent
authorities well acquainted with their subject. Some things
have found no place here because I did not consider myself
competent to speak of them, others because they did not
chance to be congenial; and although not absolutely
scorning serious information whenever it has come in my
way, I have taken more pleasure in chronicling fancies than
facts, and superstitions rather than statistics.
More than one error has doubtless crept unawares into this
work; so in order to place myself quite on the safe side with
regard to stern critics, I had better hasten to say that I
decline to pledge my word for the veracity of anything
contained in these pages. I only lay claim to having used my
eyes and ears to the best of my ability; and where I have
failed to see or hear aright, the fault must be set down to
some inherent color-blindness, or radical defect in my
tympanum. Nor do I pretend to have seen everything, even
in a small country like Transylvania, and every spot I have
failed to visit, from lack of time or opportunity, is not only to
me a source of poignant regret, but likewise a chapter
missing from this book.
 CHAPTER II.

HISTORICAL.
TRANSYLVANIA is interesting not only on account of its
geographical position, but likewise with regard to the
several races which inhabit it, and the peculiar conditions
under which part of these have obtained possession of the
soil.
Situated between 45° 16’ and 48° 42’ latitude, and 40° to
44° of longitude (Ferro), the land covers a space of 54,000
square kilometres, which are inhabited by a population of
some 2,170,000 heads.
Of these the proportion of different races may be assumed
to be pretty nearly as follows:
Roumanians 1,200,400
Hungarians 652,221
Saxons 211,490
Gypsies 79,000
Jews 24,848
Armenians 8,430
Some one has rather aptly defined Transylvania as a vast
storehouse of different nationalities; and in order to account
for the raison d’être of so many different races living side by
side in one small country, a few words of explanation are
absolutely necessary to render intelligible the circumstances
of daily life in Transylvania, since it is to be presumed that
to many English readers the country is still virtually a “land
beyond the forest.”
Not being, however, of that ferocious disposition which loves
to inflict needless information upon an unoffending public, I
pass over in considerate silence such very superfluous races
as the Agathyrsi, the Gepidæ, the Getæ, and yet others who
successively inhabited these regions. Let it suffice to say
that in the centuries immediately preceding the Christian
era the land belonged to the Dacians, who were in course of
time subjugated by Trajan, Transylvania becoming a Roman
province in the year 105 A.D. It remained under the Roman
eagle for something over a century and a half; but about the
year 274 the Emperor Aurelian was compelled to remove his
legions from the countries over the Danube and abandon
the land to the all-ravaging Goths.
I have only here insisted on the Dacian and Roman
occupation of Transylvania, because one or other or both of
these peoples are supposed to be the ancestors of the
present Roumanian race. The Roumanians themselves like
to think they are descended directly from the Romans; while
Germans are fond of denying this origin, and maintain this
people to have appeared in these regions at a much later
period. According to the most reliable authorities, however,
the truth would seem to lie between these two opposite
statements, and the Roumanians to be the offspring of a
cross-breed between the conqueror and the conquered—
between Romans and Dacians.
After the Roman evacuation the country changed hands
oftener than can be recorded, and the rolling waves of the
Völkerwanderung passed over the land, each nation leaving
its impress more or less upon the surface, till finally the
Magyars began to gain something of a permanent hold,
towards the eleventh century. This hold, however, was
anything but a firm one, for the Hungarian king had alike
outward enemies and inward traitors to guard against, and
was in continual fear lest some affectionate relation should
rob him of one of his crown-jewels.
To add to this, the province of Transylvania was but thinly
peopled, and ill qualified to resist attacks from without. In
view, therefore, of all these circumstances, King Geisa II.
bethought himself of inviting Germans to come and
establish colonies in this scantily peopled land, promising
them certain privileges in return for the services he
expected. Hungarian heralds began, consequently, to
appear in German towns, proclaiming aloud in street and on
market-place the words of their royal master. Their voices
found a ready echo among the people, for this promised
land was not absolutely unknown to the German yeomen,
who many of them had passed through it on their way to
and from the Crusades; besides, this was the time when
feudal rights weighed most oppressively on unfortunate
vassals, and no doubt many were glad to purchase freedom
even at the price of expatriation.
As a German poet sings:

“When castles crowned each craggy height

Along the banks of Rhine,
And ’neath the mailèd warriors’ might
Did simple burghers pine;

“When bowed the common herd of men,

Serfs to a lord’s commanding,
The holy Roman Empire then
For free men had no standing.

“Then off broke many and away,

Another country questing;
‘We’ll found another home,’ said they—
‘A house on freedom resting.

“‘Hungarian forests, wild and free,

Are refuge for us keeping;
From home and home’s dear ties will we
 Emancipate us, weeping.’”

Or in the words of another:

“We’ll ride away to the east,

Away to the east we go—
O’er meadows away,
O’er meadows so gay;
It will be better so.

“And when we came to the east,

’Neath the lofty house came we,
They called us in,
O’er meadows so gay,
And bade us welcome be.”

In thus summoning German colonists to the country, the

Hungarian monarch showed wisdom and policy far in
advance of his century, as the result has proved. It was a
bargain by which both parties were equally benefited, and
thereby induced to keep the mutual compact. The Germans
obtained freedom, which they could not have had in their
own country, while their presence was a guarantee to the
monarch that this province would not be torn from his
crown.
In the midst of a population of serfs, and side by side with
proud and overbearing nobles, these German immigrants
occupied a totally different and neutral position. Without
being noble, they were free men every one of them,
enjoying rights and privileges hitherto unknown in the
country. Depending directly from the King, they had no
other master, and were only obliged to go to war when the
monarch in person commanded the expedition. For this
reason the country inhabited by the Germans was often
termed the Königsboden, or Kingsland, and on their official
seal were engraved the words, “Ad retinendam coronam.”
The exact date of the arrival of these German colonists in
Transylvania is unknown, but appears to have been between
1141 and 1161. That they did not all come at the same time
is almost certain. Probably they arrived in successive
batches at different periods; for, as we see by history, all did
not enjoy exactly the same privileges and rights, but
different colonies had been formed under different
conditions.

SAXON BURGHER IN OLDEN TIMES.

Also the question of what precise part of the German father-
land was the home of these outwanderers is enveloped in
some obscurity. They have retained no certain traditions to
guide us to a conclusion, and German chronicles of that
time make no mention of their departure. The Crusades,
which at that epoch engrossed every mind, must have
caused these emigrations to pass comparatively unnoticed.
Only a sort of vague floating tradition is preserved to this
day in some of the Transylvania villages, where on winter
evenings some old grandam, shrivelled and bent, ensconced
behind the blue-tiled stove, will relate to the listening bairns
crowding around her knees how, many, many hundred years
ago, their ancestors once dwelt on the sea-shore, near to
the month of four rivers, which all flowed out of a yet larger
and mightier river. In this shadowy description probably the
river Rhine may be recognized, the more so that in the year
1195 these German colonists are, in a yet existing
document, alluded to as Flanderers. The name of Sachsen
(Saxons), as they now call themselves, was, much later,
used only as their general designation; and it is more than
probable, from certain differences in language, customs,
and features, that different colonies proceeded from widely
different parts of the original mother-country.
Although the Hungarian kings generally kept their given
word right nobly to the immigrants, yet these had much to
suffer, both from Hungarian nobles jealous of the privileges
they enjoyed, and from the older inhabitants of the soil, the
Wallachians, who, living in a thoroughly barbaric state up in
the mountains, used to make frequent raids down into the
valleys and plains, there to pillage, burn, and murder
whatever came into their hands. If we add to this the
frequent invasions of Turks and Tartars, it seems a marvel
how this little handful of Germans, brought into a strange
country and surrounded by enemies on all sides, should
have maintained their independence and preserved their
identity under such combination of adverse circumstances.
They built churches and fortresses, they formed schools and
guilds, they made their own laws and elected their own
judges; and in an age when Hungarian nobles could scarcely
read or write, these little German colonies were so many
havens of civilization in the midst of a howling wilderness of
ignorance and barbarism.
The German name of Transylvania—Siebenbürgen, or Seven
Forts—was long supposed to have been derived from the
seven principal fortresses erected at that time. Some recent
historians are, however, of opinion that this name may be
traced to Cibinburg, a fortress built near the river Cibin,
from which the surrounding province, and finally the whole
country, was called the land of the Cibinburg—of which,
therefore, Siebenbürgen is merely a corruption.
Transylvania remained under the dependence of the
Magyars till the year 1526, when, after the battle of Mohacs,
which ended so disastrously for the Hungarians, Hungary
was annexed to Austria, and Transylvania became an
independent duchy, choosing its own regents, but paying,
for the most part, a yearly tribute to Turkey.[1]
After something more than a century and a half of
independence, Transylvania began to feel its position as an
independent State to be an untenable one, and that its
ultimate choice lay between complete subjection to either
Turkey or Austria. Making, therefore, a virtue of necessity,
and hoping thereby to escape the degradation of a
conquered province, Transylvania offered itself to Austria,
and was by special treaty enrolled in the Crown lands of that
empire in 1691.
Finally, in 1867, when the present emperor, Francis Joseph,
was crowned at Pesth, Transylvania was once more formally
united to Hungary, and, like the rest of the kingdom, divided
into komitats, or counties.
 CHAPTER III.

POLITICAL.
IT is not possible, even in the most cursory account of life
and manners in Hungary, to escape all mention of the
conflicting political interests which are making of Austro-
Hungary one of the most curious ethnographical problems
ever presented by history. Taking even Transylvania alone,
we should find quite enough to fill a whole volume merely
by describing the respective relations of the different races
peopling the country. In addition to various minor
nationalities, we find here no less than three principal races
diametrically opposed to each other in origin, language,
habits, and religion—to wit, the Magyars, the Saxons, and
the Roumanians, whose exact numbers I have given on a
preceding page. The gypsies, whose numbers figure next in
the list after the Saxons, need not here be taken into
consideration, being absolutely devoid of all political
character; but of the other three races, each has its
individual aspirations and interests, and each a political
object in view which it pursues with dogged persistency.
The Hungarians are at present the masters of the position,
having wealth and nobility on their side, besides the reins of
government. Since the year 1867, when Hungary, having
regained her former independence with extended rights and
privileges, re-established a purely Hungarian ministry and
an independent Hungarian militia, the progress achieved in
the country, both intellectually and commercially, has been
remarkable, affording brilliant proof of what can be done by
a handful of energetic and intelligent men against a vast
majority of other races.
The total population of Hungary, rated at fifteen millions,
counts four millions only of purely Hungarian individuals; the
rest of the population is made up of Serbs, Croatians,
Roumanians, Slovacks, and Germans, all of which (if we
except the Germans, whose numbers are insignificant) are
far inferior to the Magyars in point of civilization; and here,
as elsewhere, when intelligence and wealth are supported
by energy, the right of might belonged to the Hungarians,
who have always been able to produce skilful and efficient
statesmen, knowing their own minds, and clear-sighted as
to the country’s requirements.
Those now at the helm have had the discernment from the
very outset to foresee the danger likely to arise from the
ever-increasing spirit of nationality gaining ground among
the non-Hungarian inhabitants of the soil. Two courses were
here open to them: either seeking to conciliate the various
nationalities by concessions to their pretensions; or else, by
pursuance of an inflexible policy, to sacrifice all alien
considerations to purely Hungarian interests, and impose
their own nationality on all without exception.
This latter course was the one adopted by Hungary, who for
the last ten years, introducing measures as practical as they
are far-sighted, has pursued this object with undeviating
consistency.
First of all, the Hungarian tongue was everywhere
established as the official language. In all schools, whether
of Serbs, Roumanians, or Germans, it became compulsory to
teach Hungarian; without a thorough knowledge of the
language no one was competent to aspire to any official
position; the courts of justice, even in completely non-
Hungarian districts, are held in Hungarian, and Hungarian
likewise is the word of command throughout the Honved
army. Such are the means by which the Government hopes
to effect the Magyarization of all its subjects.
But within the last few years we have beheld two new
kingdoms spring up at Hungary’s very door, Roumania and
Serbia—incentive enough to induce all Roumanians and
Serbs living in Hungary strenuously to resist this
Magyarizing influence, and inspire them with the hope of
being one day amalgamated with their more independent
countrymen. In Croatia the case is more or less the same,
for, being united by similarities of language, custom, and
religion to their Serbian neighbors, the Croats far rather
incline to assimilate with these than with the tyrannical
Magyars; while the Slovacks, continually stirred up by
Russian, Ruthenian, and Bohemian agitators, have likewise
their reasons for resistance. Add to this that the German
colonies, which, far more isolated than the races
aforenamed, can never have a serious chance of
independent existence, are yet infatuated enough to harbor
impossible visions of a union with their father-land, and
have consequently ranged themselves among the most
vehement opposers of Hungarian rule, and it will be seen
that the task which the Magyars have set themselves, of
bending all these conflicting interests to their own ends, is
indeed a stupendous one. But Hungary, in self-preservation,
could not have acted otherwise: it was for her a question of
life or death; and having the choice of becoming the
hammer or the anvil, who can blame her for choosing the
former?
Whether this portentous struggle will outlast our generation,
or find its issue within the next few years, will depend upon
outward political constellations. So much, however, is
certain, that should the Magyars be able to carry through
their system during a sufficient space of time, they will have
created a State which, by virtue of the richness of its soil,
the extent of its domains, and the vigor of its race, will have
acquired incontestable right to independent existence.
Should, however, the Oriental question, and with it the
Panslavonian one, bring about the inevitable collision of
nationalities so long foreseen; should the Balkan races begin
to agitate ere Hungary have accomplished her herculean
task—then her downfall is certain. The Magyars may,
indeed, continue to exist as a nation, but not as a State, and
their fate will be that of Poland.

While in the one half of the Austro-Hungarian empire this

system of centralizing the power and assimilating all minor
interests to the Hungarian idea is being pursued with
inflexible ardor, the Cis-Latin provinces—that is to say,
Austria proper—are being governed in diametrically
opposed fashion.
Till within a few years ago, the German language was the
official one in all Cis-Latin provinces, and Germans had there
everywhere the upperhand, as to-day the Magyars in the
Trans-Latin countries; but since the advent of Count Taafe’s
Ministry, now seven years ago, the situation has completely
changed. The present government, wishing to conciliate the
different nationalities, such as Bohemians, Poles,
Ruthenians, etc., granted to each of these the free use of its
own tongue in school and office—a concession which may
be said to mark the beginning of Austria’s decomposition.
The results of this deplorable system as yet have been that
the Germans, who in Austria form the wealthiest and most
intelligent part of the population, imbittered at finding
themselves degraded from their former position of leaders
of the State, have become the most formidable opponents
of the Government; while the minor races, only stimulated
by the concessions received, are ever clamoring for more.
The Taafe Ministry has marvellously succeeded, during the
incredibly short space of seven years, in establishing chaos
in the administration of the Cis-Latin provinces, contenting
no one, and fostering racial contentions which can have but
the most melancholy results for the stability of the empire.
Whether a State, not only composed of such heterogeneous
racial elements, but, moreover, governed by two such
diametrically opposed systems, will have strength to resist
attacks from without, who can say?—for it still remains to be
practically proved which of the two governments has chosen
the right road to success. So much, however, is certain—the
Hungarians know what they want, and pursue their
preconceived line of political action with consistent energy;
while the Austrian Government, never knowing its own
mind, is swayed at hazard by whichever of the minor
nationalities happens to have the momentary ascendancy,
and behindhand, as ever, of “an idea and of an army,” may
almost be said to deserve the definition of one of its own
statesmen,[2] of being the “land of improbabilities.”
 CHAPTER IV.

ARRIVAL IN TRANSYLVANIA—FIRST
IMPRESSIONS.
THE War Office, whose ways are dark and whose mysteries
are inscrutable, had unexpectedly decreed that we were to
exchange Galicia for Transylvania.
The unaccountable decisions of a short-sighted Ministry,
which, without ostensible reason, send unfortunate military
families rolling about the empire like gigantic foot-balls—
from Hungary to Poland, down to Croatia, and up again to
Bohemia, all in one breath—too often burst on hapless
German ménages like a devastating bomb, bringing moans
and curses, tears and hysterics, in their train, according as
the sufferer happens to be of choleric or lachrymose
temperament. Only those who have lived in this country,
and tasted of the bitter-sweets of Austrian military life, can
tell how formidable it is to be forced to pack up everything—
literally everything, from your stoutest kitchen-chairs to
your daintiest egg-shell china—half a dozen times during an
equal number of years.
For my own part, however—and I am aware that I am
considered singular in my views—I had little objection to
being treated in this sportive fashion, as long as it gave me
the opportunity of seeing fresh scenes and different types of
people. There are two sides to every question, a silver—or
at least a tin-foil—lining to every leaden cloud, and it is
surely wiser to regard one’s self as a tourist than as an
exile?
What if crockery perish and mirrors be shivered in the
portentous flitting? Dry your eyes, and console yourself by
gazing at mountains new and lakes unknown. And if
furniture be annihilated, and your grand piano-forte reduced
to a wailing discord, what of that? Such loss is only gain, for
in return you will hear the music of unknown tongues and
the murmur of strange waters. If the proceeding be often
illogical, the change is always welcome; and on this
particular occasion I secretly blessed the playful impetus
which had sent our ball of fate thus high up in the air, to
alight again in the land beyond the forest.
It was in the beginning of April that we started on our
journey, and in Galicia we left everything still deep in ice
and snow; but scarce had we passed the Hungarian frontier,
and got down on to the broad plains, when a warm, genial
breeze came to meet us and tell us that winter was gone.
The snow left us by degrees, and with it the poverty-
stricken, careworn expression peculiar to Poland; spring
flowers ventured out of their hiding-places, singly at first,
then in groups of twos and threes, till they grew to
extensive patches of gold or sapphire blue, pressing up to
the rails on either side of our way. Greasy kaftans began to
give place to sheepskin bundas, and pointed mustaches
became more numerous than corkscrew ringlets. The air
seemed full of joyous music—the voice of the lark and the
strains of a gypsy fiddler alternately taking up the song of
triumph over the return of spring.
The railway communications are very badly managed, so
that it was only on the evening of the second day (fully
forty-eight hours) that we arrived at Klausenburg, where we
were to stop for a night’s rest. It would hardly have taken
longer to go from Lemberg to London.
Coming from the Hungarian plains, the entrance into
Transylvania is very striking, as the train dashes along
narrow winding valleys, where, below, a green mountain
torrent is breaking over gray bowlders; and above, the cliffs
are piled up so high and so near that only by craning our
necks out of the carriage-window can we catch a glimpse of
the sky above. Unfortunately, the early darkness had set in
long before we reached Klausenburg, so that I had no
opportunity of observing the country immediately round the
town.
Fresh from Polish hotels as we were, the inn where rooms
had been secured struck us as well kept and appointed,
though I dare say that had we come from Vienna or Paris it
would have appeared just fairly second-rate. The beds were
excellent, the rooms clean; the doors could actually be
locked or bolted without superhuman effort; the bells could
really ring, and what was stranger yet, their summons was
occasionally attended to.
I was somewhat disappointed next morning when daylight
came round again and showed me the environs of the town.
Pretty enough, but tame and insignificant, with nothing of
the sublime grandeur which the entrance into the land had
led me to expect. The town itself differed but little from
many other Hungarian towns I had seen before, and had
indeed an exclusively Hungarian character, being the winter
resort of the Magyar aristocracy of Transylvania.
The present town of Klausenburg, or, in Hungarian, Kolosvar,
lying three hundred and thirty-five metres above the sea-
level, and built on the site of Napoca, a Roman city, was
founded by German colonists about the year 1270-1272,
and was for many years exclusively a German town, where
Hungarians were only tolerated on sufferance and in one
restricted quarter. By degrees, however, these latter
obtained a preponderance; and finally, when the Unitarian
sect made of Klausenburg its principal seat, the Saxons
withdrew in disgust from the place altogether.
In the year 1658, Klausenburg was besieged by the Tartars.
The Turkish Sultan having deposed George Rakoczy II. for
acting against his will, sent hither the barbarians to
devastate the land. Burning and pillaging, the wild hordes
reached Klausenburg (then a Saxon city), and standing
before its closed gates, they demanded a ransom of thirty
thousand thalers for sparing the town.
Martin Auer, the Klausenburg judge and a brave Saxon man,
went out to meet the enemy with a portion of the required
money. The Tartars threatened to murder him for not
bringing the whole of what they asked, but Auer divined that
not even the payment of the entire thirty thousand thalers
would save the town from pillage. The Tartars intended to
take the sum, and then to sack the city. So he begged to be
suffered to go as far as the town gates in order to persuade
his fellow-citizens to deposit the rest of the money; but
when he had reached within speaking distance, he cried out
to his countrymen,
“Friends and citizens! I have come hither under the feint of
persuading you to pay the rest of the fine demanded by the
Tartars; but what I really advise is for you to keep your
money and resist the enemy to the last; trust them not, for
however much you pay, they will not spare you. For my part,
I gladly lay down my life for the good of my people.” But
hardly had he finished speaking when the Tartars, guessing
at the purport of his words, laid hold of the brave Saxon and
dragged him off to a cruel death.
A peculiar characteristic of Klausenburg are the Unitarian
divorces, which bring many strangers on a flying visit to this
town, where the conjugal knot is untied with such pleasing
alacrity, and replaced at will by more congenial bonds.
To attain this end the divorcing party must be a citizen of
Klausenburg, and prove his possession to house or land in
the place. This, however, is by no means so complicated as
it sounds, the difficulty being provided for by a row of
miserable hovels chronically advertised for sale, and which
for a nominal price are continually passing from hand to
hand.
House-buying, divorce, and remarriage can therefore be
easily accomplished within a space of three or four days—a
very valuable arrangement for those to whom time is
money. By this convenient system, therefore, if you happen
to have quarrelled with your first wife on a Sunday, you
have only to take the train to Klausenburg on Monday,
become Unitarian on Tuesday, buy a house on Wednesday,
be divorced on Thursday, remarried on Friday, and on
Saturday sell your house and turn your back on the place
with the new-chosen partner of your life, and likewise the
pleasant arrière-pensée that you can begin again da capo
next week if so pleases you.
I went to visit this street for sale, which presents a most
doleful aspect. As the houses are continually changing
hands, none of the transitory owners care to be at the
expense of repairs or keeping in order; therefore rotten
planking, hingeless gates, broken windows, and caved-in
roofs are the general order of the day. A row of card-houses
merely to mark this imaginary sort of proprietorship would
equally fulfil the purpose.
The town is said to be unhealthy, and the mortality among
children very great. This is attributed to the impurity of the
drinking-water, several of the springs which feed the town
wells running through the church-yard, which lies on a hill.
To our left, about an hour after leaving Klausenburg, we
catch sight of the Thorda Cleft, or Spalt—one of the most
remarkable natural phenomena which the country presents.
It is nothing else but a gaping, unexpected rift, of three or
four English miles in length, right through the limestone
rocks, which rise about twelve hundred feet at the highest
point. Deep and gloomy caverns, formerly the abode of
robbers, honey-comb these rocky walls, and a wild mountain
torrent fills up the space between them, completing a
weirdly beautiful scene; but on our first view of it from the
railway-carriage it resembled nothing so much as a
magnified loaf of bread severed in two by the cut of a
gigantic knife.
I do not know how geologists account for the formation of
the Thorda Cleft, but the people explain it in their own
fashion by a legend:
The Hungarian King Ladislaus, surnamed the Saint, defeated
and pursued by his bitterest enemies the Kumanes, sought
refuge in the mountains. He was already hard pressed for
his life, and close on his heels followed the pagans. Then, in
the greatest strait of need, with death staring him in the
face, the Christian monarch threw himself on his knees,
praying to Heaven for assistance. And see! He forsaketh not
those that trust in Him! Suddenly the mountain is rent in
twain, and a deep, yawning abyss divides the King from his
pursuers.
 THE THORDA SPALT.
The rest of the country between Klausenburg and
Hermanstadt is bleak and uninteresting—it is, in fact, as I
afterwards learned, one of the few ugly stretches to be
found in this land, of which it has so often been said that it
is all beauty. A six hours’ journey brought us to our
destination, Hermanstadt, lying at the terminus of a small
and sleepy branch railway. Unfortunately, with us also
arrived the rain, streaming down in torrents, and blotting
out all view of the landscape in a persistent and merciless
manner; and for full eight days this dismal downpour kept
steadily on, trying our patience and souring our tempers.
What more exasperating situation can there be? To have
come to a new place and yet be unable to see it; as soon be
sent into an unknown picture-gallery with a bandage over
the eyes.
There was, however, nothing to be done meanwhile but to
dodge about the town under a dripping umbrella and try to
gain a general idea of its principal characteristics.
A little old-fashioned German town, spirited over here by
supernatural agency; a town that has been sleeping for a
hundred years, and is only now slowly and reluctantly
waking up to life, yawning and stretching itself, and
listening with incredulous wonder to the account of all that
has happened in the outside world during its slumber—such
was the first impression I received of Hermanstadt. The top-
heavy, overhanging gables, the deserted watch-towers, the
ancient ramparts, the crooked streets, in whose midst the
broad currents of a peaceful stream partly fulfil the office of
our newer-fashioned drains, and where frequently the
sprouting grass between the irregular stone pavement
would afford very fair sustenance for a moderate flock of
sheep, all combine to give the impression of a past which
has scarcely gone and of a present which has not yet
penetrated.
There are curious old houses, with closely grated windows
whose iron bars are fancifully wrought and twisted,
sometimes in the shape of flowers and branches, roses and
briers interlaced, which seem to have sprung up here to
defend the chamber of some beautiful princess lying
spellbound in her sleep of a hundred years. There are quaint
little gardens which one never succeeds in reaching, and
which in some inexplicable manner seem to be built up in a
third or fourth story; sometimes in spring we catch a
glimpse of a burst of blossom far overhead, or a wind-tossed
rose will shower its petals upon us, yet we cannot approach
to gather them. There is silence everywhere, save for
occasional vague snatches of melody issuing from a half-
open window—old forgotten German tunes, such as the
“Mailüfterl” or “Anchen von Tharau,” played on feeble,
toneless spinnets. There are nooks and corners and
unexpected flights of steps leading from the upper to the
lower town, narrow passages and tunnels which connect
opposite streets.
“These are to enable the inhabitants to scuttle away from
the Turks,” I was told, my informant lowering his voice, as if
we might expect a row of turbans to appear at the other
side of the passage we were traversing. “There is our
theatre,” he continued, pointing to a dumpy tower bulging
out of the rampart-wall. One of the principal strongholds this
used to be, but its shape now suited conveniently for the
erection of a stage, and the narrow arrow-slits came in
handy for the fixing-up of side-scenes.
Many more such old fortress-towers are to be found all over
the town, some of which are now used as military stores,
while others have been converted into peaceable summer-
houses. At the time when Hermanstadt was still a Saxon
stronghold each tower had its own name, as the Goldsmiths’
Tower, the Tanners’, the Locksmiths’, etc., according to the
particular guild which manned it in time of siege.
From one of these towers it was that the Sultan Amurad was
killed by an arrow when besieging the town in 1438 with an
army of seventy thousand men.
The whole character of Hermanstadt is thoroughly old
German, reminding me rather of some of the Nuremberg
streets or portions of Bregenz than of anything to be seen in
Hungary.
The streams which run down the centre of each street are
no doubt as enjoyable for the ducks who swim in them, as
for young ladies desirous of displaying a neat pair of ankles;
but for more humdrum mortals they are somewhat of a
nuisance. They can, it is true, be jumped in dry weather
without particular danger to life or limb; but there are many
prejudiced persons who do not care to transform a sober
round of shopping into a species of steeple-chase, and who
will persist in finding it hard to be unable to purchase a yard
of ribbon or a packet of pins without taking several flying
leaps over swift watercourses.
Much of the life and occupations of our excellent Saxon
neighbors is betrayed by these telltale streamlets, which,
chameleon-like, alter their color according to what is going
on around them. Thus on washing-days the rivulet in our
street used to be of a bright celestial blue, rivalling the
laughing Mediterranean in color, unless indeed the family in
question were possessed of much scarlet hosiery of inferior
quality, in which case it would assume a gory hue
suggestive of secret murders. When the chimney-sweep had
been paying his rounds in the neighborhood, the current
would be dark and gloomy as the turbid waters of the Styx;
and when a pig was killed a few doors off—But no; the
subject threatens to grow too painful, and I feel that a line
must be drawn at the pig.
 OLD FORTRESS-TOWER ON THE RAMPARTS AT
HERMANSTADT.[3]
Such is the every-day aspect of affairs; but in rainy weather
these little brooklets, becoming obstreperous, swell out of
all proportions, and for this frequent contingency small
transportable bridges are kept in readiness to be placed
across the principal thoroughfares of the town. After a very
heavy thunder-plump in summer, even these bridges do not
suffice, as then the whole street is flooded from side to side,
and for an hour or so Hermanstadt becomes Venice—minus
the gondolas.
These occasional floodings give rise to many amusing
incidents, as that of an officer who, invited to dinner by the
commanding general, beheld with dismay the dinner-hour
approach. He had only to cross the street, or rather the
canal, for at that moment it presented the appearance of a
navigable river. Would the waves subside in time? was his
anxious question as he gazed at the clock in growing
suspense, and dismally surveyed his beautifully fitting
patent-leather boots. No, the waves did not subside, and no
carriage was to be procured, the half-dozen fiacres of which
Hermanstadt alone could boast being already engaged. The
clock struck the quarter. “What is to be done?” moaned the
unhappy man in agony of spirit, while the desperate
alternatives of swimming or of suicide began to dance
before his fevered brain. “A boat, a boat, a kingdom for a
boat!” he repeated, mechanically, when it struck him that
the quotation might as well be taken literally in this case,
and that in default of a boat, he had three good steeds in his
stables. “Saddle my horse—my tallest one!” he cried,
excitedly; “I am saved!”—and so he was. The gallant steed
bore him through the roaring flood, bringing him high and
dry to the door of his host, with patent boots intact.

Meanwhile—to return to the subject of my first days at

Hermanstadt—the rain had continued to fall for a whole
week, and I was beginning to lose all patience. “I don’t
believe in the mountains you all tell me about!” I felt
inclined to say, when my first eight days had shown me
nothing but leaden clouds and dull gray mists; but even
while I thought it, the clouds were rolling away, and bit by
bit a splendid panorama was unfolding before my eyes.
Sure enough, they were there, the mountains I had just
been insulting by my disbelief, a long glittering row of
snowy peaks shining in the outbursting sunshine, so
delicately transparent in their loveliness, so harmonious in
their blended coloring, so sublimely grand in their sweeping
lines, that I could have begged their pardon for having
doubted their existence!
As one beautiful picture often suffices to light up a dingy
apartment, so one lovely view gives life and interest to a
monotonous county town. It takes the place of theatres, art
galleries, and glittering shop-windows; it acts at times as a
refreshing medicine or a stimulating tonic; and though I saw
it daily, it used to strike me afresh with a sense of delightful
surprise whenever I stepped round the corner of my street,
and stood in face of this glorious tableau.
The town of Hermanstadt lies in the centre of a large and
fertile plain, intersected by the serpentine curves of the
river Cibin, and dotted over by well-built Saxon villages. To
the north and west the land is but gently undulating, while
to the east and south the horizon is bounded by this
imposing chain of the Fogarascher Hochgebirg, their highest
peaks but seldom free from snow, their base streaked by
alternate stretches of oak, beech, and pine forests.
At one point this forest, which must formerly have covered
the entire plain, reaches still to the farther end of the town,
melting into the promenade, so that you can walk in the
shade of time-honored oak-trees right to the foot of the
mountains—a distance of some eight English miles.
To complete my general sketch of the town of Hermanstadt,
I shall merely mention that although our house was situated
in one of the liveliest streets, yet the passing through of a
cart or carriage was a rare event, which, in its unwonted
excitement, instinctively caused every one to rush to their
windows; that the pointed irregular pavement, equally
productive of corns and destructive to chaussure, seems to
be the remnant of some mediæval species of torture; that
gas is unknown, and the town but insufficiently lighted by
dingy petroleum lamps.
Probably by the time that Hermanstadt fully wakens up to
life again, it will discover to its astonishment that it has
slept through a whole era, and skipped the gas stage of
existence altogether, for it will then be time to replace the
antediluvian petroleum lamps, not by the already old-
fashioned gas ones, but by the newer and more brilliant
rays of electric light.
 CHAPTER V.

SAXON HISTORICAL FEAST—LEGEND.

AS I happened to arrive at Hermanstadt[4] precisely seven
hundred years later than the German colonists who had
founded that city, I had the good-luck to assist at a national
festival of peculiarly interesting character.
Of the town’s foundation, old chronicles tell us how the
outwanderers, on reaching the large and fertile plain where
it now stands, drove two swords crosswise into the ground,
and thereon took their oath to be true and faithful subjects
of the monarch who had called them hither, and with their
best heart’s-blood to defend the land which had given them
shelter. The two swords on which this oath was registered
were carefully preserved, and sent, one to Broos and the
other to Draas—two towns marking the extremities of the
Saxonland—there to be treasured up forever. But in
consequence of evil times which came over the land, and of
the war and bloodshed which devastated it, one of these
swords—that of Broos—got lost. But we are told that the
other is still to be seen in the church of Draas. It is of man’s
length, from which it is argued that these Saxon immigrants
were well-grown and vigorous men.
Who this Herman was who gave his name to the city can
only be conjectured—probably one of the leaders of the little
band, for, as we see by the names of some of the
surrounding villages, each has been called after some old
German, whose identity has not transpired, as Neppendorf
from Eppo, Hammersdorf from Humbert, etc.
Some old chronicles, indeed, tell us that when the
Hungarian King Stephen I. was married to Gisela, sister of
the German King Henry II., there came in her suite a poor
Baron Herman, along with his family, from Nuremberg to
Transylvania, and he it was who founded the settlement
which later developed into the present town of
Hermanstadt. It is said that the first settlement was formed
in 1202; likewise that the said Herman lived to the age of a
hundred and twenty-five, and was the progenitor of a
renowned and powerful race.
Another legend accounts for the foundation of Hermanstadt
with the old well-worn tale which has done duty for so many
other cities, of a shepherd who, when allowed to take as
much land as he could compass with a buffalo’s hide, cut up
the skin into narrow strips, and so contrived to secure a
handsome property. This particular sharp-witted peasant
was, by profession, a keeper of swine; and there is a
fountain in the lower town which still goes by the name of
the funtine porcolor, or swineherd’s well.
With all these conflicting statements staring one in the face,
there did not seem to be (so far as I could learn) any very
authentic reason for supposing Hermanstadt to have been
founded precisely in 1184; but everybody had apparently
made up their minds that such was the case, so the date
was to be commemorated by a costumed procession,
extensive preparations for which kept the quiet little town in
a state of fermentation for many weeks beforehand.
All the tradesmen of the place seemed to have suddenly
gone mad, and could hardly be induced to attend to the
every-day wants of commonplace mortals whose ancestors
had not the prestige of a seven-centuried expatriation. If I
went to order a pair of walking-boots, I was disdainfully
informed that I could not hope for them that week, as all
hands were employed in fashioning high-peaked leather
boots of yellow pig-skin for Herman and his retainers. If I
looked in at the glove-maker’s I fared no better, for he had
lost all interest in pale kids or gants de suède; and the
solitary pair of Sarah Bernhardt gloves, hitherto the pride of
his show-window, had been ruthlessly cast aside to make
way for ponderous gauntlets of heroic dimensions. The
tailors would have nothing to do with vulgar coat or
trousers, but had soared unanimously to the loftier regions
of jerkins and galligaskins; even the tinsmith had lost his
mental equilibrium, apparently laboring under the delusion
that he was an ancient armorer who could not possibly
demean himself by mending a simple modern pudding-
mould.
We unfortunate strangers, bootless, gloveless, coatless, and
puddingless as we were in those days, had a very hard time
of it indeed while this national fever was at its height, and
keenly felt the terrible disadvantage of not having been
born as ancient Saxons. At last, however, the preparations
were complete, and forgetting our privations, we were fain
to acknowledge the sight to be one of the most curious and
exceptional we had ever witnessed. The old-fashioned
streets made a fitting background for this mediæval
pageant, in which peasants and burghers, on foot and on
horseback; groups of maidens, quaintly attired, plying the
distaff as they went along; German matrons, with jewelled
head-dresses and cunningly wrought golden girdles; gayly
ornamented chariots, bearing the fruits of the field or the
trophies of the chase, passed us in solemn procession; while
on a sylvan stage erected in the depths of the old oak forest
a simple but moving drama set forth the words and actions
of the forefathers of those very actors—the German
colonists who, seven hundred years previously, had come
hither to seek a home in the wild Hungarian forests.
The costumes and procession had been arranged by native
artists, and, as a work of art, no doubt many parts of the
performance were open to criticism. Some of our
fashionable painters would assuredly have turned sick and
faint at sight of the unfortunate combinations of coloring
which frequently marred the effect of otherwise correctly
arranged costumes. Whoever has lived in large towns must
have seen such things better done, over and over again; but
what gave this festival a unique stamp of originality, not to
be attained by any amount of mere artistic arrangement,
was the feeling which penetrated the whole scene and
animated each single actor.

MOUNTED PEASANTS, FROM THE HISTORICAL

PROCESSION.
It is difficult to conceive, as it is impossible to describe, the
deep and peculiar impression caused by this display of
patriotism on the part of Germans who have never seen
their father-land—Rhinelanders who are not likely ever to
behold the blue rushing waters of the Rhine. Until now we
had always been taught that Germany was inhabited by
Germans, France by Frenchmen, and England by
Englishmen; but here we have such a complex medley of
nationalities as wellnigh to upset all our school-room
teaching. Listening to the words of the German drama, we
can easily fancy ourselves at Cologne or Nuremberg, were it
not for the dark faces of Roumanian peasants pushing
forward to look at the unwonted scene, and for the
Hungarian uniforms of the gendarmes who are pushing
them back.

More primitive but not less interesting than the historical

procession just described is the way in which the arrival of
these German immigrants is still yearly commemorated in
the village of Nadesch. There, on a particular day of the
year, all the lads dress up as pilgrims, in long woollen
garments, rope girdles, and with massive staves in their
hands. Thus attired, they assemble round the flag; a
venerable old man takes the lead, beating the drum; and,
singing psalms, they go in procession down the street, now
and then entering some particularly spacious court-yard,
where a dance is executed and refreshments partaken of. A
visit to the pastor is also de rigueur, and the procession only
breaks up at evenfall, after having traversed the whole
village from end to end. When questioned as to the
signification of this custom, the people answer, “Thus came
our fathers, free people like ourselves, from Saxonia into
this land, behind the flag and drum, and with staves in their
hands. And because we have not ourselves invented this
custom, neither did our ancestors invent it, but have
transmitted it to us from generation to generation, so do we,
too, desire to hand it down to our children and
grandchildren.”
How these Germans came to settle so many hundred miles
away from their own country has also formed the subject of
numerous tales, none prettier nor more suggestive than
their identification with the lost children of Hameln—a well-
known German legend, rendered familiar to English readers
through Browning’s poem.
“It was in the year 1284” (so runs the tale) “that, in the little
town of Hameln, in Westphalia, a strange individual made
his appearance. He wore a coat of cloth of many colors, and
announced himself as a rat-catcher, engaging to rid the
town of all rats and mice for a certain sum of money. The
bargain being struck, the rat-catcher drew out of his pocket
a small pipe, and began whistling; whereupon from every
barn, stable, cellar, and garret there issued forth a
prodigious number of rats and mice, collecting in swarms
round the stranger, all intent upon his music.
“All the vermin of the place being thus assembled, the piper,
still playing, proceeded to the banks of the river Weser, and
rolling up his breeches above the knee, he waded into the
water, blindly followed by rats and mice, which were
speedily drowned in the rushing current.
“But the burghers of Hameln, seeing themselves thus easily
delivered from their plague, repented the heavy sum of
money they had promised, putting off the payment, under
various excuses, whenever the stranger claimed the reward
of his labors.
“At last the piper grew angry and went away, cursing the
town which had behaved so dishonorably; but he was seen
to haunt the neighborhood, dressed as a huntsman, with
high-peaked scarlet cap; and at daybreak on the 26th of
June, feast of St. John, the shrill note of his pipe was again
heard in the streets of Hameln.
“This time neither rats nor mice responded to the summons,
for all vermin had perished in the waters of the Weser; but
the little children came running out of the houses, struggling
out of their parents’ arms, and could not be withheld from
following the sinister piper. In this way he led the infantine
procession to the foot of a neighboring hill, into which he
disappeared along with the children he had beguiled.
Among these was the half-grown-up daughter of the
burgomaster of Hameln, a maiden of wondrous grace and
beauty.
“A nurse-maid who, with a little one in her arms, had been
irresistibly compelled to join the procession, found strength
enough at the last moment to tear herself away, and,
reaching the town in breathless haste, brought the sad news
to the bereaved parents. Also one little boy, who had run
out in his shirt, feeling cold, went back to fetch his jacket,
and was likewise saved from his comrades’ fate; for by the
time he regained the hill-side the opening had closed up,
leaving no trace of the mysterious piper nor of the hundred
and thirty children who had followed him.”
Nor were they ever found again by the heart-broken
parents; but popular tradition has averred the Germans who
about that time made their appearance in Transylvania to
be no other than the lost children of Hameln, who, having
performed their long journey by subterranean passages,
reissued to the light of day through the opening of a cavern
known as the Almescher Höhle, in the north-east of
Transylvania.
 CHAPTER VI.

THE SAXONS: CHARACTER—

EDUCATION—RELIGION.
WHOEVER has lived among these Transylvanian Saxons, and
has taken the trouble to study them, must have remarked
that not only seven centuries’ residence in a strange land
and in the midst of antagonistic races has made them lose
none of their identity, but that they are, so to say, plus
catholiques que le pape—that is, more thoroughly Teutonic
than the Germans living to-day in the original father-land.
And it is just because of the adverse circumstances in which
they were placed, and of the opposition and attacks which
met them on all sides, that they have kept themselves so
conservatively unchanged. Feeling that every step in
another direction was a step towards the enemy, finding
that every concession they made threatened to become the
link of a captive’s chain, no wonder they clung stubbornly,
tenaciously, blindly to each peculiarity of language, dress,
and custom, in a manner which has probably not got its
parallel in history. Left on their native soil, and surrounded
by friends and countrymen, they would undoubtedly have
changed as other nations have changed. Their isolated
position and the peculiar circumstances of their
surroundings have kept them what they were. Like a faithful
portrait taken in the prime of life, the picture still goes on
showing the bloom of the cheek and the light of the eye,
long after Time’s destroying hand, withering the original,
has caused it to lose all resemblance to its former self; and
it is with something of the feeling of gazing at such an old
portrait that we contemplate these German people who
dress like old bass-reliefs of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries, and continue to hoard up provisions within the
church walls, as in the days when besieged by Turk or Tartar.
Such as these Saxons wandered forth from the far west to
seek a home in a strange land, such we find them again to-
day, seven centuries later, like a corpse frozen in a glacier
which comes to light unchanged after a long lapse of years.
From an artistic point of view these Saxons are decidedly an
unlovely race. There is a want of flowing lines and curves
and a superfluity of angles about them, most distressing to
a sensitive eye. The women may usually be described as
having rather good hair, indifferent complexions, narrow
shoulders, flat busts, and gigantic feet. Their features, of a
sadly unfinished wooden appearance, irresistibly reminded
me of the figures of Noah and his family out of a sixpenny
Noah’s ark. There is something Noah’s-ark-like, too, about
their attire, which, running entirely in hard straight lines,
with nothing graceful or flowing about them, no doubt
helped to produce this Scriptural impression. The Saxon
peasant is stiff without dignity, just as he is honest without
being frank. Were the whole world peopled by this race
alone, our dictionaries might have been lightened of a good
many unnecessary words, such as elegance, grace,
fascination, etc.
Of course, now and then one comes across an exception to
this general rule and finds a pretty girl, like a white poppy in
a field of red ones; but such exceptions are few and far
between, and I have remarked that on an average it takes
three well-populated villages to produce two bonnie lassies.
The men are on the whole pleasanter to look at than the fair
sex, having often a certain ungainly picturesqueness of their
own, reminding one of old Flemish paintings.
Something hard and grasping, avaricious and mistrustful,
characterizes the expression of most Saxon peasants. For
this, however, they are scarcely to blame, any more than for
their flat busts and large feet—their character, and
consequently their expression, being but the natural result
of circumstances, the upshot of seven centuries of stubborn
resistance and warfare with those around them. “We Saxons
have always been cheated or betrayed whenever we have
had to do with strangers,” they say; and no doubt they are
right. The habit of mistrust developed almost to an instinct
cannot easily be got rid of, even if there be no longer cause
to justify it.
This defensive attitude towards strangers which pervades
the Saxons’ every word and action makes it, however,
difficult to feel prepossessed in their favor. Taken in the
sense of antiquities, they are no doubt an extremely
interesting people, but viewed as living men and women,
not at first sight attractive to a stranger; and while
compelling our admiration by the solid virtues and
independent spirit which have kept him what he is, the
Saxon peasant often shows to disadvantage beside his less
civilized, less educated, and also less honest neighbor, the
Roumanian.
As a natural consequence of this mistrust, the spirit of
speculation is here but little developed—for speculation
cannot exist without some degree of confidence in one’s
neighbor. They do not care to risk one florin in order to gain
ten, but are content to keep a firm grasp on what they have
got. There are no beggars at all to be seen in Saxon towns,
and one never hears of large fortunes gained or lost. Those
who happen to be wealthy have only become so by the
simple but somewhat tedious process of spending half their
income only, during a period of half a century; and after
they have in this manner achieved wealth, it does not seem
to profit them much, for they go on living as they did before,
nourishing themselves on scanty fare, and going to bed
early in order to save the expense of lights.
The townsfolk are weaker and punier editions of the
villagers, frequently showing marks of a race degenerated
from constant intermarriage; and, stripped of their ancient
Noah’s-ark costume, lose much of their attraction.
They are essentially a bourgeois nation, possessing neither
titles nor nobility of their own, although many can boast of
lengthy pedigrees. Those who happen to be adel (noble)
have only obtained their von in some exceptional manner in
later times, and the five-pointed crown seems somewhat of
an anomaly.
Although the Saxons talk of Germany as their father-land,
yet their patriotic feeling is by no means what we are
accustomed to understand by that word. Their attachment
to the old country would seem rather to be of prosaic than
romantic sort. “We attach ourselves to the German nation
and language,” they say, endeavoring to explain the
complicated nature of their patriotism, “because it offers us
the greatest advantages of civilization and culture; we
should equally have attached ourselves to any other nation
which offered us equal advantages, whether that nation had
happened to be Hungarian, French, or Chinese. If the
Hungarians had happened to be more civilized than
ourselves, we should have been amalgamated with them
long ago.”[5]
Such an incomprehensible sort of patriot would probably
have been condemned by Scott to go down to his grave
“unwept, unhonored, and unsung.” But I suppose that
allowances must be made for their peculiar position, and
that it is difficult to realize what it feels like to be a grafted
plant.
There is one village in Transylvania which, isolated in the
midst of a Hungarian population, offers an instance of a
more complex species of nationality than any I have yet
heard of. This is the village of Szass Lona, near Klausenburg,
which used to be Saxon, but where the people have
gradually forgotten their own mother-tongue and can only
speak Hungarian. There is, however, no drop of Hungarian
blood in their veins, as they marry exclusively among
themselves; and they have retained alike the German type
of feature and the national Saxon dress intact in all its
characteristics. Also the family names throughout the
village are German ones—as Hindrik, Tod, Jäger, Hubert, etc.
Though none of these people can speak a word of German,
and no one can remember the time when German was
spoken in the village, yet during the revolution of 1848
these Hungarian-speaking Germans rose to a man to fight
against the Magyars.
The Saxon dialect—totally distinct from modern German—
has, I am told, most resemblance to the patois spoken by
the peasants near Luxemburg. It is harsh and unpleasant to
the ear, but has in some far-off and indefinable way a
certain caricatured likeness to English. Often have I been
surprised into turning round sharply in the street to see who
could be speaking English behind me, only to discover two
Saxon peasants comparing notes as to the result of their
marketing.
The language, however, differs considerably in different
neighborhoods; and a story is told of natives of two different
Saxon villages, who, being unable to understand one
another, were reduced to conversing in Roumanian.
The Sachsengraf (Count), or Comes, was formerly the head
of the nation, chosen by the people, and acknowledging no
other authority but that of the King. He was at once the
judge and the leader of his people, and had alone the power
of pronouncing sentence of death, in token of which four fir-
trees were planted in front of his house. The original
meaning of this I take to be, that in olden times the
malefactors were executed on the spot, and suspended on
these very trees, in full sight of the windows—a pleasant
sight, truly, for the ladies of the family.
Nowadays the Saxon Comes has shrunk to a mere shadow
of his former self; for though there is still nominally a Comes
who resides at Hermanstadt, his position is as unlike what it
used to be as those four trumpery-looking little Christmas-
trees stuck before his door resemble the portentous gallows
of which they are the emblem. It is, in fact, merely as a
harmless concession to Saxon national feeling that the title
has been preserved at all—a mere meaningless appendage
tacked on to the person of the Hungarian obergespan, or
sheriff.
The principal strength of these Saxon colonists has always
lain in their schools, whose conservation they jealously
guard, supporting them entirely from their own resources,
and stubbornly refusing all help from the Government. They
do not wish to accept favors, they say, and thereby incur
obligations. These schools had formerly the name of being
among the very best in Austria; and I have heard of many
people who from a distance used to send their children to
study there, some twenty to thirty years ago. That this
reputation is, however, highly overrated is an undoubted
fact, as I know from sad experience with my own children,
though it is not easy to determine where the fault exactly
lies. The Saxons declare their schools to have suffered from
Hungarian interference, which limits their programme in
some respects, while insisting on the Hungarian language
being taught in every class; but many people consider the
Saxons themselves quite as much to blame for the bad
results of their teaching. Doubtless, in this as in other
respects, it is their exaggerated conservatism which is at
fault; and, keeping no account of the age we live in, what
was reckoned good some thirty years ago may be called bad
to-day.
Anyhow, between the reforming Hungarians and the
conservative Saxons, unfortunate stranger boys have a very
hard time of it indeed at the Hermanstadt Gymnasium, and
it is a fact beginning to be generally acknowledged that
children coming to Austria from Transylvanian schools are
thrown two classes back.
But the whole question of education in Austria is such a
provoking and unsatisfactory one that it is hardly possible to
speak of it with either patience or politeness; and by none
are its evil effects more disastrously felt than by hapless
military families, who, compelled to shift about in restless
fashion from land to land, are alternately obliged to conform
their children to the most opposite requirements of utterly
different systems.
Thus the son of an officer serving in the Austrian army may
be obliged to study half a dozen different languages (in
addition to Latin, Greek, German, and French) during a
hardly greater number of years. He must learn Italian
because his father is serving at Trieste, and may be getting
on fairly well with that language when he is abruptly called
upon to change it for Polish, since Cracow is henceforth the
town where he is to pursue his studies. But hardly has he
got familiar with the soft Slave tongue when, ten to one, his
accent will be ruined for life by an untimely transition to
Bohemia, where the hideous Czech language has become
de rigueur. Slavonian and Ruthenian may very likely have
their turn at the unfortunate infant before he has attained
the age of twelve, unless the distracted father be reduced to
sacrifice his military career to the education of his son.
It is not of our own individual case that I would speak thus
strongly, for our boys, being burdened with only seven
languages (to wit, Polish, English, German, French, Greek,
Latin, and Hungarian), would scarcely be counted ill-used,
as Austrian boys go, having escaped Bohemian, Slavonian,
Ruthenian, and Italian; yet assuredly to us it was a very
happy day indeed when we made a bonfire of the Magyar
school-books, and ceased quaking at sight of the formidable
individual who taught Hungarian at the Hermanstadt
Gymnasium.
O happy English school-boys, you know not how much you
have to be thankful for!—your own noble language, adorned
with a superficial layer of Greek and Latin, and at most
supplemented by a little atrocious French, being sufficient to
set you up for life. Think of those others who are pining in a
complicated net-work of Bohemian, Polish, Hungarian,
Slavonian, Italian, Croatian, and Ruthenian fetters; think of
them, and drop a sympathizing tear over their mournful lot!
That the Saxon school-professors are well-educated,
intelligent men is no proof in favor of the schools
themselves, for here another motive is at work, namely, no
man can aspire to be pastor without passing through the
university, and then practising for several years at a public
gymnasium; and as these places are very lucrative, there is
a great run upon them. Now, as formerly, most young men
are sent to complete their studies at some German
university town—Heidelberg, Göttingen, or Jena—an
undertaking which, before the days of railroads, must have
required considerable resolution to enable those concerned
to encounter the hardships of a journey which took from ten
to twelve weeks to perform. It was usually conducted in the
following manner: Some enterprising Roumanian peasant
harnessed twelve to fourteen horses to some lumbering
vehicle, and, laden with a dozen or more students thirsting
for knowledge, pilgered thus to the German university town
some eight or nine hundred miles off. Returning to
Transylvania some six months later, he brought back
another batch of young men who had completed their
studies.
The weight which these Saxons have always attached to
education may be gathered from the fact that in almost
each of their fortified churches, or burgs, there was a tower
set apart for the inculcation of knowledge, and to this day
many such are still in existence, and known as the schul
thurm (school-tower). Even when the enemy was standing
outside the walls, the course of learning was not allowed to
be interrupted. It must have been a strange sight and a
worthy subject for some historical painter to see this crowd
of old-fashioned fair-haired children, all huddled together
within the dingy turret; some of the bolder or more
inquisitive flaxen heads peering out of the narrow gullet-
windows at the turbans and crescents below, while the grim-
faced mentor, stick in hand, recalls them to order, vainly
endeavoring to fix their wandering attention each time a
painim arrow whizzed past the opening.

Why these Saxons, who have shown themselves so rigidly

conservative on all other points, should nevertheless have
changed their religion, might puzzle a stranger at first sight.
The mere spirit of imitation would not seem sufficient to
account for it, and Luther’s voice could hardly have
penetrated to this out-of-the-way corner of Europe at a time
when telegraphs and telephones were yet unknown. The
solution of this riddle is, however, quite simple, and lies
close at hand, when we remember that even before the
Reformation all those preparing for the Sacerdoce went to
Germany to complete their studies. These, consequently,
caught the reforming infection, and brought it back fresh
from headquarters, acting, in fact, as so many living
telephones, who, conveying the great reformer’s voice from
one end of Europe to the other, promulgated his doctrines
with all the enthusiasm and fire of youth.
Every year thus brought fresh recruits from the scene of
action; no wonder, then, that the original Catholic clerical
party grew daily smaller and weaker, and proved unable to
stem this powerful new current. The contest was necessarily
an unequal one: on one side, impassioned rhetoric and the
fire of youth; on the other, the drowsy resistance of a
handful of superannuated men, grown rusty in their
theology and lax in the exercise of their duties.
In the year 1523 Luther’s teaching had already struck such
firm roots at Hermanstadt that the Archbishop of Gran, to
whose diocese Hermanstadt then belonged, obtained a
royal decree authorizing the destruction of all Lutheran
books and documents as pernicious and heretical.
Accordingly an archiepiscopal commissary was despatched
to Hermanstadt, and all burghers were compelled to deliver
up their Protestant books and writings to be burned in the
public market-place. It is related that on this occasion, when
the bonfire was at its highest, the wind, seizing hold of a
semi-consumed Psalter, carried it with such force against
the head of the bishop’s emissary that, severely burned, he
fainted away on the spot. The book was thrown back into
the fire where it soon burned to ashes; but on the third day
after the accident the commissary died of the wounds
received.
Another anecdote relating to the Reformation is told of the
village of Schass, which, while Luther’s doctrine was being
spread in Transylvania, despatched one of its parishioners,
named Strell, to Rome in quest of a Papal indulgence for the
community. More than once already had Strell been sent to
Rome on a like errand, and each time, on returning home
with the granted indulgence for his people, he was received
by a solemn procession of all the villagers, bearing flying
banners and singing sacred hymns. He was, therefore, not a
little surprised this time, on approaching the village, to see
the road deserted before him, though he had given warning
of his intended arrival. The bells were dumb, and not a soul
came out to meet him; but his astonishment reached its
climax when, on nearing the church, he perceived the
images of the saints he had been wont to revere lying in the
mire outside the church walls. To his wondering question he
received the reply that in his absence the villagers had
changed their faith. Strell, however, did not imitate their
example, but raising up the holy images from their
inglorious position, he gave them an honorable place in his
house, remaining Catholic to the end of his days.
Nevertheless, in spite of many such incidents, the change of
religion in Transylvania brought about fewer disturbances
than in most other places. There was little strife or
bloodshed, and none of that fierce fanaticism which has so
often injured and weakened both causes. The Saxon
peasantry did this as they do everything else, calmly and
practically; and the Government permitting each party to
follow its own religion unmolested, in a comparatively short
time peace and order were re-established in the interior of
the country.
Without wishing to touch on such a very serious subject as
the respective merits of the two religions, or attempting to
obtrude personal convictions, it seems to me, from a purely
artistic point of view, that the sterner and simpler Protestant
religion fits these independent and puritanical-looking Saxon
folk far better than the ancient faith can have done; while
the more graceful forms of the Oriental Church, its mystic
ceremonies and arbitrary doctrines, are unquestionably
better adapted to an ardent, ignorant, and superstitious
race like the Roumanian one.
 CHAPTER VII.

SAXON VILLAGES.
SAXON villages are as easily distinguished from Roumanian
ones, composed of wretched earthen hovels, as from
Hungarian hamlets, which are marked by a sort of formal
simplicity. The Saxon houses are larger and more massive;
each one, solidly built of stone, stands within a roomy court-
yard surrounded by a formidable stone wall. Building and
repairing is the Saxon peasant’s favorite employment, and
the Hungarian says of him ironically that when the German
has nothing better to do he pulls down his house and builds
it up again by way of amusement.
Each village is usually formed of one long principal street,
extending sometimes fully an English mile along the high-
road; only when the village happens to be built at a junction
of several roads, the streets form a cross or triangle, in the
centre of which mostly stands the church. From this principal
street or streets there sometimes branch off smaller by-
streets on either side; but these are seldom more than five
or six houses deep, for the Saxon lays great stress on the
point of locality, and the question of high-street or by-street
is to him every whit as important as the alternative of
Grosvenor Square or City would be to a Londoner.
Formerly no Roumanians or gypsies were tolerated within
Saxon villages, but of late these people have been gradually
creeping nearer, and now most German villages have at one
end a shabby sort of faubourg, or suburb, composed of
Roumanian and gypsy hovels.
The principal street, often broad enough to admit of eight
carts driving abreast, presents but little life at first sight. The
windows of the broad gable-end next the street have often
got their shutters closed, for this is the best room, reserved
for state occasions. Only when we open the gate and step
into the large court-yard can we gain some insight into the
life and occupations of the inhabitants.

SAXON PEASANT HOUSE.

Near to the entrance stands the deep draw-well, and all
round are built the sheds and stables for sheep, horses,
cows, and buffaloes, while behind these buildings another
gate generally opens into a spacious kitchen-garden. From
the court five or six steps lead up to a sort of open veranda,
where the peasant can sit in summer and overlook his farm
laborers. From this passage the kitchen is entered, to the
right and left of which are respectively the common and the
best room, both good-sized apartments, with two windows
each. In addition to these there is often a smaller one-
windowed room, in which reside a young married couple, son
or daughter of the house, who have not yet had time to
found their own hearth-stone; or else there lives here the old
widowed father or mother, who has abdicated in favor of the
young people. A ladder or rough flight of steps leads to the
loft; and below the veranda is the entrance to the cellar,
where stores of pickled sauerkraut, the dearly beloved
national dish of the Saxons, and casks of their pearly amber-
colored wine, are among the principal features of the
provisions.
In the village street, in front of each peasant house, there
used formerly to stand a large fruit-tree—pear, apple, or
sometimes mulberry—whose spreading branches cast a
pleasant shade over the stone bench placed there for the
convenience of those who like to enjoy a “crack” with the
neighbors on fine evenings after the work is done. Many of
these trees have now been cut down, for it was found that
the godless gypsies used to make their harvest there while
the pious Saxons were at church; or else unmannerly school-
urchins in pelting down the fruit with stones would
sometimes hit the window-panes instead, and thus cause
still greater damage. The result is, therefore, that most
Saxon villages now present a somewhat bleak and staring
appearance, and that on a burning summer day it is not easy
to find a shady bench on which to rest a while.
It may be of interest here to quote the statistical figures
relating to a large and flourishing village in the north-east of
Transylvania:
Houses, 326 (of these 32 are earth hovels).
Heads of population, 1416—of these the proportion of
different nationalities as follows:

Saxons—481 male, 499 female.

Hungarians—2.
Roumanians—118 male, 83 female (mostly farm-
servants).
 Tziganes—104 men, 106 women.
Jews—14 male, 9 female.

In this village, which is exceptionally rich in cattle, the

different animals number:
Bulls 3
Cows 357
Young cattle 575
Oxen 1200
Buffaloes 120
Horses 475
Goats 182
Pigs 734
Sheep 1000-1500
Most of the sheep in Transylvania are in the hands of the
Roumanians, while the pigs invariably belong to the Saxons.
Among these latter, 1000 men possess on an average 215
horses, while among the Szekels only 51 will be found to the
same number of heads.
The Saxon peasant, being an enemy to all modern
improvements, goes on cultivating his fields much as did his
forefathers six hundred years ago. Clinging to the antiquated
superstition that a field is the more productive the longer it
lies fallow, each piece of ground is ploughed and sowed once
only in three years; and having, owing to the insufficient
population, rarely enough hands to till his land himself, he is
obliged to call in the assistance of Roumanian farm-servants.
Other people, too, have taken advantage of this agricultural
somnolency of the Saxons; so the Bulgarians, who pilger
hither in troops every spring-time to rent the Saxons’
superfluous fields, bringing with them their own tools and
seed, and in autumn, having realized the profit of their labor,
wend their way back to their homes and families. The great
specialty of these Bulgarian farmers is onions, of which they
contrive to rear vast crops, far superior in size and quality to
those grown by the natives. A Bulgarian onion field is easily
distinguished from a Saxon one by its trim, orderly
appearance, the perfect regularity with which the rows are
planted, and the ingenious arrangements for providing water
in time of drought.
Of the numerous Saxon villages which dot the plain around
Hermanstadt, I shall here only attempt to mention two or
three of those with which I have the most intimate
acquaintance, as having formed the object of many a walk
and ride. First, there is Heltau—which, however, has rather
the character of a market-town than a village—lying in a
deep hollow at the foot of the hills south of Hermanstadt,
and with nothing either rural or picturesque about it. Yet
whoever chances first to behold Heltau, as I did, on a fine
evening in May, when the fruit-trees are in full blossom, will
carry away an impression not easily forgotten. From the
road, which leads down in serpentine curves, the village
bursts on our eyes literally framed in a thick garland of
blossom, snowy white and delicate peach color combining to
cast a fictitious glamour over what is in reality a very
unattractive place.
The inhabitants of Heltau, nearly all cloth-makers by trade,
fabricate that rough white cloth, somewhat akin to flannel, of
which the Roumanians’ hose is made. It is also largely
exported to different parts of the empire, and Polish Jews are
often seen to hover about the place. Such, in fact, is the
attraction exercised by this white woollen tissue that a
colony of the children of Israel would have been formed here
long ago had not the wary Saxons strenuously opposed such
encroachment.
 OLD TOWN GATE AT HERMANSTADT (ON THE HELTAU
SIDE).
Once riding past here in autumn, I was puzzled to remark
several fields near Heltau bearing a white appearance
almost like that of snow, yet scarcely white enough for that;
on coming nearer, this whiteness resolved itself into wool,
vast quantities of which, covering several acres of ground,
had been put out there to dry after the triple washing
necessary to render it fit for weaving purposes.
The church at Heltau rejoices in the distinction of four turrets
affixed to the belfry-tower, which turrets were at one time
the cause of much dissension between Heltau and
Hermanstadt. It was not allowed for any village church to
indulge in such luxuries—four turrets being a mark of civic
authority only accorded to towns; but in 1590, when the
church at Heltau was burned down, the villagers built it up
again as it now stands—a piece of presumption which
Hermanstadt at first refused to sanction. The matter was
finally compromised by the Heltauers consenting to sign a
document, wherein they declared the four turrets to have
been put there merely in guise of ornamentation, giving
them no additional privileges whatsoever, and that they
pledged themselves to remain as before submissive to the
authority of Hermanstadt.
Some people, however, allege Heltau, or, as it used to be
called, “The Helt,” to be of more ancient origin than
Hermanstadt—concluding from the fact that formerly the
shoemakers, hatters, and other tradesmen here resided, but
that during the pest all the inhabitants dying out to the
number of seven, the land around was suffered to fall into
neglect. Then the Emperor sent other Germans to repeople
the town, and the burghers of Hermanstadt came and
bought up the privileges of the Heltauers.
The excellence of the Heltau pickled sauerkraut is celebrated
in a Saxon rhyme, which runs somewhat as follows:

“Draaser wheaten bread,

Heltau’s cabbage red,
Streitford’s bacon fine,
Bolkatsch pearly wine,
Schässburg’s maidens fair,
Goodly things and rare.”
But more celebrated still is Heltau because of the unusually
high stature of its natives, which an ill-natured story has
tried to account for by the fact of a detachment of
grenadiers having been quartered here for several years
towards the end of last century.
To the west of Heltau, nestling up close to the hills, lies the
smaller but far more picturesque village of Michelsberg, one
of the few Saxon villages which have as yet resisted all
attempts from Roumanians or gypsies to graft themselves on
to their community. Michelsberg is specially remarkable
because of the ruined church which, surrounded by fortified
walls, is situated on a steep conical mound rising some two
hundred feet above the village. The church itself, though not
much to look at, boasts of a Romanesque portal of singular
beauty, which many people come hither to see. The original
fortress which stood on this spot is said to have been built by
a noble knight, Michel of Nuremberg, who came into the
country at the same time that came Herman, who founded
Hermanstadt. Michel brought with him twenty-six squires,
and with them raised the fortress; but soon after its
completion he and his followers got dispersed over the land,
and were heard of no more. The fortress then became the
property of the villagers, who later erected a church on its
site.
The Michelsbergers make baskets and straw hats, and lately
wood-carving has begun to be developed as a native
industry. They have also the reputation—I know not with
what foundation—of being bird-stealers; and I believe
nothing will put a Michelsberger into such a rage as to
imitate the bird-call used to decoy blackbirds and
nightingales to their ruin. This he takes to be an insulting
allusion to his supposed profession.
In the hot summer months many of the Hermanstadt
burghers come out to Michelsberg for change of air and
coolness, and we ourselves spent some weeks right
pleasantly in one of the peasant houses which, consisting of
two rooms and a kitchen, are let to visitors for the season.
But it was strange to learn that this remote mountain village
is the self-chosen exile of a modern recluse—a well-born
Hanoverian gentleman, Baron K——, who for the last half-
dozen years has lived here summer and winter. Neither very
old nor yet very young, he lives a solitary life, avoiding
acquaintances; and though I lived here fully a month, I only
succeeded in catching a distant glimpse of him.
Midsummer idleness being usually productive of all sorts of
idle thoughts and fancies, we could not refrain from
speculating on the reasons which were powerful enough thus
to cause an educated man to bury himself alive so many
hundred miles away from his own country in an obscure
mountain village; and unknown to himself, the mysterious
baron became the hero of a whole series of fantastic air-
castles, in which he alternately figured as a species of
Napoleon, Diogenes, Eugene Aram, or Abelard. Whichever he
was, however—and it certainly is no business of mine—I can
well imagine the idyllic surroundings of Michelsberg to be
peculiarly fit to soothe a ruffled or wounded spirit. Wrecked
ambition or disappointed love must lose much of its
bitterness in this secluded nook, so far removed from the
echoes of a turbulent world.
 MICHELSBERG.
Another village deserving a word of notice is Hammersdorf,
lying north of Hermanstadt—a pleasant walk through the
fields of little more than half an hour. The village, built up
against gently undulating hills covered with vineyards, is
mentioned in the year 1309 as Villa Humperti, and is
believed to stand on the site of an old Roman settlement.
Scarcely a year passes without Roman coins or other
antiquities being found in the soil.
From the top of the Grigori-Berg, which rises some one
thousand eight hundred feet directly behind the village, a
very extensive view may be enjoyed of the plains about
Hermanstadt, and the imposing chain of the Fogarascher
mountains straight opposite.
Hammersdorf is considered to be a peculiarly aristocratic
village, and its inhabitants, who pride themselves on being
the richest peasants in those parts, and on their womankind
possessing the finest clothes and the most valuable
ornaments, are called arrogant and stuck-up by other
communities.
It is usual for the name of the house-owner and the date of
building to be painted outside each house; but there are
differences to be remarked in each place—slight variations in
building and decoration, as well as in manner, dress, and
speech of the natives, despite the general resemblance all
bear to each other.
Some houses have got pretty designs of conventional flowers
painted in black or in contrasting color on their gable-ends,
and in many villages it is usual to have some motto or
sentence inscribed on each house. These are frequently of a
religious character, often a text from the Bible or some
stereotyped moral sentiment. Occasionally, however, we
come across inscriptions of greater originality, which seem to
be a reflection of the particular individual whose house they
adorn, as, for instance, the following:

“I do not care to brag or boast,

I speak the truth to all,
And whosoever does not wish
Myself his friend to call,
Why, then, he’s free to paint himself
A better on the wall.”

Or else this sentence, inscribed on a straw-thatched cottage:

“Till money I get from my father-in-law,

My roof it, alas! must be covered with straw.”

While the following one instantaneously suggests the portrait

of some stolid-faced, sleepy individual whose ambition has
never soared beyond the confines of his turnip-field, or the
roof of his pigsty:

“Too much thinking weakens ever—

Think not, then, in verse nor prose,
For return the past will never,
 And the future no man knows.”

Many of the favorite maxims refer to the end of man, and

give a somewhat gloomy coloring to a street when several of
this sort are found in succession:

“Man is like a fragile flower,

Only blooming for an hour;
Fresh to-day and rosy-red,
But to-morrow cold and dead.”

Or else—

“Within this house a guest to-day,

So long the Lord doth let me live;
But when He bids, I must away—
Against His will I cannot strive.”

Here another—

“If I from my door go out,

Death for me doth wait without;
And if in my house I stay,
He will come for me some day.”

The mistrustful character of the Saxon finds vent in many

inscriptions, of which I give a few specimens:

“Trust yourself to only one—

’Tis not wise to trust to none;
Better, though, to have no friend
Than on many to depend.”

“If you have a secret got,

To a woman tell it not;
For my part, I would as lieve
Keep the water in a sieve.”
 “When I have both gold and wine,
Many men are brothers mine;
When the money it is done,
And the wine has ceased to run,
Then the brothers, too, are gone.”

“Hardly do a man I see

But who hates and envies me;
Inside them their heart doth burn
For to do an evil turn,
Grudge me sore my daily bread;
More than one doth wish me dead.”

“Those who build on the highway,

Must not heed what gossips say.”

The four last I here give are among the best I have come
across, the first of these having a slightly Shakespearean
flavor about it:

“Tell me for what gold is fit?

Who has got none, longs for it;
Who has got it, fears for thieves;
Who has lost it, ever grieves.”

“We cannot always dance and sing,

Nor can each day be fair,
Nor could we live if every day
Were dark with grief and care;
But fair and dark days, turn about,
This we right well can bear.”

“Say, who is to pay now the tax to the King?

For priests and officials will do no such thing;
The nobleman haughty will pay naught, I vouch,
And poor is the beggar, and empty his pouch;
The peasant alone he toileth to give
 The means to enable those others to live.”

“How to content every man,

Is a trick which no one can;
If to do so you can claim,
Rub this out and write your name.”

Among the many house inscriptions I have seen in

Transylvania, I have never come across any referring to love
or conjugal happiness. The well-known lines of Schiller—

“Raum ist in der kleinsten Hütte

Für ein glücklich liebend Paar,”[6]

of which one gets such a surfeit in Germany, are here

conspicuous by their absence. This will not surprise any one
acquainted with the domestic life of these people. Any such
sentiment would most likely have lost its signification long
before the wind and the rain had effaced it, for it would not
at all suit the Saxon peasant to change his house motto as
often as he does his wife.
 CHAPTER VIII.

SAXON INTERIORS—CHARACTER.
THE old-china mania, which I hear is beginning to die out in
England, has only lately become epidemic in Austria; and as
I, like many others, have been slightly touched by this
malady, the quaintly decorated pottery wine-jugs still to be
found in many Saxon peasant houses offered a new and
interesting field of research.
These jugs are by no means so plentiful nor so cheap as they
were a few years ago, for cunning bric-à-brac Jews have
found out this hitherto unknown store of antiquities, and
pilger hither from the capital to buy up wholesale whatever
they find. Yet by a little patience and perseverance any one
living in the country may yet find enough old curiosities to
satisfy a reasonable mania; and while seeking for these relics
I have come across many another remnant of antiquity quite
as interesting but of less tangible nature.
 SAXON PEASANT AT HOME.
Inside a Saxon peasant’s house everything is of exemplary
neatness and speaks of welfare. The boards are clean
scoured, the window-panes shine like crystal. There is no
point on which a Saxon hausfrau (housewife) is so sensitive
as that of order and neatness, and she is visibly put out if
surprised by a visit on washing or baking day, when things
are not looking quite so trim as usual.
If we happen to come on a week-day we generally find the
best room, or prunkzimmer, locked up, with darkened
shutters; and only on our request to be shown the
embroidered pillow-covers and the best jugs reserved for
grand occasions will the hostess half ungraciously proceed to
unlock the door and throw open the shutter.
This prunkzimmer takes the place of the state parlor in our
Scotch farm-houses; but those latter, with their funereal
horse-hair furniture and cheerless polished table, would
contrast unfavorably beside these quaint, old-fashioned
German apartments. Here the furniture, consisting of
benches, bunkers, bedsteads, chest of drawers, and chairs,
are painted in lively colors, often festoons of roses and tulips
on a ground of dark blue or green; the patterns, frequently
bold and striking, if of a somewhat barbaric style of art,
betray the Oriental influence of Roumanian country artists, of
whom they are doubtless borrowed. A similarly painted
wooden framework runs round the top of the room, above
the doors and windows, with pegs, from which are
suspended the jugs I am in search of, and a bar, behind
which rows of plates are secured.
On the large unoccupied bedsteads are piled up, sometimes
as high as the ceiling, stores of huge, downy pillows, their
covers richly embroidered in quaint patterns executed in
black, scarlet, or blue and yellow worsted. They are mostly
worked in the usual tapestry cross-stitch, and often
represent flowers, birds, or animals in the old German style—
the name of the embroideress and the date of the work
being usually introduced. Many of the pieces I saw were very
old, and dates of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
are constantly turning up; but alongside are others of recent
date, for the custom of thus employing the long winter
evenings is still kept up among the village girls.
I asked some of them whence they took their patterns,
whether they had any sampler books or printed designs to
copy from. Nothing of the sort, I was told; they just copy
from one another and from old pieces of work. Thus it comes
about that many of them to-day go on reproducing some old
bird or flower, first introduced by an ancestress of the worker
many hundred years ago.
This system of copying is clearly to be traced in the different
villages. As each village forms a separate body or
community, and intercourse and intermarriage hardly ever
take place, these patterns become localized, and one design
is apt to run in one particular place to the exclusion of
others. Thus I remarked one village where flourishes a
peculiar breed of square-built peacocks, alternated with
preposterous stags in red and blue worsted, but these
fabulous animals are rarely wont to stray beyond the
confines of their own parish; while in another community
there is a strongly marked epidemic of embroidered double-
eagles, perhaps explainable by the fact that part of the
population is of Austrian extraction.
 SAXON EMBROIDERY.
The Saxon hausfrau will generally receive us in a surly,
mistrustful manner, and the Saxon peasant will not dream of
rising from his seat when he sees a lady enter the room. If
we happen to be tired we had better sit down unbidden, for
neither he nor she is likely to offer us a chair.
Our question as to whether they have any jugs or plates is
usually met with a sort of ungracious affirmative. “Will they
sell them?” “Not on any account whatsoever! these jugs
belonged to some dearly beloved great-grandfather or
grandmother, and must be preserved in their memory. Not
for unheard-of sums of gold could they bear to separate
themselves from such a relic,” etc.
These assertions must, however, be taken for what they are
worth, and whoever has tried the experiment will have found
by experience that it is merely a question of money, and that
sometimes an extra bid of ten or twenty kreuzers (twopence
or fourpence) will turn the scale, and induce these pious
grandchildren to consign to oblivion the memory of the
beloved ancestor.
These jugs, which are destined to hold wine (one for each
guest) on the occasion of their baptismal, wedding, or
funeral banquets, are from nine to eleven inches high, and
have a metal lid attached to the handle. Every variety of
coloring and pattern is to be found among them; sometimes
it is an uncouth design of dancing or drunken peasants,
sometimes a pair of stags, or a dog in pursuit of a hare, or
else a basket filled with fruit, or raised medallions with sprigs
of flowers in the centre.
My inquiries were usually met by the suspicious counter-
questions, “Why do you want to buy our jugs? What are you
going to do with them?” and the answer I gave, that I was
fond of such old things, and that they would be hung up in
my dining-room, was often received with evident disbelief.
These people are not easily induced to talk about
themselves, and have little sense of humor or power of
repartee. They have an instinctive distrust of whoever tries
to draw them out, scenting in each superfluous question a
member of a species they abhor—namely, “a chiel among
them taking notes;” or, as the Saxon puts it, “one of those
incomprehensible towns-folk, ever fretting and ferreting after
our ways and customs, and who have no sensible reason for
doing so either.”
 SAXON EMBROIDERY AND POTTERY.
(This and the illustration on p. 53 are from the
collection of Saxon Antiquities in possession of Herr
Emil Sigerus at Hermanstadt.)
Two analogous incidents which I met with, soon after my
arrival in Transylvania, seemed to give me the respective
clews to Saxon and Roumanian character. The first was in a
Saxon peasant’s house, where I had just purchased two jugs
and a plate, for which, being still a stranger in those parts, I
had paid considerably more than they were worth, when on
leaving the house the hostess put a small bunch of flowers
into my hand. The nosegay was somewhat tumbled and
faded, for this was Sunday afternoon, and probably the
woman or her daughter had worn these flowers at church
earlier in the day. In my ignorance of Saxon character I took
this offering in the light of a courteous attention, and
accepted the bouquet with a word of thanks.
My error did not last long, for as I stepped into the court-yard
the wooden, Noah’s-ark faced woman hurried after me, and
roughly snatching the nosegay out of my hand, she harshly
exclaimed,
“I do not give my flowers for nothing! unless you pay me two
kreuzers (a halfpenny), I shall keep them for myself!”
Very much amused, I paid the required sum, feeling that, in
spite of the crushed condition of the flowers, I had got more
than a halfpenny’s worth out of my hostess after all.
Two or three days later, when out riding, we lost our way in
the mazes of the Yungwald, the large oak-forest which
stretches for miles over the country to the south of
Hermanstadt. It was near sunset when we found ourselves in
a totally strange neighborhood, not knowing which turn to
take in order to regain the road back to the town. Just then a
Roumanian peasant woman came in sight. She had on her
back a bundle of firewood, which she had probably stolen in
the forest, and in her hand she carried a large bunch of
purple iris flowers, fresh and dripping from some neighboring
marsh.
I suppose that I must have looked longingly at the beautiful
purple bunch, for while my husband was asking the way as
well as he could by means of a little broken Italian, she came
round to the side of my horse, and with a pretty gesture held
up the flowers for my acceptance. With the Saxon lesson
fresh in my mind I hesitated to take them, for I had left my
purse at home; so I explained to her by pantomime that I
had no money about me. She had not been thinking of
money, it seems, and energetically disclaimed the offer of
payment, continuing her way after a courteous buna sara
(good-evening).
Since then, in my walks and rides about Hermanstadt, I have
often been presented with similar offerings from perfectly
unknown Roumanian peasants, who would sometimes stop
their galloping horses and get out of the cart merely for the
purpose of giving me a few flowers; but never, never has it
been my good-luck to receive the smallest sign of
spontaneous courtesy from any Saxon, and I grieve to say
that frequently my experience has been all the other way.
One day, for instance, when walking in a hay-field through
which ran a rapid mill-stream, I suddenly missed my dog, a
lively rat-terrier, which had been running backward and
forward in search of field-mice. “Brick, Brick, Brick!” I called
in vain over and over again, but Brick was nowhere to be
seen. Only a stifled squealing, apparently proceeding from
the mill-stream some way off, met my ear; but I did not
immediately think of connecting this sound with my truant
terrier. Some Saxon peasants were at work near the water
stowing up hay on to a cart. “Have you not seen my dog?” I
called out to them.
One of the men now slowly removed his pipe from his mouth.
“Your dog?” he asked, stolidly. “Oh yes; he’s just drowning
yonder in the stream.” And he lazily pointed over his
shoulder with a pitchfork.
I rushed to the bank, and there sure enough was my poor
half-drowned Brick struggling to keep himself above water,
but almost exhausted already. He had fallen in over the
treacherous edge, which was masked by overhanging
bushes; and the banks being too steep to effect a landing, he
must inevitably have perished had I not come up in time.
With considerable difficulty, and at the risk of falling in
myself, I managed to drag him out, the worthy Saxons
meanwhile looking on with indolent enjoyment, never
dreaming of offering assistance.
The hard and grasping characters of the Saxons appear in
every detail of their daily life; they taint their family
relations, and would almost seem to put a marketable price
on the most sacred affections. Thus a Saxon mother in her
cradle-song informs the sleeping infant that she values it as
high as a hundred florins; while the grief over a beloved
corpse often takes the form of counting up the exact
pecuniary loss to the family sustained from the decease.
Their family life does not appear to be happy, and divorces
are lamentably numerous. It seems, in fact, as if divorce had
grown to be an established habit among these people; and
despite all efforts, of the clergy to discourage this abuse, and
the difficulties purposely put in the way of divorcing parties,
there is little prospect of improvement as yet. No
improvement can possibly take place till Saxon parents give
up forcing their children to wed against their will, merely for
mercenary reasons, and till girls are allowed to attain a
reasonable age before binding themselves down to a
contract of such importance. When want of sympathy
towards the proposed husband is urged on the part of the
girl, such objections are usually settled by the practical
advice of the long-sighted parents. “Try him for a time, and
maybe you will get to like him; and if not—well, the
misfortune is none so great, and you can always seek for a
divorce.” Brides of fifteen are quite the order of the day, and
few are suffered to reach so mature an age as seventeen or
eighteen; the consequence of these arrangements being that
fully a third of the couples go asunder, each choosing
another mate, with whom they usually fare better than with
their first venture.
Often in the course of my visits to Saxon peasant houses
have I come across one of these unfortunate young females
returned to her parents’ house, sometimes after a few weeks
only of matrimony, there to await the divorce which is to set
her free to choose again.
The reasons which induce these people to sue for a
separation are frequently so exceedingly futile and ridiculous
as hardly to deserve that name. Often it is the food which is
made a cause of complaint—either the husband declaring
that his wife will take no trouble to please him with her
cookery, or else the wife complaining of his being capricious
and hard to please. An underdone potato may prove so very
indigestible as to sever the conjugal bond, or an ill-baked
loaf of bread assume such dimensions as to constitute a
barrier for life.
Village pastors whose parishes lie in the wine-bearing
districts affirm that the season immediately following upon
the vintage, when the cellars are full of new wine, is the
most quarrelsome time in the year, and the one which
engenders most separations. But even without the aid of
stimulants, and when no thought of divorce is in their minds,
quarrelsome ménages are numerous; and the old story of
the Tartar carrying off the shrewish wife of a thoroughly
resigned husband may well have had its origin here. This
legend, told all over Hungary, relates how a peasant, as he
calmly watched the retreating figure of the Tartar bearing off
the wife of his bosom, was heard to murmur, “Poor Tartar!
thou hast made a bad bargain.”
In Transylvania this same story is told of a Saxon peasant,
but with a sequel; for this version relates how the bereaved
widower settled himself down to a hearty supper that same
evening, ever and anon murmuring, as his eye rested on the
empty chair opposite his own, the words, “Poor Tartar!” for
he was a kind-hearted man, and felt compassion even for the
sufferings of a barbarian. But of a sudden the door flies
open, and the wretched man once more beholds his lost wife
standing before him. Her temper had proved too much even
for a Tartar, who had wisely flown, leaving his captive
behind.
The words “Poor Tartar!” now gave place to another form of
ejaculation; and whenever he deemed himself out of ear-
shot, the Saxon muttered bitterly between his teeth
“Rascally Tartar! Rascally Tartar!”
But for this unfortunate dénouement, who knows whether
Saxon husbands of to-day might not frequently be moved to
regret the good old times when an obliging Tartar might be
expected thus to relieve them of such superfluous blessings?
The bond between parent and child seems to be hardly more
commendable. Perhaps my experience has been
exceptionally infelicitous, but certainly never in any country
has it been my ill-fortune to listen to such shocking and
disrespectful language from children to their parents as what
I have occasionally overheard in Saxon cottages.
The Saxon peasant being a declared enemy of large families
presents a striking contrast to his Roumanian neighbor, with
whom six or eight bairns are a very common allowance, and
who regards each new addition to the family as another gift
of God. The oft-repeated insinuation that the Transylvanian
Saxons seek to limit their progeny by unnatural means does
not seem to be entirely without foundation. It is said that to
have two children only is considered the correct thing in a
Saxon household, and that the Saxon mother who, when
cross-questioned as to her offspring, has to acknowledge
three bairns, turns away her head shamefacedly, as though
she were confessing a crime.
It is because the Saxon does not care to see his fields cut up
into small sections that he desires his family to be small; and
the consequence of this short-sighted egotism is, that the
population of many villages shows a yearly decrease, and
that houses often stand empty because there is no one to
live there.[7] Thus one village near Hermanstadt can show
twenty-seven, another twelve such deserted dwellings. A
man whose whole family consisted of two daughters, both
married to peasants with houses of their own, was asked
what would become of his fine well-built home after his
decease. “It will just stand empty,” was the stolid reply. In
some villages these empty Saxon houses have been taken
possession of by Roumanians, who look strangely
incongruous within these massive stone walls, reminding one
somehow of sparrows which have taken up their residence in
a deserted rookery.
Saxon political economists, alive to the danger of their race
becoming extinct, think of trying to get new batches of
German colonists to settle here, in order to freshen up and
increase the number of the race; but there is little chance of
such projects being successful. The inducements which
formerly tempted strangers no longer exist; and there are
probably few Germans who would think it worth their while
to settle in a country where every inch of land has already
been appropriated, and where the Government seeks to rob
each one of his nationality.
The besetting fault of this whole Saxon nation seems to be
an immoderate spirit of egotism, so short-sighted as
frequently to defeat its own end, leading each man to
consider only his individual welfare, to the exclusion of every
other feeling. It is strange and paradoxical that these honest,
moral, thrifty, industrious, and educated Saxons should live
thus in their well-built, roomy houses in a constant state of
inward dissension and strife; while their neighbors, the poor,
ignorant, thieving Roumanians, crowded together in their
wretched hovels, are united by the bonds of a most touching
family affection.[8]
 CHAPTER IX.

SAXON CHURCHES AND SIEGES.

THE words “church” and “fortress” used to be synonymous in
Transylvania, so the places of worship might accurately have
been described as churches militant. Each Saxon village
church was surrounded by a row, sometimes even a double
or triple row, of fortified walls, which are mostly still extant.
The remains of moat and drawbridge are also yet frequently
to be seen. When threatened by an enemy the people used
to retire into these fortresses, often built on some rising
piece of ground, taking with them their valuables as well as
provisions for the contingency of a lengthy siege. From these
heights the Saxons used to roll down heavy stones on to
their assailants, sometimes with terrible effect; but when
they had in this way exhausted their missiles, the
predicament was often a very precarious one. Some of these
stones still survive, and may occasionally be seen—as within
the fortress walls of the old ruined church which I have
already mentioned as standing on a steep incline above the
picturesque village of Michelsberg.
The church itself, having been replaced by a more
conveniently situated one down in the village, is now
deserted, and is used only as a storehouse by the villagers.
The fortified walls are crumbling away, and the passage
round the church is choked up by weeds and briers, among
which lie strewn about many old moss-grown stones, circular
in shape and resembling giant cannon-balls. These were the
missiles which lay there in readiness to be rolled down on to
an approaching enemy; and there was a law compelling each
bridegroom, before leading his bride to the altar, to roll uphill
to the church-door one of these formidable globes. This was
so ordained in order to exclude from matrimony all sick or
weakly subjects; and as the incline was a steep one, and
each stone weighed about two hundred-weight, it was a
considerable test of strength.

FORTIFIED SAXON CHURCH.

Would that these old stones, lying here neglected among the
nettles, had the gift of speech! What traits of love and of
bloodshed might we not learn from them! Only to look at
them there strewn around, it is not difficult to guess at the
outlines of some of the stories they are dumbly telling us.
Many are chipped and worn away, and have evidently been
used more than once in their double capacity, alternately
rolled up the hill by smiling Cupid, to be hurled down again
by furious Nemesis.
Here near a clump of burdock-leaves is a shabby-looking
globe of yellow sandstone, whose puny size plainly speaks of
a mariage de convenance—a mere union of hands without
hearts; perhaps some old widower, with trembling hands and
shaky knees, in quest of a wife to look after his house, and to
whom the whole matter was very uphill work indeed!
Close alongside, half hidden beneath the graceful tangles of
a wild-rose bush, is a formidable bowlder of gigantic, nay,
heroic size, which forcibly suggests that it must have been a
mighty love indeed which brought it up here—so mighty, no
doubt, that to the two strong young arms which rolled it up
the hill it must have seemed light as a feather’s weight.
And how many of these, might one ask, have been rolled up
here in vain, in so far as the love was concerned? When the
fire of love had grown cold and its sweetness all turned to
vinegar, how many, many a former lover must heartily have
wished that he had never moved his stone from the bottom
of the hill!
Such thoughts involuntarily crowd on the mind when sitting,
as I have done many a time, within this lonely ruin on fine
summer evenings, the idyllic peacefulness of the scene the
more strongly felt by contrast with the bloody memories
linked around it. It is so strange to realize how completely
everything has passed away that once used to be: that the
hands which pushed these heavy globes, as well as the
Moslem crania for which they were intended, have turned
alike to dust; that hushed forever are the voices once
awaking fierce echoes within these very walls; and that of all
those contrasting passions, of all that tender love and that
burning hatred, nothing has survived but a few old stones
lying forgotten near a deserted church!

The history of the sieges endured in Transylvania on the part

of Turk or Tartar would in itself furnish matter for many
volumes. Numberless anecdotes are yet current
characterizing the endurance and courage of the besieged,
and the original means often resorted to in order to baffle or
mislead the enemy.
Once it was the ready wit of a Szekel woman which saved
her people besieged by the Tartars within the Almescher
cavern. As the whole land had been devastated from end to
end, a severe famine was the consequence, and both
besiegers and besieged were sorely in want of victuals. The
Szekels had taken some provisions with them into the cave,
but these were soon exhausted; and the Tartars, though
starving themselves, were consoled by thinking that hunger
would soon compel their enemy to give in. One day, when,
as usual, the barbarians had assembled shouting and
howling in front of the cavern, whose entrance was defended
by a high wall, a Hungarian woman held up before their eyes
a large cake at the end of a long pole, and cried out,
tauntingly, “See here, ye dogs of Tartars! Thus are we
feasting in plenty and comfort, while you are reduced to eat
grass and roots of trees.” This much-vaunted cake was but
kneaded together of water and ashes, with a few last
remaining spoonfuls of flour; but the Tartars, taken in by the
feint, abandoned the field.
Another time it was nothing more than a swarm of bees
which turned the scale in favor of the Saxons, hard pressed
by the enemy outside. Already they had begun to scale the
walls of the fortified church, and death and destruction
seemed imminent, when the youthful daughter of the
church-warden was struck by a bright idea. Behind the
church was a little garden full of sweet-scented flowers, and
containing a dozen beehives, which it was Lieschen’s (such
was her name) pride to watch over. Seizing a hive in each
hand, she sprang up on the fortress wall, and with all her
strength hurled them down among the approaching
besiegers. Again and again she repeated this manœuvre till
the hives were exhausted, and the bewildered enemies,
blinded by the dense swarm of infuriated bees, deafened by
the angry buzzing in their ears, and maddened by
hundredfold stings, beat an ignominious and hasty retreat.
This occurred in the village of Holzmengen towards the end
of the seventeenth century, and of this same village it is
related that, when peace was finally restored to the land, the
population was so reduced that most houses stood empty. Of
four hundred landholders there used to be, but fifteen now
remained; and many years passed by without any wedding
being celebrated in the place. When, however, at last this
rare event came to pass, the bridegroom received the name
of the “young man,” which stuck to him until his end. The
bride was no other than Lieschen, the bee-maiden, and
Thomas was the name of her husband; and to this day
whoever is in possession of that particular house goes by the
name of “den jung mon Thomas,” even though he happen to
have been christened Hans or Peter, and be, moreover, as
old as Methuselah. If you ask the name of such another
house in the same village, you are told that it belongs to
Michel am Eck (Michael at the corner). It is not a corner
house, neither does its proprietor answer to the name of
Michel; but where it stands was once the corner of a street,
and Michel the name of one of the fifteen landholders who
divided the property after the war; hence the appellation.
There is a story told of an active Saxon housewife who, after
she had been shut up for three days within the fortress
awaiting the Tartars reported to be near, began to weary of
her enforced idleness, and throwing open the gate of the
citadel, impatiently called out, “Now, then, you dogs of
Tartars, are you never coming?”
When the Tartars had succeeded in capturing prisoners they
used to fatten them up for eating. A woman from the village
of Almesch, being sickly, refused to fatten, and, set at
liberty, came home to relate the doleful tale. The little
Hungarians and Saxons were regarded as toys for the young
Tartars, who, setting them up in rows, used to practise upon
them the merry pastime of cutting off heads.
Living in Transylvania, we are sometimes inclined to wonder
whether to be besieged by Turks and Tartars be really a thing
of the past, and not rather an actual danger for which we
must be prepared any day, so strangely are many little
observances relating to those times still kept up. Thus in the
belfry tower at Kaisd there hangs a little bell bearing a
Gothic inscription and the date 1506. It is rung every
evening at the usual curfew-hour, and until within a very few
years ago the watchman was under the obligation of calling
forth into the night with stentorian voice, “Not this way, you
villains! not this way! I see you well!”
Also the habit of keeping provisions stored up within the
fortified church-walls, to this day extant in most Saxon
villages, is clearly a remnant of the time when sieges had to
be looked for. Even now the people seem to consider their
goods to be in greater security here than in their own barns
and lofts. The outer fortified wall round the church is often
divided off into deep recesses or alcoves, in each of which
stands a large wooden chest securely locked, and filled with
grain or flour, while the little surrounding turrets or chapels
are used as storehouses for home-cured bacon. “We have
seven chapels all full of bacon,” I was once proudly informed
by a village church-warden; but, with the innate mistrust of
his race, he would not indulge my further curiosity on the
subject by suffering me to inspect the interior of these
greasy sanctuaries, evidently suspecting me of sinister
intentions on his bacon stores.
This storing up of provisions is a perfect mania among the
Saxons, and each village has its own special hobby or
favorite article, vast quantities of which it hoards up in a
preposterous, senseless fashion, reminding one of a dog who
buries more bones than he can ever hope to eat in the
course of his life. Thus, one village prides itself on having the
greatest quantity of bacon, much of which is already thirty or
forty years old, and consequently totally unfit for use; while
in another community the oldest grain is the great specialité.
Each article, case, or barrel is marked with the brand of the
owner, and the whole placed under the charge of the church-
warden.
Some parishes can still boast of many curiously wrought
pieces of church plate remaining over from Catholic days—
enamelled chalices, bejewelled crucifixes, remonstrances,
and ciboriums, richly inlaid and embossed. The village of
Heltau is in possession of many such valuable ornaments
which, during the Turkish wars, used to be buried in the
earth, sometimes for a period of many years, the exact spot
where the treasure was hidden being known only to the
oldest church-warden, who was careful to pass on the secret
to the next in rank when he felt himself to be drawing near
the end of his life. Thus, in the year 1794, the church at
Heltau, struck by lightning, was seriously damaged, and
urgently demanded extensive repairs. How to defray these
expenses was the question which sorely perplexed the
village pastor and the church elders, when the old warden
came forward and offered to reveal to the pastor and the
second warden the secret of a hidden treasure of whose
existence none but he was aware. The man himself had
never set eyes on the treasure, but had received from his
predecessor precise directions how to find it in case of
necessity. Accordingly, under his guidance the pastor,
accompanied by the younger warden, repaired to the church,
where, entering the right-hand aisle, the old man pointed to
three high-backed wooden seats fixed against the wall,
saying, “The centre one of these chairs has a movable panel,
behind which a door is said to be concealed.” After some
effort—for the panel was jammed from long disuse—it
yielded, moving upward, and disclosing a small iron door
with a keyhole, into which fitted an old-fashioned rusty key
produced by the warden. When this door was at last got
open, the three men stepped into a small vault paved with
bricks. “One of these bricks is marked by a cross, and under
it we have to dig for the treasure,” were the further
instructions given by the old man. A very few minutes
proved the truth of his words, bringing to light a small
wooden chest containing a chalice, a silver remonstrance,
and various other valuables, which may still be seen at the
Heltau parsonage; likewise a bag of gold and silver coins,
dating from the time of the Batorys, which leads to the
supposition that the treasure had been lying here concealed
ever since the beginning of the seventeenth century.
Great was the pastor’s surprise and delight at this
unexpected windfall; but he only took from the bag sufficient
money for the necessary repairs, replacing the rest of the
treasure where it had been found. None of the other
parishioners were informed whence had come the money, so
the secret remained a secret.
Only many years later, in the present century, when the son-
in-law of the former clergyman had become pastor in his
turn, the story of the treasure was imparted to him by the
successor of former wardens. The necessity for concealment
had now gone by, and peace and prosperity reigned in the
country; so the church ornaments were once more
disinterred, and finally restored to the light of day, while the
antiquated gold and silver pieces, exchanged into current
coinage, were applied to useful purposes. Thus it was that
the secret oozed out, and came to be generally known.

Saxon village churches of the present day are generally bare

and unornamented inside, for all decorations had been
dismantled at the time of the Reformation; stone niches have
been emptied of the statues they contained, and rich pieces
of carving stowed away in lumber-rooms. Only the old
Oriental carpets, brought hither from Turkish campaigns,
which frequently adorn the front of the pews or the organ-
gallery, have been suffered to remain, and hang there still,
delicately harmonious in coloring, but riddled through with
holes like a sieve, and fed upon by the descendants of a
hundred generations of moths, which flutter in a dense cloud
round the visitor who inadvertently raises a corner of the
drapery to investigate its fleecy quality.
Curious old tombstones and bass-reliefs may often be seen
carelessly huddled together in the church entrance or
outside the walls, treated with no sort of appreciation of their
historical value or care for their ultimate preservation. Also
the numerous frescos which used to cover many church
walls have been obliterated by the barbarous touch of a
whitewashing hand. It would almost seem as if this Saxon
people had originally possessed some degree of artistic
feeling, which has been, however, effectually extinguished
by the Reformation; for it is difficult otherwise to explain how
a nation capable of raising monuments of real artistic value
in the troubled times of the barbarous Middle Ages should be
thus heedless of their conservation in the present
enlightened and peaceful century.
 RUINED ABBEY OF KERZ.
Of this lamentable indifference to the conservation of their
historical and artistic treasures, the ruined Abbey of Kerz,
situated in the valley of the Aluta, offers a melancholy
instance. This wealthy Cistercian monastery was founded by
King Bela III. towards the end of the twelfth century; but
being abolished by King Mathias three centuries later, on
account of irregularities into which the monks had fallen, it
passed, with its lands, into possession of the Hermanstadt
church.
The choir of the ancient abbey church, built in the time of
Louis the Great in the transition style, is still used as a place
of worship by the small Lutheran congregation of Kerz, but
the nave has been suffered to fall into decay; many of the
richly carved stones of which it was formed have been
carried off by the villagers, who have utilized them for
building their houses, or degraded them to yet baser
purposes. We ourselves crossed the little stream, which runs
close by the parson’s house, on stepping-stones evidently
taken from the ancient building. Likewise a lime-tree of
gigantic dimensions in front of the western portal, and
supposed to have been planted when the foundation-stone
of the church was laid, is now in imminent danger of splitting
in twain for want of the trifling attention of an iron waistband
to keep its poor old body together. Such the present
lamentable condition of one of the most interesting relics in
the country which has been named the Melrose of
Transylvania.
 CHAPTER X.

THE SAXON VILLAGE PASTOR.

THE contrast between the domestic lives of Roumanian and
Saxon peasants is all the more surprising as their respective
clergies set totally different examples; for while many
Roumanian priests are drunken, dissolute men, open to
every sort of bribery, the Saxon pastor is almost invariably a
model of steadiness and morality, and leads a quiet,
industrious, and contented life.
On the other hand, however, it may be remarked that if the
Saxon pastor be steady and well-behaved, he has very good
and solid reasons for so being. Certainly he is most
comfortably indemnified for the virtues he is expected to
practise.
When a pastor dies the villagers themselves elect his
successor by votes. Usually it is a man whom they know
already by sight or reputation, or from having heard him
preach on stray occasions in their church. Every Saxon
pastor, in order to be qualified for the position, must have
practised for several years as professor at a public
gymnasium—a very wise regulation, as it insures the places
being filled by men of education.
The part which a village pastor is called upon to play
requires both head and heart, for the relation between
shepherd and flock is here very different from the
conventional footing on which clergy and laity stand with
regard to each other in town life. Whereas in the city no
congregation cares to see its spiritual head outside the
church walls, and would resent as unpardonable intrusion
any attempt of his to penetrate the privacy of the domestic
circle, the villager not only expects but insists on his pastor
taking intimate part in his family life, and being ready to
assist him with advice and admonition in every possible
contingency.
The peasants are therefore very circumspect about the
choice of a pastor, well aware that the weal or woe of a
community may depend upon the selection. They have
often seen how some neighboring village has awakened to
new life and prosperity since the advent of a worthy
clergyman; while such another parish, from a rash selection,
has saddled itself with a man it would fain cart away as so
much useless straw, were it only possible to get rid of him.
For although the power of choice lies entirely with the
peasants, they cannot likewise undo their work at will, and
only the bishop has power to depose a pastor when he has
investigated the complaints brought against him and found
them to be justified.
Not only the pastor in spe, but also his wife, is carefully
scrutinized, and her qualifications for the patriarchal
position she has to occupy critically examined into; for if the
clergyman is termed by his flock the “honorable father,” so
is she designated as the “virtuous mother.” The candidate
who happens to have a thrifty and benevolent consort finds
his chances of election considerably enhanced; while such
another, married to a vain and frivolous woman, will most
likely be found awanting when weighed in the balance.
The funeral of a village pastor has been touchingly
described by a native author,[9] whose words I take the
liberty of quoting:
“The old father had gone to his long rest: more than once
during the last few years he had felt that the time had come
for him to lay down the shepherd’s crook; for the world had
become too stirring, and he no longer had the strength and
activity of spirit to do all that was expected of him. There
were serious repairs to be undertaken about the church, and
the question of building a new school-house was becoming
urgent. Likewise many of the new church regulations were
harassing and distasteful exceedingly; most especially was
he troubled by inward quakings at the idea that at the
bishop’s next official visit he would be expected to submit to
him the manuscripts of all the sermons he had preached
within the year, and which, neatly tied up together with
black worsted, were lying on the lowest shelf of the
bookcase.

SAXON PASTOR IN FULL DRESS.

“All these thoughts had reconciled him to the prospect of
death; and when sitting before his door on fine summer
evenings he would sometimes remark to the neighbors who
had lingered near for a passing chat, ‘It cannot last over-
long with me now: one or two pair of soles at most I shall
wear out, and I should be glad to remain in the village, and
to sleep there under the big lime-tree, in the midst of those
with whom my life has been spent. Therefore kindly bear
with me a little longer, good people, for the few remaining
days the Lord is pleased to spare me.’ And these words
never failed to conciliate even the more turbulent spirits,
who were apt to think that the Herr Vater was over-long in
going, and that the parish stood in need of a younger head.
“Now at last the coffin has been lowered into the earth, and
the fresh mound covered with dewy garlands of flowers. All
the villagers have turned out to render the last honors to
the father they have lost. The eldest son of the defunct,
standing near the grave, addresses the congregation. In a
few simple words he thanks them for the good they have
done to his father and to his whole family, and, in name of
the dead man, he begs their forgiveness for whatever
wrongs the pastor may unwittingly have done; and when he
then lays down the keys of both church and parsonage into
the hand of the church-warden, scarcely an eye will remain
dry among the spectators. For forty years is a long time in
which a good man, even though he often errs and be at
fault, can yet have done much, very much, good indeed,
and resentment is a plant which strikes no root in the
upturned clods of a new-made grave.”
But the orphaned congregation must have a new pastor; the
flock cannot be suffered to remain long without a shepherd;
and this is the topic which is being discussed with much
warmth at an assemblage of village elders. On the white-
decked table are standing dishes of bread-and-cheese,
flanked by large tankards of wine. The first glass has just
been emptied to the memory of the dead pastor, and now
the second glass will be drunk to the health of his yet
unknown successor.
These meetings preceding the election of a new shepherd
are often long and stormy; for when the wine has taken
effect and loosened the tongues, the different candidates
who might be taken into consideration are passed in review,
and extolled with much heat, or abused with broad sarcasm.
One man is rejected on account of an impediment in his
speech, and another because he is known to be unmarried;
a third one, who might do well enough for any other parish,
cannot be chosen here because his old parents are natives
of the village; for it is a true though a hard word which says
that no one can be a prophet in his own country. One man
who ventures to suggest the vicar of a neighboring village is
informed that no blacker traitor exists on the face of the
earth; and another, who describes his pet candidate as an
ideal clergyman, with the figure of a Hercules and the voice
of a Stentor, is ironically asked whether he wishes to choose
a pastor by weight and measure. If only his head and heart
be in the right place the clergyman’s legs are welcome to be
an inch or two shorter.
After a longer or shorter interval a decision is finally arrived
at. From a list of six candidates one has been elected by the
secret votes of the community, each married land-owner
having a voice in the matter, and the name of the
successful aspirant is publicly made known in church.
Meanwhile a group of young men on horseback are waiting
at the church door, and hardly has the all-important name
been pronounced when they set spurs to their steeds and
gallop to bear the news to the successful candidate. A hot
race ensues, for the foremost one can hope to get a shining
piece of silver—perhaps even gold—in exchange for the
good tidings he brings. In a carriage, at a more leisurely
pace, follow the elders who have been deputed to hand over
the official document containing the nomination.
An early day is fixed for the presentation of the new
shepherd to his flock, and at a still earlier date the new Frau
Pastorin precedes him thither, where she is soon deep in the
mysteries of cake-baking, fowl-killing, etc., in view of the
many official banquets which are to accompany the
presentation. In this employment she has ample assistance
from the village matrons, as well as contributions of eggs,
cream, butter, and bacon. The day before the presentation
the pastor has been fetched in a carriage drawn by six white
horses. The first step to his installation is the making out
and signing of the agreement or treaty between pastor and
people—all the said pastor’s duties, obligations, and
privileges being therein distinctly specified and enumerated,
from the exact quantity and quality of Holy Gospel he is
bound to administer yearly to the congregation down to his
share of wild crab-apples for brewing the household vinegar,
and the precise amount of acorns his pigs are at liberty to
consume.
After this treaty has been duly signed and read aloud, the
keys of the church are solemnly given over and accepted
with appropriate speeches. The banquet which succeeds
this ceremony is called the “key-drinking.” Then follows the
solemn installation in the church, where the new pastor, for
the first time, pronounces aloud the blessing over his
congregation, who strain their ears with critical attention to
catch the sound and pass sentence thereon. The Saxon
peasant thinks much of a full sonorous voice; therefore woe
to the man who is cursed with a thin squeaky organ, for he
will assuredly fall at least fifty per cent. in the estimation of
his audience.
Then follows another banquet, at which each of the church
officials has his place at table marked by a silver thaler
piece (about 3s.) lying at the bottom of his large tankard,
and visible through the clear golden wine with which the
bumper is filled. Etiquette demands that the drinker should
taste of the wine but sparingly at first, merely wetting the
lips and affecting not to perceive the silver coin; but when
the health of the new pastor is drunk, each man must empty
his tankard at one draught, skilfully catching the thaler
between the teeth as he drains it dry. This coin is then
supposed to be treasured up in memory of the event.
This has been but a flying visit to his new parish, and only
some weeks later does the new pastor hold his solemn entry
into the parish, the preparations for the flitting naturally
occupying some few weeks. The village is bound to convey
the new pastor, his family, as well as all their goods and
chattels, to the new home, and it is considered a distinction
when many carts are required for the purpose, even though
the distance be great and the roads bad, for the people
would have no opinion at all of a pastor who arrived in light
marching order, but seem rather to value him in proportion
to the trouble he gives them. As many as eighteen to twenty
carts are sometimes pressed into service for this patriarchal
procession.
The six white horses which are to be harnessed to the
carriage for the clergyman and his wife have been carefully
fattened up during the last few weeks, their manes plaited
with bright ribbons, and the carriage itself decorated with
flower garlands. At the parish boundary all the young men
of the village have come out on horseback to meet them,
and with flying banners they ride alongside of the carriage.
In this way the village is reached, where sometimes a straw
rope is stretched across the road to bar his entrance. This is
removed on the pastor paying a ransom, and, entering the
village, the driver is expected to conduct his horses at full
gallop thrice round the fortified walls of the church before
entering the parsonage court-yard.
The village pastor, who lives among his people, must adopt
their habits and their hours. It would not do for him to lie
abed till seven or eight o’clock, like a town gentleman: five
o’clock, and even sooner, must find him dressed and ready
to attend to the hundred and one requirements of his
parishioners, who, even at that early hour, come pouring in
upon him from all sides.
Perhaps it is a petition for some particularly fine sort of
turnip-seed which only the Herr Vater has got; or else he is
requested to look into his wise book to see if he can find a
remedy for the stubborn cough of a favorite horse, or the
distressing state of the calf’s digestion. Another will bring
him a dish of golden honey-comb, with some question
regarding the smoking of the hives; while a fourth has come
to request the pastor to transform his new-born son from a
pagan into a Christian infant.
Various deputations of villagers, inviting the pastor to two
different funerals and to six weddings, have successively
been disposed of: then will come a peasant with some
Hungarian legal document which he would like to have
deciphered. Has he won the lawsuit which has been pending
these two years and more? or has he lost it, and will he be
obliged to pay the damages as well? This is a riddle which
only the Herr Vater can read him aright by consulting the
big Hungarian dictionary on the shelf.
The next visitor is perchance an old white-bearded man,
bent double with the weight of years, and carrying a well-
worn Bible under his arm. He wants to know his age, which
used to be entered somewhere here in the book; but he
cannot find the place, or else the bookbinder, in mending
the volume last year, has pasted paper over it. Perhaps the
Herr Vater can make it out for him; and further to facilitate
the search, he mentions that there was corn in the upper
fields, and maize in the low meadows, the year he was born,
and that since then the corn has been sown twenty-four
times on the same spot, and will be sown there again next
year if God pleases to spare him. The pastor, who must of
course be well versed in this sort of rural arithmetic, has no
difficulty in pronouncing the man to be exactly seventy-
three years and three months old, and sends him away well
pleased to discover that he is a whole year younger than he
had believed himself to be.
Often, too, a couple appear on the scene for the purpose of
being reconciled. The man has beaten his wife, and she has
come to complain—not of the beating in the abstract, but of
the manner in which this particular castigation has been
administered. It was really too bad this time, as, sobbing,
she explains to the Herr Vater that he has belabored her
with a thick leather thong in a truly heathenish fashion,
instead of taking the broomstick, as does every respectable
man, to beat his wife.
The virtuous Frau Mutter has likewise her full share of the
day’s work. An old hen to be made into broth for a sick
grandchild, a piece of cloth to be cut out in the shape of a
jacket, or a handkerchief to be hemmed on the big sewing-
machine, all pass successively into her busy hands; and if
she goes for a day’s shopping to the nearest market-town
she is positively besieged by commissions of all sorts. Six
china plates of some particular pattern, a coffee-cup to
replace the one thrown down by the cat last week, a pound
of loaf-sugar, the whitest, finest, sweetest, and cheapest
that can be got, or a packet of composition candles. Even
weightier matters are sometimes intrusted to her judgment,
and she may have to accept the awful responsibility of
selecting a new mirror or a petroleum lamp.
Letter-writing is also another important branch of the duties
of both pastor and wife. It may be an epistle to some
daughter who is in service, or to a soldier son away with his
regiment, a threatening letter to an unconscientious debtor,
or a business transaction with the farmer of another village.
In fact, all the raw material of epistolary affection,
remonstrance, counsel, or threat is brought wholesale to the
parsonage, there to be fashioned into shape, and set forth
clearly in black upon white.
Altogether the day of a Saxon pastor is a busy and well-filled
one, for his doors, from sunrise to sunset, must be open to
his parishioners, so that after having “risen with the lark” he
is well content further to carry out the proverb by “going to
bed with the lamb.”
A great deal of patience and natural tact is requisite to
enable a clergyman to deal intelligently with his folk. His
time must always be at their disposal, and he must never
appear to be hurried or busy when expected to listen to
some long-winded story or complaint. Nothing must be too
trifling to arouse his interest, and no hour of the day too
unreasonable to receive a visit; yet, on the whole, the lot of
such a village pastor who rightly understands his duties
seems to me a very peaceful and enviable one. He is most
comfortably situated as regards material welfare, and
stands sufficiently aside from the bustling outer world to be
spared the annoyances and irritations of more ambitious
careers. The fates of his parishioners, so closely interwoven
with his own, are a constant source of interest, and the
almost unlimited power he enjoys within the confines of his
parish makes him feel himself to be indeed the monarch of
this little kingdom.
One parsonage in particular is engraved on my mind as a
perfect frame for such Arcadian happiness. An old-fashioned
roomy house, with high-pitched roof, it stands within the
ring of fortified walls which encircle the church as well. A
few wide-spreading lime-trees are picturesquely dotted
about the turf between the two buildings; and some old
moss-grown stones, half sunk in the velvet grass where the
violets cluster so thick in spring, betray this to be the site of
a long-disused burying-place. Up a few steps there is a
raised platform with seats arranged against the wall, from
which, as from an opera-box, one may overlook the village
street and mark the comings and goings of the inhabitants;
and a large kitchen-garden, opening through the wall in
another direction, contains every fruit and vegetable which
a country heart can desire. But the greatest attraction, to
my thinking, was a long arcade of lilac-bushes, so thickly
grown that the branches closed together overhead, only
admitting a soft, tremulous, green half-light, and scented
with every variety of the dear old-fashioned shrub, from the
exquisite dwarf Persian and snowy white to each possible
gradation of lilac pink and pinky lilac. Along this fragrant
gallery old carved stone benches are placed at intervals;
and hither, as the venerable pastor informed me, he always
comes on Saturday evenings in summer to compose his
sermon for the morrow. “It is so much easier to think out
here,” he said, “among the birds and flowers and the old
graves all around. When the air is scented with the breath of
violets, and from the open church window comes the sound
of the organ, ah, then I feel myself another man, and God
teaches me quite other words to say to my people than
those I find for myself inside the house!”
 CHAPTER XI.

THE SAXON BROTHERHOODS—

NEIGHBORHOODS AND VILLAGE
HANN.
Among the curiosities I picked up in the course of my
wanderings about Saxon villages is a large zinc dish sixteen
inches in diameter, curiously engraved and inscribed. On
the outside rim there is a running pattern of hares and
stags; on the inside a coat-of-arms, and this inscription:
“NEU JAHRS GESCHENK VON DER
EHRLICHEN BRUDERSCHAFT.[10]
ALT GESEL GEORG BAYR,
JUNGER TOMAS FRAYTAG
1791.”
The dish makes a convenient tray for holding calling-cards,
and its origin is an interesting addition to the history of
these Saxon people, as it comprises two noteworthy
features of their organization—namely, the Bruderschaften
(brotherhoods) and the Nachbarschaften (neighborhoods).
The Bruderschaft is an association to which belong all young
men of the parish, from the date of their confirmation up to
that of their marriage. This community is governed by strict
laws, in which the duties of its members respectively, as
citizens, sons, brothers, suitors, and even dancers, are
distinctly traced out. In their outward form these
brotherhoods have some sort of resemblance to the
religious confraternities still existing in many Catholic
countries, and most probably they originated in the same
manner; but while these latter have now degenerated into
mere outward forms, the Saxon brotherhoods have retained
the original spirit of such institutions, principally consisting
in the reciprocal watch its members kept over one another’s
morality. Mr. Boner, in his book, very aptly compares the
Saxon Bruderschaften to the Heidelberg Burschenschafts;
and spite of the great difference which may at first sight
appear, these institutions are the only ones to which the
Saxon brotherhoods may at all be likened. In the towns
these confraternities have now completely disappeared; but
in villages they are still in full force, and have but little or
nothing of their original character.[11]
The head of the Brotherhood is called the Alt-knecht. He is
chosen every year, but can be deposed at any time if he
prove unworthy of his post. It is his mission to watch over
the other members, keep order, and dictate punishments;
but when he is caught erring himself he incurs a double
forfeit. When a new Alt-knecht is about to be chosen, the
seven oldest brothers are proposed as candidates. With
money received from the treasurer these repair to the
public-house, there to await the decision of the
confraternity. The other members meanwhile proceed to
vote, and when they have made a decision, send a
deputation of two brothers to invite the candidates to come
and learn the result.
Twice the deputation is carelessly dismissed, the candidates
affecting to feel no interest in the matter; only when the
ambassadors appear for the third time two glasses of wine
are filled for them, and they are desired to salute the new
Alt-knecht.
The two emissaries then take place on either side of the
newly chosen leader and drink his health, with the words,
“Helf Gott, Alt-knecht.” They then all proceed back to the
assembly-room, where the senior candidate says,
“God be with you, brother: you have sent for us; what do
you want?”
The eldest among the voters answers for the others,
“We have chosen N. N. for our Alt-knecht; the other six can
sit down.”
The lucky candidate is now expected to play the
shamefaced, modest rôle, and say,
“Look farther, brother; seek for a better one.”
“We have already looked,” is the answer.
“And is it in truth your will that I and no other should be your
head?”
“It is our will.”
“And shall it then be so?”
“It shall be so.”
“And may it be so?”
“It may be so.”
“Then God help me to act righteously towards myself and
you.”
“God help you, Alt-knecht.”
The senior brother then solemnly presents him to the
assembly, saying,
“See, brothers, this is the Alt-knecht you have chosen for
the coming year. He is bound to undertake all journeys on
behalf of the affairs of the confraternity, he will preside at
our meetings, superintend the maids at their spinning
evenings, and will punish each one according to his deserts;
but when he is himself at fault, he shall be doubly visited
(punished) by us.”
Six other brothers occupy different posts of authority under
the Alt-knecht. The first in rank of these is the Gelassen Alt-
knecht, who takes the place of the Alt-knecht when absent;
he is likewise treasurer, and has the office of presenting
newly chosen members to the pastor. Once or twice a
month there is a meeting of the Brotherhood at which the
affairs of the confraternity are discussed and misdemeanors
judged. In presiding at these meetings the Alt-knecht has in
his hand, as insignia of his office, a wooden platter, with
which he strikes on the table whenever he wishes to call the
brothers to order.
Whoever, on these occasions, freely accuses himself of his
faults incurs only half the penalty; but I am told that this
contingency rarely occurs. The finable offences are
numerous, and are taxed at six, ten, twenty kreuzers and
upwards, according to the heinousness of the offence. Here
are some of the principal delinquencies subject to penalties:
1. Carelessness or slovenliness of attire—every missing
button having a fine attached to it.
2. Bad manners at table, putting the elbows on the board, or
striking it with the fist when excited.
3. Irregularity in church attendance, falling asleep during
the sermon, yawning, stretching, etc., a particularly heavy
fine being put upon snoring.
4. Having, on fast-days, whistled loudly in the street, or
worn colored ribbons in the hat.
Whoever be discontented with the punishment assigned to
him, and forgets himself so far as to grumble audibly, incurs
a double fine.
Four times yearly, before the Sacrament is administered in
church, the Brotherhood hold what they call their
Versöhnungs-Abend (reconciliation evening), at which they
mutually ask pardon for the injuries done.
Eight days after Quasimodo Sunday the Alt-knecht sends
round an invitation to all newly confirmed youths to enter
the confraternity. Their incorporation is accompanied by
various ceremonies, one of which is that each newly chosen
member is laden with a burden of heavy stones, old rusty
pots and pans, broomsticks, and such-like rubbish, secured
round his neck by means of ropes, this somewhat obscure
ceremony being supposed to signify the subjection of the
new member to the rules of the Brotherhood.
On his marriage a man ceases to be a member of the
Brotherhood, on leaving which both he and his bride must
pay certain taxes in meat, bread, and wine. Henceforth he
belongs to the Nachbarschaft, or neighborhood. Every
village is divided into four neighborhoods, each governed by
a head, called the Nachbarvater. This second confraternity is
conducted in much the same manner as the Brotherhood,
with the difference that its regulations apply to the
reciprocal assistance which neighbors are bound to render
each other in various household and domestic
contingencies. Thus a man is only obliged to assist those
who belong to his own quarter in building a house, cleaning
out wells, extinguishing fires, and such-like. He must also
contribute provisions on christening, marriage, and funeral
occasions occurring within his neighborhood, and lend
plates and jugs for the same.
The Nachbarvater has the responsibility of watching over
the order and discipline in his quarter, enforcing the
regulations issued by the pastor or the village maire, or
Hann, and assuring himself of the cleanliness of those
streets which lie under his jurisdiction. When an ox or calf
has perished through any accident, it is his duty to have the
fact proclaimed in the neighborhood, each family in which is
then obliged to purchase a certain portion of the meat at
the price fixed by the Nachbarvater, in order to lighten the
loss to the afflicted family. His authority extends even to the
interior of each household, and he is bound to report to the
pastor the names of those who absent themselves from
church. He must fine the men who have neglected to
approach the Sacrament, as well as the women who have
lingered outside the church wasting their time in senseless
gossip. Children who have been overheard speaking
disrespectfully of their parents, couples whose connubial
quarrels are audible in the street, dogs wantonly beaten by
their masters, vain young matrons who have exceeded the
prescribed number of glittering pins in their head-dress, or
girls surpassing their proper allowance of ribbons—all come
under his jurisdiction; and the Nachbarvater is himself
subject to punishment if he neglect to report a culprit, or
show himself too lenient in the dictation of punishment.
Of the third confraternity, to which belong the girls—viz., the
Schwesterschaft, or Sisterhood—there is comparatively little
to say; but the description of one of these Saxon village
communities would not be complete without mention of the
Hann, who, after the parson, is the most important man in
the village.
The designation Hann has been derived by etymologists
from the Saxon word chunna (hundred), out of which
successively Hunna, Hund, Hunne, Honne, and Hann have
been made. A Hundding or Huntari was a district comprising
a hundred divisions (but whether heads of families or
villages is impossible now to ascertain), and the Hund,
Honne, or Hann was the title given to the man who
governed this district. The appellation Hann is to be found in
documents of the fifteenth century in the Rhine provinces,
but seems to have disappeared there from use since that
time.
The Saxon village Hann is chosen every three years; and
though but a peasant himself like the neighbors around, he
becomes, from the moment when he is invested in “a little
brief authority,” an influential personage, whose word none
dare to question. He is forthwith spoken of as the “Herr
Hann,” his wife becomes the “Frau Hanim,” and euer
Weisheit (your wisdom) is henceforth the correct formula of
address.

SAXON PEASANT GOING TO WORK.

In one village it is customary for the newly elected Hann to
be placed on a harrow (the points turned upward), and thus
drawn in triumph round the village. The election takes place
by votes, much in the same way as the nomination of a
pastor, and with like circumspection. It is by no means easy
to find a man well qualified for the office, for the Hann
requires to have a very remarkable assortment of the
choicest virtues in order to fit him for the place. He must be
upright, honest, energetic, and practical, impervious to
bribery, and absolutely impartial; moreover, he must not be
poor, for noblesse oblige, and his new dignity brings many
outlays in its train. The modest supply of crockery which has
hitherto been ample for the requirements of his family no
longer suffices, for a Hann must be prepared to receive
guests; such luxuries as coffee, loaf-sugar, and an
occasional packet of cigars, must now find their way into his
house, to say nothing of paper, pens, and ink: who knows
whether even a new table or an additional couple of chairs
may not become necessary?
Of course the Hann can only be chosen from among those
residing in the principal street, and it is considered to be
rather an indignity if he has taken his wife from some side-
street family—a disadvantage only to be condoned for by
very exceptional merit on his own part.
It would be endless were I to attempt enumerating all the
duties of a village Hann; so let it suffice to say that the
whole responsibility of the arrangements for the health,
security, cleanliness, and general welfare of the village rests
upon his shoulders. School attendance, military
conscription, and tax-collecting are but a few of the many
duties which devolve on him. His it is to decide on what day
the corn is to be cut or the hay brought home; through
which street the buffaloes are to be driven to pasture, and
at which fountain it is permitted for the women to wash
their linen. He must assure himself that no cart return to the
village after the curfew-bell has sounded; that the night-
watchmen—one in each neighborhood—are punctual in
going their rounds; and that the Nachbarväter make
discreet and worthy use of their authority.
 CHAPTER XII.

THE SAXONS: DRESS—SPINNING AND

DANCING.
NOT without difficulty have these Saxons succeeded in
keeping their national costume so rigidly intact that the
figures we meet to-day in every Saxon village differ but little
from old bass-reliefs of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries. Here, as elsewhere, even among these quiet,
practical, prosaic, and unlovely people, the demon of vanity
has been at work. Many severe punishments had to be
prescribed, and much eloquence expended from the pulpit,
in order to subdue the evil spirit of fashion which at various
times threatened to spread over the land like a contagious
illness. So in 1651 we find a whole set of dress regulations
issued by the bishop for the diocese of Mediasch.
“1. The men shall wear neither red, blue, nor yellow boots,
nor shall the women venture to approach the Holy
Sacrament or baptismal font in red shoes; and whoever
conforms not to this regulation is to be refused admittance
to church.
“2. All imitation of the Hungarians’ dress, such as their
waistcoats, braids, galloons, etc., are prohibited to the men.
“3. Be it likewise forbidden for men and for serving-men to
wear their hair in a long, foreign fashion hanging down
behind, for that is a dishonor; for ‘if a man have long hair, it
is a shame unto him’ (1 Cor. xi. 14).
“4. The peasant-folk shall wear no high boots and no large
hats of wool, nor yet trimmed with marten fur, nor an
embroidered belt, for he is a peasant. Who is seen wearing
such will thereby expose himself to ridicule, and the boots
shall be drawn off his legs, that he shall go barefoot.
“5. The women shall avoid all that is superfluous in dress,
nor shall they make horns upon their heads.[12] Rich veils
shall only be worn by such as are entitled to them, neither
shall any woman wear gold cords beneath her veil, not even
if she be the wife of a gentleman.
“6. Silk caps with golden stars are not suitable for every
woman. More than two handsome jewelled pins shall no
woman wear, and should a woman require more than two
for fastening her veil, let her take small pins. Not every
one’s child is entitled to wear corals round its neck. Let no
woman copy the dress of noble dames, for it is not suitable
for us Saxons.
“7. Peasant-maids shall wear no crooked (probably puffed)
sleeves sewed with braids, for they have no right to them.
They may wear no red shoes, and also on their best aprons
may they have two braids only; one of these may be
straight and the other nicked out, but neither over-broad.
Let none presume to wear high-heeled shoes, but let them
conform to the prescribed measure under heavy penalty.
“8. Let the womenkind remember that such things as are
forbidden become them but badly. Let them wear the
borten[13] according to the prescribed measurements. Let
the herren töchter (gentlemen’s daughters, meaning
probably burghers) not make the use of gold braids over-
common, but content themselves with honorable fringes.
The serving-girls shall go absolutely without fringes, nor
may they buy silk cords of three yards’ length, else these
will be taken from their head and nailed against the church
wall.
“9. Among the women are beginning to creep in gold rings
which cover the half-finger ad formam et normam nobilium
—after the fashion of nobles; let these be completely
forbidden.”
The worthy prelate who issued all these stern injunctions
appears to have been so uncommonly well versed in all the
intricacies of female costume as to make us wonder
whether he had not missed his vocation as a man-milliner. It
must have been a decidedly nervous matter for the women
to attend service at his cathedral, with the consciousness
that this terrible eagle-glance was taking stock of their
clothes all the time, mentally appraising the value of each
head-pin, and gauging the breadth of every ribbon. Most
likely he succeeded in his object of keeping poor human
vanity in check for a time, though not in rooting it out, for
scarcely a hundred years later we find a new set of dress
rules delivered from another pulpit:
“First of all, it is herewith forbidden to both sexes to wear
anything whatsoever which has not been manufactured in
Transylvania. Furthermore, it is prohibited to the men—
“1. To wear the so-called broad summer foreign hats.
“2. The double-trimmed hats, with head of outlandish cloth;
only the jurymen and officials are allowed to wear them.
“3. Trousers of outlandish cloth, or trimmed with braids.
“To the womenkind let it be completely forbidden to wear—
“1. Fine blue-dyed head-cloths.
“2. White-starred caps. Only the wives of officials and
jurymen in the market-towns may wear yellow-starred caps.
“3. Silver head-pins costing more than two, or at the outside
three, Hungarian florins.
“4. Outlandish ribbons and fringes.
“5. Borten (cap) 1 foot 8½ inches high, or lined inside with
any material better than bombazine or glazed calico.
“6. Neck-handkerchiefs.
“7. All outlandish stuffs, linen, etc.”
Here follow several more regulations, concluding with the
warning that whosoever dares to disregard them will be
punished by having the said articles confiscated, besides
paying a fine of from six to twelve florins Hungarian money,
the offender being in some cases even liable to corporal
punishment.
How strangely these old regulations now read in an age
when lady’s-maids are so often better dressed than their
mistresses, and every scullion girl thinks herself ill-used if
she may not deck herself out with ostrich-feathers of a
Sunday!
A story which bears on this subject is told of Andrew Helling,
a well-known and much-respected burgher of the town of
Reps, about the beginning of last century. He was
repeatedly chosen as judge and burgomaster in his native
place, and had a daughter celebrated for her beauty who
was engaged to be married. On the wedding morning the
girl had been decked out by her friends in her best, with
many glittering ornaments and long hanging ribbons in her
head-gear. But what pleased the young bride most was the
bright silken apron, a present from her bridegroom received
that same morning. Thus attired, before proceeding to
church, she repaired to her father to ask his blessing, and
thank him for all the care bestowed on her; and he, well
pleased with and proud of his beautiful child, gazed at her
with tenderly approving eye. But of a sudden his expression
grew stern, and pointing to the silken apron, he broke out
into a storm of bitter reproaches at her vanity for thus
attiring herself in gear only suitable for the daughter of a
prince. Hearing which, the bridegroom, aggrieved at the
dishonor shown to his gift, gave his arm to his bride, and
dispensing with the incensed father’s blessing, led her off to
church.
Most likely, too, it was the desire to repress all extravagance
in dress which shaped itself into the following prophecy, still
prevalent throughout Transylvania:
“When luxury and extravagance have so spread over the
face of the earth that every one walks about in silken attire,
and when sin is no longer shame, then, say the Saxons, the
end of the world is not far off. There will come then an
extraordinary fruitful year, and the ripening corn will stand
so high that horse and rider will disappear in it; but no one
will be there to cut and garner this corn, for a dreadful war
will break out, in which all monarchs will fight against each
other, and the war-horse will run up to its fetlocks in blood,
with saddle beneath the belly, all the way from Cronstadt to
Broos, without drawing breath. At last, however, will come
from the East a mighty king, who will restore peace to the
world. But few men will then remain alive in Transylvania—
not more than can find place in the shade of a big oak-tree.”
However, not all the authority of stern fathers and eloquent
preachers was able to preserve the old custom intact in the
towns, where, little by little, it dropped into disuse, being
but seldom seen after the beginning of this century. What
costumes there remain are now locked away in dark
presses, only to see the light of day at costumed
processions or fancy balls, while many of the accompanying
ornaments have found their way into jewellers’ show-
windows or museums. Only in the villages the details of
dress are still as rigidly controlled as ever, and show no sign
of degeneration just yet. Each village, forming, as it does, a
little colony by itself, and being isolated from all outward
influences, is enabled to retain its characteristics in a
manner impossible to the town. No etiquette is so rigid as
Saxon village etiquette, and there are countless little forms
and observances which to neglect or transgress would be
here as grave as it would be for a lady to go to Court
without plumes in England, or to reverse the order of
champagne and claret at a fashionable dinner-party. The
laws of exact precedence are here every whit as clearly
defined as among our upper ten thousand, and the punctilio
of a spinning-chamber quite as formal as the ordering of her
Majesty’s drawing-room.
These spinning meetings take place on winter evenings, the
young girls usually coming together at different houses
alternately, the young men being permitted to visit them
the while, provided they do not interfere with the work.
There are often two different spinning meetings in each
village, the half-grown girls taking part in the one, while the
other assembles the full-fledged maidens of marriageable
age. It is not allowed for any man to enter a spinning-room
in workday attire, but each must be carefully dressed in his
Sunday’s clothes. The eldest member of the Brotherhood
present keeps watch over the decorum of the younger
members, and assures himself that no unbecoming liberties
are taken with the other sex.
There is a whole code of penalties drawn up for those who
presume to outstep the limits of proper familiarity, and the
exact distance a youth is allowed to approach the spinning-
wheel of any girl is in some villages regulated by inches. A
fine of ten kreuzers is attached to the touching of a
maiden’s breastpin, while stealing a kiss always proves a
still more expensive amusement. As we see by ancient
chronicles, these spinning meetings (which formerly used to
be held in the towns as well) had sometimes to be
prohibited by the clergy when threatening to degenerate
into indecorous romps in any particular place; but this
custom, so deeply inrooted in Saxon village life, was always
resumed after an interval, and, thanks to the vigilant watch
kept up by the heads of the Brotherhood, it is seldom that
anything really objectionable takes place. The men are
allowed to join the girls in singing the Rockenlieder (spinning
songs), of which there are a great number.
No man may accompany a girl to her home when the
meeting breaks up, but each must go singly, or along with
her companions.
Many superstitions are attached to the spinning-wheel in
Saxon households besides the one which is mentioned in
the chapter on weddings. So on Saturday evening the work
must be desisted with the first stroke of the evening bell,
and there are many old pagan festivals which demand that
the reel be spun empty the day before.
The girl who sits up spinning on Saturday night is
considered as sinning against both sun and moon, and will
only produce a coarse, unequal thread, which refuses to let
itself be bleached white. The woman who spins on Ash-
Wednesday will cause her pigs to suffer from worms
throughout the year.
An amulet which preserves against accidents and brings
luck in love matters may be produced by two young girls
spinning a thread together in silence on St. John’s Day after
the evening bell has rung. It must be spun walking, one girl
holding the distaff while the other twirls the thread, which is
afterwards divided between the two. Each piece of this
thread, if worn against the body, will bring luck to its
wearer, but only so long as her companion likewise retains
her portion of the charm.
For the twelve days following St. Thomas’s Day (21st of
December) spinning is prohibited, and the young men
visiting the spinning-room during that period have the right
to break and burn all the distaffs they find; so it has become
usual for the maidens to appear on the feast of St. Thomas
with a stick dressed up with tow or wool to represent the
distaff in place of a real spinning-wheel.
The married women have also their own spinning meetings,
which are principally held in the six weeks following
Christmas; and she is considered to be a dilatory housewife
who has not spun all her flax by the first week in February.
Sometimes she receives a little covert assistance from her
lord and master, who, when he has no other work to do in
field or barn, may be seen half-shamefacedly plying the
distaff, like Hercules at the feet of Omphale. On certain
occasions the women hold what they call Gainzelnocht
(whole-night)—that is, they sit up all through the long winter
night, spinning into the gray dawn of the morning.

Dancing takes place either at the village inn on Sunday

afternoons, or in summer in the open air, in some roomy
court-yard or under a group of old trees, the permission to
dance having been each time formally requested of the
pastor by the head of the Brotherhood. The Alt-knecht also
sometimes settles the couples beforehand, so as to insure
each girl against the humiliating contingency of remaining
partnerless, and no youth durst, under pain of penalty,
refuse the hand of any partner thus assigned to him. Also,
each man can stay near his partner only while the music is
playing; he may not sit near or walk about with her during
the pauses, but with the last note of the valse or ländler he
drops her like a hot potato, the girls retiring to one side of
the room and the men remaining at the other, till the
renewed strains of music permit the sexes again to mingle.
Only girls and youths take part in these village dances as a
rule, though in some districts it is usual for young couples to
dance for a period of six months after their marriage. Also,
there are some villages where the custom prevails of the
married women dancing every fourth year, but more usually
dancing ceases altogether with matrimony.
The usual dance which I have seen performed by Saxon
peasants is a sort of valse executed with perfect propriety in
a slow, ponderous style, and absolutely unaccompanied by
any expression of enjoyment on the part of the dancers. In
some villages, however, the amusement seems to be of a
livelier kind, for there I am told that certain dances require
that the men should noisily slap the calves of their legs at
particular parts of the music. A curious explanation is given
of this. In olden times it seems their dress was somewhat
different from what it is now. Instead of wearing high boots,
they had shoes and short breeches; and as the stockings did
not reach up to the knee, a naked strip of skin was visible
between, as in the Styrian and Tyrolese dress. In summer,
therefore, when dancing in a barn or in the open air, the
dancers were often sorely tormented by gnats and
horseflies settling on the exposed parts; and seeking
occasional relief by vigorous slaps, these gradually took the
form of a regular rhythm which has survived the change of
costume.
The music used on these occasions is mostly execrable,
both out of time and tune, unless indeed they have been
lucky enough to secure the services of gypsy musicians; but
this is rarely the case, for, bad as it is, the Saxon prefers his
own music.
However, it is an interesting sight to look on at one of these
village dances, as the girls’ costume is both rich and quaint.
Particularly interesting is this sight at the village of
Hammersdorf, whose inhabitants, as I before remarked, are
celebrated for their opulence. Only on the highest festivals,
three or four times a year, is it customary for the girls to
don their richest attire for the dance, and display all their
ornaments—often an exceedingly handsome show of
jewellery, descended from mother to daughter through
many generations. Thus Pentecost, when there is dancing
two days in succession in the open air, is a good time for
assisting at one of these rustic balls.
Each girl wears on her head the high stiff borten, which in
shape resembles nothing so much as a chimney-pot hat,
without either crown or brim, though this is perhaps rather
an Irish way of putting it. It is formed of pasteboard covered
with black velvet, and from it depend numerous ribbons
three or four fingers in breadth, hanging down almost to the
hem of the skirt. In some villages these ribbons are blue; in
others, as at Hammersdorf, mostly scarlet and silver. The
skirt at Hammersdorf on Pentecost Monday was of black
stuff, very full and wide, and above it a large white muslin
apron covered with embroidery, with the name of the
wearer introduced in the pattern. The wide bulging black
skirt was confined at the waist by a broad girdle of massive
gold braid set with round clumps of jewels at regular
intervals; these were sometimes garnets, turquoises, pearls,
or emeralds. Another ornament is the patzel, worn by some
on the chest, as large as a tea-saucer, silver gilt, and
likewise richly incrusted with two or three sorts of gems;
some of these were of very beautiful and intricate
workmanship. Altogether, when thus seen collectively, the
costume presents a quaint and pretty appearance, with
something martial about the general effect, suggesting a
troop of sturdy young Amazons—the silver and scarlet
touches, relieving the simplicity of the black and white
attire, being particularly effective.
 DRESSING FOR THE DANCE.
On Pentecost Tuesday the dance was repeated, with the
difference that this time all wore white muslin skirts and
black silk aprons. None of them could tell me the reason of
this precise ordering of the costume; it had always been so,
they said, in their mothers’ and grandmothers’ time as well,
to wear the black skirts on the Pentecost Monday and the
white ones on the Tuesday.
Each girl carries in her hand a little nosegay of flowers, and
has a large flowered silk handkerchief stuck in her
waistband. Every youth is, of course, attired in his Sunday
clothes; and however hot the weather, it is de rigueur that
he keep on the heavy cloth jacket during the first two
dances. Only then, when the Alt-knecht gives the signal, is it
allowed to lay aside the coat and dance in shirt-sleeves,
while the girls divest themselves of their uncomfortable
head-dress—how uncomfortable being only too apparent
from the dark red mark which it has left across the forehead
of each wearer.
But if the young people are thus elegantly got up, the same
cannot be said of their chaperons the mothers, who in their
common week-day clothes have likewise come here to enjoy
the fun. They have certainly made none of those
concessions to society which reduce the lives of unfortunate
dowagers to a perpetual martyrdom in the ball-room, but
are as dirty and comfortable as though they were at home,
each woman squatting on the low three-legged stool which
she has brought with her.
The reason for this simplicity—not to say slovenliness—of
attire presently becomes obvious, as the lowing of kine and
a cloud of dust in the distance announce the return of the
herd, and in a body the matrons rise and desert the festive
scene, stool in hand, for it is milking-time, and the buffaloes,
whose temper is proverbially short, durst not be kept
waiting; only when this important duty has been
accomplished do the mammas return to the ball-room.
 CHAPTER XIII.

THE SAXONS: BETROTHAL.

OATS have been defined by Dr. Johnson as a grain serving to
nourish horses in England and men in Scotland; and in spite
of this contemptuous definition, its name, to us Caledonian
born, must always awaken pleasant recollections of the
porridge and bannocks of our childhood. It is, however, a
new experience to find a country where this often
unappreciated grain occupies a still prouder position, and
where its name is associated with memories yet more
pregnant and tender; for autumn, not spring, is the season
of Saxon love, and oats, not myrtle, are here emblematic of
courtship and betrothal.
In proportion as the waving surface of the green oat-fields
begins to assume a golden tint, so also does curiosity
awaken and gossip grow rife in the village. Well-informed
people may have hinted before that such and such a youth
had been seen more than once stepping in at the gate of
the big red house in the long street, and more than one
chatterer had been ready to identify the speckled carnations
which on Sundays adorned the hat of some youthful Conrad
or Thomas, as having been grown in the garden of a certain
Anna or Maria; but after all these had been but mere
conjectures, for nothing positive can be known as yet, and
ill-natured people were apt to console themselves with the
reflection that St. Catherine’s Day was yet a long way off,
and that “there is many a slip ’twixt cup and lip.”
But now the great day which is to dispel all doubt and put
an end to conjecture is approaching—that day which will
destroy so many illusions and fulfil so few; for now the sun
has given the final touch to the ripening grain, and soon the
golden sheaves are lying piled together on the clean-shorn
stubble-field, only waiting to be carted away. Then one
evening when the sun is sinking low on the horizon, and no
breath of air is there to lift the white powdery dust from off
the hedge-rows, the sound of a drum is heard in the village
street, and a voice proclaims aloud that “to-morrow the oats
are to be fetched home.”
Like wildfire the news has spread throughout the village; the
cry is taken up and repeated with various intonations of
hope, curiosity, anticipation, or triumph, “To-morrow the
oats will be fetched.”
A stranger probably fails to perceive anything particularly
thrilling about this intelligence, having no reason to suppose
the garnering of oats to be in any way more interesting than
the carting of potatoes or wheat; and, no doubt, to the
majority of land-owners the thought of to-morrow’s work is
chiefly connected with dry prosaic details, such as repairing
the harness and oiling the cart-wheels. But there are others
in the village on whom the announcement has had an
electrifying effect, and for whom the words are synonymous
with love and wedding-bells. Five or six of the young village
swains, or maybe as many as eight or ten, spend that
evening in a state of pleasurable bustle and excitement,
busying themselves in cleaning and decking out the cart for
the morrow, furbishing up the best harness, grooming the
work-horses till their coats are made to shine like satin, and
plaiting up their manes with bright-colored ribbons.
Early next morning the sound of harness-bells and the loud
cracking of whips cause all curious folk to rush to their
doors; and as every one is curious, the whole population is
soon assembled in the street to gaze at the sight of young
Hans N——, attired in his bravest clothes and wearing in his
cap a monstrous bouquet, riding postilion fashion on the
left-hand horse, and cracking his whip with ostentatious
triumph, while behind, on the gayly decorated cart, is
seated a blushing maiden, who lowers her eyes in confusion
at thus seeing herself the object of general attention—at
least this is what she is supposed to do, for every well-
brought-up girl ought surely to blush and hang her head in
graceful embarrassment when she first appears in the
character of a bride; and although no formal proposal has
yet taken place, by consenting to assist the young man to
bring in his oats she has virtually confessed her willingness
to become his wife.
Her appearance on this occasion will doubtless cause much
envy and disappointment among her less fortunate
companions, who gaze out furtively through the chinks of
the wooden boarding at the spectacle of a triumph they had
perhaps hoped for themselves. “So it is the red-haired
Susanna after all, and not the miller’s Agnes, as every one
made sure,” the gossips are saying. “And who has young
Martin got on his cart, I wonder? May I never spin flax again
if it is not that saucy wench, the black-eyed Lisi, who was all
but promised to small-pox Peter of the green corner
house”—and so on, and so on, in endless variety, as the
decorated carts go by in procession, each one giving rise to
manifold remarks and comments, and not one of them
failing to leave disappointment and heart-burning in its rear.
This custom of the maiden helping the young man to bring
in his oats, and thereby signifying her willingness to marry
him, is prevalent only in a certain district to the north of
Transylvania called the Haferland, or country of oats—a
broad expanse of country covered at harvest-time by a
billowy sea of golden grain, the whole fortune of the land-
owners. In other parts various other betrothal customs are
prevalent, as for instance in Neppendorf, a large village
close to Hermanstadt, inhabited partly by Saxons, partly by
Austrians, or Ländlers, as they call themselves. This latter
race is of far more recent introduction in the country than
the Saxons, having only come hither (last century) in the
time of Maria Theresa, who had summoned them to
replenish some of the Saxon colonies in danger of becoming
extinct. If it is strange to note how rigidly the Saxons have
kept themselves from mingling with the surrounding
Magyars and Roumanians, it is yet more curious to see how
these two German races have existed side by side for over a
hundred years without amalgamating; and this for no sort of
antagonistic reason, for they live together in perfect
harmony, attending the same church, and conforming to the
same regulations, but each people preserving its own
individual costume and customs. The Saxons and the
Ländlers have each their different parts of the church
assigned to them; no Saxon woman would ever think of
donning the fur cap of a Ländler matron, while as little
would the latter exchange her tight-fitting fur coat for the
wide hanging mantle worn by the other.
 SAXON BETROTHED COUPLE.
Until quite lately unions have very seldom taken place
between members of these different races. Only within the
last twenty years or so have some of the Saxon youths
awoke to the consciousness that the Austrian girls make
better and more active housewives than their own
phlegmatic countrywomen, and have consequently sought
them in marriage. Even then, when both parties are willing,
many a projected union makes shipwreck upon the stiff-
neckedness of the two paterfamilias, who neither of them
will concede anything to the other. Thus, for instance, when
the Saxon father of the bridegroom demands that his future
daughter-in-law should adopt Saxon attire when she
becomes the wife of his son, the Ländler father will probably
take offence and withdraw his consent at the last moment;
not a cap nor a jacket, not even a pin or an inch of ribbon,
will either of the two concede to the wishes of the young
people. Thus many hopeful alliances are nipped in the bud,
and those which have been accomplished are almost
invariably based on the understanding that each party
retains its own attire, and that the daughters born of such
union follow the mother, the sons the father, in the matter
of costume.
Among the Ländlers the marriage proposal takes place in a
way which deserves to be mentioned. The youth who has
secretly cast his eye on the girl he fain would make his wife
prepares a new silver thaler (about 2s. 6d.) by winding
round it a piece of bright-colored ribbon, and wrapping the
whole in a clean sheet of white letter-paper. With this coin in
his pocket he repairs to the next village dance, and takes
the opportunity of slipping it unobserved into the girl’s hand
while they are dancing. By no word or look does she betray
any consciousness of his actions, and only when back at
home she produces the gift, and acquaints her parents with
what has taken place. A family council is then held as to the
merits of the suitor, and the expediency of accepting or
rejecting the proposal. Should the latter be decided upon,
the maiden must take an early opportunity of intrusting the
silver coin to a near relation of the young man, who in
receiving it back is thereby informed that he has nothing
further to hope in that direction; but if three days have
elapsed without his thaler returning to him, he is entitled to
regard this as encouragement, and may commence to visit
in the house of his sweetheart on the footing of an official
wooer.
In cases of rejection, it is considered a point of honor on the
part of all concerned that no word should betray the state of
the case to the outer world—a delicate reticence one is
surprised to meet with in these simple people.
This giving of the silver coin is probably a remnant of the old
custom of “buying the bride,” and in many villages it is
customary still to talk of the brautkaufen.
In some places it is usual for the lad who is courting to
adorn the window of his fair one with a flowering branch of
hawthorn at Pentecost, and at Christmas to fasten a sprig of
mistletoe or a fir-branch to the gable-end of her house.
To return, however, to the land of oats, where, after the
harvest has been successfully garnered, the bridegroom
proceeds to make fast the matter, or, in other words,
officially to demand the girl’s hand of her parents.
It is not consistent with village etiquette that the
bridegroom in spe should apply directly to the father of his
intended, but he must depute some near relation or
intimate friend to bring forward his request. The girl’s
parents, on their side, likewise appoint a representative to
transmit the answer. These two ambassadors are called the
wortmacher (word-makers)—sometimes also the
hochzeitsväter (wedding-fathers). Much talking and
speechifying are required correctly to transact a wedding
from beginning to end, and a fluent and eloquent
wortmacher is a much-prized individual.
Each village has its own set formulas for each of the like
occasions—long-winded pompous speeches, rigorously
adhered to, and admitting neither of alteration nor
curtailment. The following fragment of one of these
speeches will give a correct notion of the general style of
Saxon oration. It is the hochzeitsvater who, in the name of
the young man’s parents, speaks as follows:
“A good-morning to you herewith, dear neighbors, and I
further wish to hear that you have rested softly this night,
and been enabled to rise in health and strength. And if such
be the case I shall be rejoiced to hear the same, and shall
thank the Almighty for his mercies towards you; and should
your health and the peace of your household not be as good
as might be desired in every respect, so at least will I thank
the Almighty that he has made your lot to be endurable,
and beg him further in future only to send you so much
trouble and affliction as you are enabled patiently to bear at
a time.
“Furthermore, I crave your forgiveness that I have made
bold to enter your house thus early this morning, and trust
that my presence therein may in no way inconvenience you,
but that I may always comport myself with honor and
propriety, so that you may in nowise be ashamed of me,
and that you may be pleased to listen to the few words I
have come hither to say.
“God the Almighty having instituted the holy state of
matrimony in order to provide for the propagation of the
human race, it is not unknown to me, dearest neighbor, that
many years ago you were pleased to enter this holy state,
taking to yourself a beloved wife, with whom ever since you
have lived in peace and happiness; and that, furthermore,
the Almighty, not wishing to leave you alone in your union,
was pleased to bless you, not only with temporal goods and
riches, but likewise with numerous offspring, with dearly
beloved children, to be your joy and solace. And among
these beloved children is a daughter, who has prospered
and grown up in the fear of the Lord to be a comely and
virtuous maiden.
“And as likewise it may not be unknown to you that years
ago we too thought fit to enter the holy state of matrimony,
and that the Lord was pleased to bless our union, not with
temporal goods and riches, but with numerous offspring,
with various beloved children, among whom is a son, who
has grown up, not in a garden of roses, but in care and toil,
and in the fear of the Lord.
“And now this same son, having grown to be a man, has
likewise bethought himself of entering the holy state of
matrimony; and he has prayed the Lord to guide him wisely
in his choice, and to give him a virtuous and God-fearing
companion.
“Therefore he has been led over mountains and valleys,
through forests and rivers, over rocks and precipices, until
he came to your house and cast his eyes on the virtuous
maiden your daughter. And the Lord has been pleased to
touch his heart with a mighty love for her, so that he has
been moved to ask you to give her hand to him in holy
wedlock.”
Probably the young couple have grown up in sight of each
other, the garden of the one father very likely adjoining the
pigsty of the other; but the formula must be adhered to
notwithstanding, and neither rocks nor precipices omitted
from the programme; and even though the parents of the
bride be a byword in the village for their noisy domestic
quarrels, yet the little fiction of conjugal happiness must be
kept up all the same, with a truly magnificent sacrifice of
veracity to etiquette worthy of any Court journal discussing
a royal alliance.
And in point of fact a disinterested love-match between
Saxon peasants is about as rare a thing as a genuine
courtship between reigning princes. Most often it is a simple
business contract arranged between the family heads, who
each of them hopes to reap advantage from the bargain.
When the answer has been a consent, then the compact is
sealed by a feast called the brautvertrinken (drinking the
bride), to which are invited only the nearest relations on
either side, the places of honor at the head of the table
being given to the two ambassadors who have transacted
the business. A second banquet, of a more solemn nature, is
held some four weeks later, when rings have been
exchanged in presence of the pastor. The state of the
weather at the moment the rings are exchanged is regarded
as prophetic for the married life of the young couple,
according as it may be fair or stormy.
Putting the ring on his bride’s finger, the young man says,

“I give thee here my ring so true;

God grant thou may it never rue!”
 CHAPTER XIV.

THE SAXONS: MARRIAGE.

THE 25th of November, feast of St. Catherine,[14] is in many
districts the day selected for tying all these matrimonial
knots. When this is not the case, then the weddings take
place in Carnival, oftenest in the week following the Sunday
when the gospel of the marriage at Cana has been read in
church; and Wednesday is considered the most lucky day for
the purpose.
The preparations for the great day occupy the best part of a
week in every house which counts either a bride or
bridegroom among its inmates. There are loaves and cakes
of various sorts and shapes to be baked, fowls and pigs to
be slaughtered; in wealthier houses even the sacrifice of a
calf or an ox is considered necessary for the wedding-feast;
and when this is the case the tongue is carefully removed,
and, placed upon the best china plate, with a few laurel
leaves by way of decoration, is carried to the parsonage as
the customary offering to the reverend Herr Vater.
The other needful provisions for the banquet are collected in
the following simple manner: On the afternoon of the
Sunday preceding the wedding, six young men belonging to
the Brotherhood are despatched by the Alt-knecht from
house to house, where, striking a resounding knock on each
door, they make the village street re-echo with their cry,
“Bringt rahm!” (bring cream). This is a summons which none
may refuse, all those who belong to that neighborhood
being bound to send contributions in the shape of milk,
cream, eggs, butter, lard, or bacon, to those wedding-
houses within their quarter; and every gift, even the
smallest one of a couple of eggs, is received with thanks,
and the messenger rewarded by a glass of wine.
Next day the women of both families assemble to bake the
wedding-feast, the future mother-in-law of the bride keeping
a sharp lookout on the girl, to note whether she acquits
herself creditably of her household duties. This day is in fact
a sort of final examination the bride has to pass through in
order to prove herself worthy of her new dignity; so woe to
the maiden who is dilatory in mixing the dough or awkward
at kneading the loaves.
While this is going on the young men have been to the
forest to fetch firing-wood, for it is a necessary condition
that the wood for heating the oven where the wedding-
loaves are baked should be brought in expressly for the
occasion, even though there be small wood in plenty lying
ready for use in the shed.
The cart is gayly decorated with flowers and streamers, and
the wood brought home with much noise and merriment,
much in the old English style of bringing in the yule-log. On
their return from the forest, the gate of the court-yard is
found to be closed; or else a rope, from which are
suspended straw bunches and bundles, is stretched across
the entrance. The women now advance, with much clatter
of pots and pans, and pretend to defend the yard against
the besiegers; but the men tear down the rope, and drive in
triumphantly, each one catching at a straw bundle in
passing. Some of these are found to contain cakes or
apples, others only broken crockery or egg-shells.
The young men sit up late splitting the logs into suitable
size for burning. Their duties further consist in lighting the
fire, drawing water from the well, and putting it to boil on
the hearth. Thus they work till into the small hours of the
morning, now and then refreshing themselves with a hearty
draught of home-made wine. When all is prepared, it is then
the turn of the men to take some rest, and they wake the
girls with an old song running somewhat as follows:

“All in the early morning gray,

A lass would rise at break of day.
Arise, arise,
Fair lass, arise,
And ope your eyes,
For darkness flies,
And your true-love he comes to-day.

“So, lassie, would you early fill

Your pitcher at the running rill,
Awake, awake,
Fair maid, awake,
Your pitcher take,
For dawn doth break,
And come to-day your true-love will.”

Another song of equally ancient origin is sung the evening

before the marriage, when the bride takes leave of her
friends and relations.[15]

“I walked beside the old church wall;

My love stood there, but weeping all.
I greeted her, and thus she spake:
‘My heart is sore, dear love, alack!
I must depart, I must be gone;
When to return, God knows alone!
When to return?—when the black crow
Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.

“‘I set two roses in my father’s land—

O father, dearest father, give me once more thy hand!
I set two roses in my mother’s land—
O mother, dearest mother, give me again thy hand!
 I must depart, I must be gone;
When to return, God knows alone!
When to return?—when the black crow
Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.

“‘I set two roses in my brother’s land—

O brother, dearest brother, give me again thy hand!
I set two roses in my sister’s land—
O sister, dearest sister, give me again thy hand!
I must away, I must be gone;
When to return, God knows alone!
When to return?—when the black crow
Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.

“‘I set again two roses under a bush of yew—

O comrades, dearest comrades, I say my last adieu!
No roses shall I set more in this my native land—
O parents, brother, sister, comrades, give me once more
your hand!
I must away, I must be gone;
When to return, God knows alone!
When to return?—when the black crow
Bears on his wing plumes white as snow.

“‘And when I came to the dark fir-tree,[16]

An iron kettle my father gave me;
And when I came unto the willow,
My mother gave a cap and a pillow.
Woe’s me! ’tis only those who part
Can tell how parting tears the heart!

“‘And when unto the bridge I came,

I turned me round and looked back again;
I saw no mother nor father more,
And I bitterly wept, for my heart was sore.
Woe’s me! ’tis only those who part
 Can tell how parting tears the heart!

“‘And when I came before the gate,

The bolt was drawn, and I must wait;
And when I came to the wooden bench,
They said, “She’s but a peevish wench!”
Woe’s me! ’tis only those who part
Can tell how parting tears the heart!

“‘And when I came to the strangers’ hearth,

They whispered, “She is little worth;”
And when I came before the bed,
I sighed, “Would I were yet a maid!”
Woe’s me! ’tis only those who part
Can tell how parting tears the heart!

“‘My house is built of goodly stone,

But in its walls I feel so lone!
A mantle of finest cloth I wear,
But ’neath it an aching heart I bear.
Loud howls the wind, wild drives the snow,
Parting, oh, parting is bitterest woe!
On the belfry tower is a trumpet shrill,
But down the kirkyard the dead lie still.’”

Very precise are the formalities to be observed in inviting

the wedding-guests. A member of the bride’s family is
deputed as einlader (inviter), and, invested with a brightly
painted staff as insignia of his office, he goes the round of
the friends and relations to be asked.
It is customary to invite all kinsfolk within the sixth degree
of relationship, though many of these are not expected to
comply with the summons, the invitations in such cases
being simply a matter of form, politely tendered on the one
side and graciously received on the other, but not meant to
be taken literally, as being but honorary invitations.
Unless particular arrangements have been made to the
contrary, it is imperative that the invitations, in order to be
valid, should be repeated with all due formalities, as often
as three times, the slightest divergence from this rule being
severely judged and commented upon; and mortal offence
has often been taken by a guest who bitterly complains that
he was only twice invited. In some villages it is, moreover,
customary to invite anew for each one of the separate
meals which take place during the three or four days of the
wedding festivities.
Early on the wedding morning the bridegroom despatches
his wortmann with the morgengabe (morning gift) to the
bride. This consists in a pair of new shoes, to which are
sometimes added other small articles, such as
handkerchiefs, ribbons, a cap, apples, nuts, cakes, etc. An
ancient superstition requires that the young matron should
carefully treasure up these shoes if she would assure herself
of kind treatment on the part of her husband, who “will not
begin to beat her till the wedding-shoes are worn out.” The
ambassador, in delivering over the gifts to the wortmann of
the other party, speaks as follows:
“Good-morning to you, Herr Wortmann, and to all worthy
friends here assembled. The friends on our side have
charged me to wish you all a very good morning. I have
further come hither to remind you of the laudable custom of
our fathers and grandfathers, who bethought themselves of
presenting their brides with a small morning gift. So in the
same way our young master the bridegroom, not wishing to
neglect this goodly patriarchal custom, has likewise sent me
here with a trifling offering to his bride, trusting that this
small gift may be agreeable and pleasing to you.”
The bride, on her side, sends to the bridegroom a new linen
shirt, spun, woven, sewed, and embroidered by her own
hands. This shirt he wears but twice—once on his wedding-
day for going to church, the second time when he is carried
to the grave.
Before proceeding to church the men assemble at the house
of the bridegroom, and the women at that of the bride. The
young people only accompany the bridal pair to church, the
elder members of both families remaining at home until the
third invitation has been delivered, after which all proceed
together to the house of the bride, where the first day’s
festivities are held.
In some villages it is customary for the young couple
returning from church to the house of the bridegroom to
have their two right hands tied together before stepping
over the threshold. A glass of wine and a piece of bread are
given to them ere they enter, of which they must both
partake together, the bridegroom then throwing the glass
away over the house-roof.
There is much speechifying and drinking of healths, and
various meals are served up at intervals of three or four
hours, each guest being provided with a covered jug, which
must always be kept replenished with wine.
It is usual for each guest to bring a small gift as contribution
to the newly set-up household of the young couple, and
these are deposited on a table decked for the purpose in the
centre of the court-yard, or, if the weather be unfavorable,
inside the house—bride and bridegroom standing on either
side to receive the gifts. First it is the bridegroom’s father,
who, approaching the table, deposits thereon a new shining
ploughshare, as symbol that his son must earn his bread by
the sweat of his brow; then the mother advances with a new
pillow adorned with bows of colored ribbon, and silver head-
pins stuck at the four corners. These gay ornaments are
meant to represent the pleasures and joys of matrimony,
but two long streamers of black ribbon, which hang down to
the ground on either side, are placed there likewise to
remind the young couple of the crosses and misfortunes
which must inevitably fall to their share. The other relations
of the bridegroom follow in due precedence, each with a
gift. Sometimes it is a piece of homespun linen, a colored
handkerchief, or some such article of dress or decoration;
sometimes a roll of sheet-iron, a packet of nails, a knife and
fork, or a farming or gardening implement, each one laying
down his or her gift with the words, “May it be pleasing to
you.”
Then follow the kinsfolk of the bride with similar offerings,
her father presenting her with a copper caldron or kettle,
her mother with a second pillow decorated in the same
manner as the first one.
Playful allusions are not unfrequently concealed in these
gifts—a doll’s cradle, or a young puppy-dog wrapped in
swaddling-clothes, often figuring among the presents
ranged on the table.
Various games and dances fill up the pauses between the
meals—songs and speeches, often of a somewhat coarse
and cynical nature, forming part of the usual programme.
Among the games occasionally enacted at Saxon peasant
weddings there is one which deserves a special mention,
affording, as it does, a curious proof of the tenacity of old
pagan rites and customs transmitted by verbal tradition
from one generation to the other. This is the rössel-tanz, or
dance of the horses, evidently founded on an ancient
Scandinavian legend, to be found in Snorri’s “Edda.” In this
tale the gods Thor and Loki came at nightfall to a peasant’s
house in a carriage drawn by two goats or rams, and asked
for a night’s lodging. Thor killed the two rams, and with the
peasant and his family consumed the flesh for supper. The
bones were then ordered to be thrown in a heap on to the
hides of the animals; but one of the peasant’s sons had, in
eating, broken open a bone in order to suck the marrow
within, and next morning, when the god commanded the
goats to get up, one of them limped on the hind-leg because
of the broken bone, on seeing which Thor was in a great
rage, and threatened to destroy the peasant and his whole
family, but finally allowed himself to be pacified, and
accepted the two sons as hostages.
In the peasant drama here alluded to, the gods Thor and
Loki are replaced by a colonel and a lieutenant-colonel,
while instead of two goats there are two horses and one
goat; also, the two sons of the peasant are here designated
as Wallachians. Everything is, of course, much distorted and
changed, but yet all the principal features of the drama are
clearly to be recognized—the killing of the goat and its
subsequent resurrection, the colonel’s rage, and the
transferment of the two Wallachians into his service, all
being part of the performance.
At midnight, or sometimes later, when the guests are about
to depart, there prevails in some villages a custom which
goes by the name of den borten abtanzen, dancing down
the bride’s crown. This head-covering, which I have already
described, is the sign of her maidenhood, which she must
lay aside now that she has become a wife, and it is danced
off in the following manner: All the married women present,
except the very oldest and most decrepit, join hands—two
of them, appointed as brideswomen, taking the bride
between them. Thus forming a wide circle, they dance
backward and forward round and round the room,
sometimes forming a knot in the centre, sometimes far
apart, till suddenly, either by accident or on purpose, the
chain is broken through at one place, which is the signal for
all to rush out into the court-yard, still holding hands. From
some dark corner there now springs unexpectedly a stealthy
robber, one of the bridesmen, who has been lying there in
ambush to rob the bride of her crown. Sometimes she is
defended by two brothers or relations, who, dealing out
blows with twisted up handkerchiefs or towels, endeavor to
keep the thief at a distance; but the struggle always ends
with the loss of the head-dress, which the young matron
bewails with many tears and sobs. The brideswomen now
solemnly invest her with her new head-gear, which consists
of a snowy cap and veil, held together by silver or jewelled
pins, sometimes of considerable value. This head-dress,
which fits close to the face, concealing all the hair, has a
nun-like effect, but is not unbecoming to fresh young faces.
Sometimes, after the bride is invested in her matronly head-
gear, she, along with two other married women (in some
villages old, in others young), is concealed behind a curtain
or sheet, and the husband is made to guess which is his
wife, all three trying to mislead him by grotesque gestures
from beneath the sheet.
On the morning after the wedding bridesmen and
brideswomen early repair to the room of the newly married
couple, presenting them with a cake in which hairs of cows
and buffaloes, swine’s bristles, feathers, and egg-shells are
baked. Both husband and wife must at least swallow a bite
of this unsavory compound, to insure the welfare of cattle
and poultry during their married life.[17]
After the morning meal the young wife goes to church to be
blessed by the priest, escorted by the two brideswomen,
walking one on either side. While she is praying within, her
husband meanwhile waits at the church-door, but no sooner
does she reappear at the threshold than the young couple
are surrounded by a group of masked figures, who playfully
endeavor to separate the wife from her husband. If they
succeed in so doing, then he must win her back in a hand-
to-hand fight with his adversaries, or else give money as
ransom. It is considered a bad omen for the married life of
the young couple if they be separated on this occasion;
therefore the young husband takes his stand close against
the church-door, to be ready to clutch his wife as soon as
she steps outside—for greater precaution, often holding her
round the waist with both hands during the dance which
immediately ensues in front of the church, and at which the
newly married couple merely assist as spectators.
As several couples are usually married at the same time, it
is customary for each separate wedding-party to bring its
own band of music, and dance thus independently of the
others. On the occasion of a triple wedding I once
witnessed, it was very amusing to watch the three wedding-
parties coming down the street, each accelerating its pace
till it came to be a sort of race between them up to the
church-door, in order to secure the best dancing-place. The
ground being rough and slanting, there was only one spot
where anything like a flat dancing-floor could be obtained;
and the winning party at once securing this enviable
position, the others had to put up with an inclined plane,
with a few hillocks obstructing their ball-room parquet.
The eight to ten couples belonging to each wedding-party
are enclosed in a ring of by-standers, each rival band of
music playing away with heroic disregard for the scorched
ears of the audience. “Walser!” calls out the first group;
“Polka!” roars the second—for it is a point of honor that
each party display a noble independence in taking its own
line of action; and if, out of mere coincidence, two of the
bands happen to strike up the self-same tune, one of them
will be sure to change abruptly to something totally
different, as soon as aware of the unfortunate mistake—the
caterwauling effect produced by this system baffling all
description. “This is nothing at all,” said the pastor, from
whose garden I was overlooking the scene, laughing at the
dismay with which I endeavored to stop my ears.
“Sometimes we have eight or ten weddings at a time, each
with its own fiddlers—that is something worth hearing
indeed!”
The rest of this second day is spent much in the same way
as the former one, only this time it is at the house of the
bridegroom’s parents.
In some places it is usual on this day for the young couple,
accompanied by the wedding-party, to drive back to the
house of the bride’s parents in order to fetch her truhe—viz.,
the painted wooden coffer in which her trousseau has been
stored. The young wife remains sitting on the cart, while her
husband goes in and fetches the coffer. Then he returns
once more, and addresses the following speech to his
mother-in-law: “It is not unknown to me, dearest mother,
that you have prepared various articles, at the toil of your
hands, for your dearest child, for which may you be heartily
thanked; and may God in future continue to bless your
labor, and give you health and strength to accomplish the
same.
“But as it has become known to me that the coffer
containing your dear child’s effects has got a lock, and as to
every lock there must needs be a key, so have I come to
beg you to give me this key, in order that we may be
enabled to take what we require from out the coffer.”[18]
Among the customs attached to this first day of wedded life
is that of breaking the distaff. If the young matron can
succeed in doing so at one stroke across her knee, she will
be sure to have strong and healthy sons born of her
wedlock; if not, then she has but girls to expect.
The third day is called the finishing-up day, each family
assembling its own friends and relations to consume the
provisions remaining over from the former banquets, and at
the same time to wash up the cooking utensils and crockery,
restoring whatever has been borrowed from neighbors in
the shape of plates, jugs, etc.—the newly married couple
joining the entertainment, now at the one, now at the other
house. This day is the close of the wedding festivities, which
have kept both families in a state of bustle and turmoil for
fully a week. Everything now returns to every-day order and
regularity, the young couple usually taking up their abode in
a small back room of the house of the young man’s parents,
putting off till the following spring the important business of
building their own house. Dancing and feasting are now at
an end, and henceforth the earnest of life begins, though it
is usual to say that “only after they have licked a stone of
salt together” can a proper understanding exist between
husband and wife.
 CHAPTER XV.

THE SAXONS: BIRTH AND INFANCY.

BY-AND-BY, when a few months have passed over the heads of
the newly married couple, and the young matron becomes
aware that the prophecies pointed at by the broken distaff
and the doll’s cradle are likely to come true, she is carefully
instructed as to the conduct she must observe in order to
insure the well-being of herself and her child.
In the first place, she must never conceal her state nor deny
it, when interrogated on the subject; for if she do so, her
child will have difficulty in learning to speak; nor may she
wear beads round her neck, for that would cause the infant
to be strangled at its birth. Carrying pease or beans in her
apron will produce malignant eruptions, and sweeping a
chimney makes the child narrow-breasted.
On no account must she be suffered to pull off her
husband’s boots, nor to hand him a glowing coal to light his
pipe, both these actions entailing misfortune. In driving to
market she may not sit with her back to the horses, nor ever
drink at the well out of a wooden bucket. Likewise, her
intercourse with the pigsty must be carefully regulated; for
should she, at any time, listen over-attentively to the
grunting of pigs, her child will have a deep grunting voice;
and if she kick the swine or push one of them away with her
foot, the infant will have bristly hair on its back. Hairs on the
face will be the result of beating a dog or cat, and twins the
consequence of eating double cherries or sitting at the
corner of the table.
During this time she may not stand godmother to any other
child, or else she will lose her own baby, which will equally
be sure to die if she walk round a new-made grave.
If any one unexpectedly throw a flower at the woman who
expects to become a mother, and hit her with it on the face,
her child will have a mole at the same place touched by the
flower.
Should, however, the young matron imprudently have
neglected any of these rules, and have cause to fear that an
evil spell has been cast on her child, she has several very
efficacious recipes for undoing the harm. Thus if she sit on
the door-step, with her feet resting on a broom, for at least
five minutes at a time, on several consecutive Fridays,
thinking the while of her unborn babe, it will be released
from the impending doom; or else let her sit there on
Sundays, when the bells are ringing, with her hair hanging
unplaited down her back; or climb up the stair of the belfry
tower and look down at the sinking sun.
When the moment of the birth is approaching, the windows
must be carefully hung over with sheets or cloths, to
prevent witches from entering; but all locks and bolts
should, on the contrary, be opened, else the event will be
retarded.
If the new-born infant be weakly, it is usual to put yolks of
eggs, bran, sawdust, or a glass of old wine into its first bath.
Very important for the future luck and prosperity of the child
is the day of the week and month on which it happens to
have been born.
Sunday is, of course, the luckiest day, and twelve o’clock at
noon, when the bells are ringing, the most favorable hour
for beginning life.
Wednesday children are schlabberkinder—that is,
chatterboxes. Friday bairns are unfortunate, but in some
districts those born on Saturday are considered yet more
unlucky; while again, in other places Saturday’s children are
merely supposed to grow up dirty.
Whoever is born on a stormy night will die of a violent
death.
The full or growing moon is favorable; but the decreasing
moon produces weakly, unhealthy babes.
All children born between Easter and Pentecost are more or
less lucky, unless they happen to have come on one of the
distinctly unlucky days, of which I here give a list:

January 1st, 2d, 6th, 11th, 17th, 18th.

February 8th, 14th, 17th.
March 1st, 3d, 13th, 15th.
April 1st, 3d, 15th, 17th, 18th.
May 8th, 10th, 17th, 30th.
June 1st, 17th.
July 1st, 5th, 6th, 14th.
August 1st, 3d, 17th, 18th.
September 2d, 15th, 18th, 30th.
October 15th, 17th.
November 1st, 7th, 11th.
December 1st, 6th, 11th, 15th.

I leave it to more penetrating spirits to decide whether

these seemingly capricious figures are regulated on some
occult cabalistic system, the secret workings of which have
baffled my understanding, so that I am at a loss to explain
why January and April have the greatest, June and October
the least, proportion of unlucky days allotted to them; and
why the 1st and 17th of each month are mostly pernicious,
while, barring the 30th of May and September, no date after
the 18th is ever in bad odor.
Both mother and child must be carefully watched over
during the first few days after the birth, and all evil
influences averted. The visit of another woman who has
herself a babe at the breast may deprive the young mother
of her milk; and whosoever enters the house without sitting
down will assuredly carry off the infant’s sleep.
If the child be subject to frequent and apparently groundless
fits of crying, that is proof positive that it has been
bewitched—either by some one whose eyebrows are grown
together, and who consequently has the evil eye, or else by
one of the invisible evil spirits whose power is great before
the child has been taken to church. But even a person with
quite insignificant eyebrows may convey injury by unduly
praising the child’s good looks, unless the mother recollect
to spit on the ground as soon as the words are spoken.
Here are a few specimens of the recipes en vogue for
counteracting such evil spells:
“Place nine straws, which must be counted backward from
nine to one, in a jug of water drawn from the river with the
current, not against it; throw into the water some wood-
parings from off the cradle, the door-step, and the four
corners of the room in which the child was born, and add
nine pinches of ashes, likewise counted backward. Boil up
together, and pour into a large basin, leaving the pot upside
down in it. If the boiling water draws itself up into the jug”
(as of course it will), “that is proof positive that the child is
bewitched. Now moisten the child’s forehead with some of
the water before it has time to cool, and give it (still
counting backward) nine drops to drink.”
The child that has been bewitched may likewise be held
above a red-hot ploughshare, on which a glass of wine has
been poured; or else a glass of water, in which a red-hot
horseshoe has been placed, given to drink in spoonfuls.
In every village there used to be (and may still occasionally
be found) old women who made a regular and profitable
trade out of preparing the water which is to undo such evil
spells.
The Saxon mother is careful not to leave her child alone till
it has been baptized, for fear of malignant spirits, who may
steal it away, leaving an uncouth elf in its place. Whenever
a child grows up clumsy and heavy, with large head, wide
mouth, stump nose, and crooked legs, the gossips are ready
to swear that it has been changed in the cradle—more
especially if it prove awkward and slow in learning to speak.
To guard against such an accident, it is recommended to
mothers obliged to leave their infants alone to place
beneath the pillow either a prayer-book, a broom, a loaf of
bread, or a knife stuck point upward.
Very cruel remedies have sometimes been resorted to in
order to force the evil spirits to restore the child they have
stolen and take back their own changeling. For instance, the
unfortunate little creature suspected of being an elf was
beaten with a thorny branch until quite bloody, and then left
sitting astride on a hedge for an hour. It was then supposed
that the spirits would secretly bring back the stolen child.
The infant must not be suffered to look at itself in the glass
till after the baptism, nor should it be held near an open
window. A very efficacious preservative against all sorts of
evil spells is to hang round the child’s neck a little triangular
bag stuffed with grains of incense, wormwood, and various
aromatic herbs, and with an adder’s head embroidered
outside. A gold coin sewed into the cap is also much
recommended.
Two godfathers and two godmothers are generally
appointed at Saxon peasant christenings, and it is
customary that the one couple should be old and the other
young; but in no case should a husband and wife figure as
godparents at the same baptism, but each one of the
quartette must belong to a different family. This is the
general custom, but in some districts the rule demands two
godfathers and one godmother for a boy, two godmothers
and one godfather for a girl.
If the parents have previously lost other children, then the
infant should not be carried out by the door in going to
church, but handed out by the window and brought back in
the same way. It should be carried through the broadest
street, never by narrow lanes or by-ways, else it will learn
thieving.
The godparents must on no account look round on their way
to church, and the first person met by the christening
procession will decide the sex of the next child to be born—a
boy if it be a man.
If two children are baptized out of the same water, one of
them is sure to die; and if several boys are christened in
succession in the same church without the line being broken
by a girl, there will be war in the land as soon as they are
grown up. Many girls christened in succession denotes
fruitful vintages for the country when they shall have
attained a marriageable age.
If the child sleep through the christening ceremony, it will be
pious and good-tempered—but if it cries, bad-tempered or
unlucky; therefore the first question asked by the parents on
the party’s return from church is generally, “Was it a quiet
baptism?” and if such has not been the case, the sponsors
are apt to conceal the truth.
In some places the christening procession returning to the
house finds the door closed. After knocking for some time in
vain, a voice from within summons the godfather to name
seven bald men of the parish. This having been answered, a
further question is asked as to the gospel read in church,
and only on receiving this reply, “Let the little children come
to me,” is the door flung open, saying, “Come in; you have
hearkened attentively to the words of the Lord.”
The sponsors next inquiring, “Where shall we put the child?”
receive this answer:

“On the bunker let it be,

It will jump then like a flea.
Put it next upon the hearth,
Heavy gold it will be worth.
On the floor then let it sleep,
That it once may learn to sweep.
On the table in a dish,
Grow it will then like a fish.”

After holding it successively in each of the places named,

the baby is finally put back into the cradle, while the guests
prepare to enjoy the tauf schmaus, or christening banquet,
to which each person has been careful to bring a small
contribution in the shape of eggs, bacon, fruit, or cakes; the
godparents do not fail to come, each laden with a bottle of
good wine besides some other small gift for the child.
The feast is noisy and merry, and many are the games and
jokes practised on these occasions. One of these, called the
badspringen (jumping the bath), consists in placing a
washing trough or bath upside down on the ground with a
lighted candle upon it. All the young women present are
then invited to jump over without upsetting or putting out
the light. Those successful in this evolution will be mothers
of healthy boys. If they are bashful and refuse to jump, or
awkward enough to upset and put out the candle, they will
be childless or have only girls.
The spiesstanz, or spit dance, is also usual at christening
feasts. Two roasting-spits are laid on the ground crosswise,
as in the sword-dance, and the movements executed much
in the same manner. Sometimes it is the grandfather of the
new-born infant, who, proud of his agility, opens the
performance singing:

“Purple plum so sweet,

See my nimble feet,
How I jump and slide,
How I hop and glide.
Look how well I dance,
See how high I prance.
Purple plum so sweet,
See my nimble feet.”

But if the grandfather be old and feeble, and the godfathers

unwilling to exert themselves, then it is usually the midwife
who, for a small consideration, undertakes the dancing.
It is not customary for the young mother to be seated at
table along with the guests; and even though she be well
and hearty enough to have baked the cakes and milked the
cows on that same day, etiquette demands that she should
play the interesting invalid and lie abed till the feasting is
over.
Full four weeks after the birth of her child must she stay at
home, and durst not step over the threshold of her court-
yard, even though she has resumed all her daily
occupations within the first week of the event. “I may not go
outside till my time is out; the Herr Vater would be sorely
angered if he saw me,” is the answer I have often received
from a woman who declined to come out on the road.
Neither may she spin during these four weeks, lest her child
should suffer from dizziness.
When the time of this enforced retirement has elapsed, the
young mother repairs to church to be blessed by the pastor;
but before so doing she is careful to seek out the nearest
well and throw down a piece of bread into its depths,
probably as an offering to the brunnenfrau who resides in
every well, and is fond of luring little children down to her.
With these first four weeks the greatest perils of infancy are
considered to be at an end, but no careful mother will fail to
observe the many little customs and regulations which
alone will insure the further health and well-being of her
child. Thus she will always remember that the baby may
only be washed between sunrise and sunset, and that the
bath water should not be poured out into the yard at a place
where any one can step over it, which would entail death or
sickness, or at the very least deprive the infant of its sleep.
Two children which cannot yet talk must never be suffered
to kiss each other, or both will be backward in speech.
A book laid under the child’s pillow will make it an apt
scholar; and the water in which a puppy dog has been
washed, if used for the bath, will cure all skin diseases.
Whoever steps over a child as it lies on the ground will
cause it to die within a month. Other prognostics of death
are to rock an empty cradle, to make the baby dance in its
bath, or to measure it with a yard measure before it can
walk.
 CHAPTER XVI.

THE SAXONS: DEATH AND BURIAL.

IN olden times, when the Almighty used still to show himself
on earth, the people say that every one knew beforehand
exactly the day and hour of his death.
Thus one day the Creator in the course of his wanderings
came across a peasant who was mending his garden paling
in a careless, slovenly manner.
“Why workest thou so carelessly?” asked the Lord, and
received this answer:
“Why should I make it any better? I have got only one year
left to live, and it will last till then.”
Hearing which God grew angry, and said,
“Henceforward no man shall know the day or hour of his
death; thou art the last one who has known it.” And since
that time we are all kept in ignorance of our death-hour;
therefore should every man live as though he were to die in
the next hour, and work as if he were to live forever.
Death to the Saxon peasant appears in the light of a
treacherous enemy who must be met with open resistance,
and may either be conquered by courageous opposition or
conciliated with a bribe. “He has put off death with a slice of
bread” is said of a man who has survived some great
danger.
When the first signs of an approaching illness declare
themselves in a man, all his friends are strenuous in
advising him to hold out against it—not to let himself go, but
to grapple with this foe which has seized him unawares.
Even though all the symptoms of typhus-fever be already
upon him, though his head be burning like fire and his limbs
heavy as lead, he is yet exhorted to bear up against it, and
on no account to lie down, for that would be a concession to
the enemy.
In this way many a man goes about with death upon his
face, determined not to give in, till at last he drops down
senseless in the field or yard where he has been working.
Even then his family are not disposed to let him rest. With
well-meant but mistaken kindness they endeavor to rouse
him by shouting in his ear. He must be made to wake up and
walk about, or it will be all over with him; and not for the
world would they send for a doctor, who can only be
regarded as an omen of approaching death.[19]
Some old woman, versed in magic formulas and learned in
the decoction of herbs and potions, is hastily summoned to
the bedside, and the unfortunate man would probably be
left to perish without intelligent advice, unless the pastor,
hearing of his illness, takes upon himself to send for the
nearest physician.
By the time the doctor arrives the illness has made rapid
strides, and most likely the assistance comes too late. The
first care of the doctor on entering the room will be to
remove the warm fur cap and the heavy blankets, which are
wellnigh stifling the patient, and order him to be undressed
and comfortably laid in his bed. He prescribes cooling
compresses and a medicine to be taken at regular intervals,
but shakes his head and gives little hope of recovery.
Already this death is regarded as a settled thing in the
village; for many of the gossips now remember to have
heard the owl shriek in the preceding night, or there has
been an unusual howling of dogs just about midnight. Some
remember how a flight of crows flew cawing over the village
but yesterday, which means a death, for it is meat that the
crows are crying for; or else the cock has been heard to
crow after six in the evening; or the loaves were cracked in
the oven on last baking-day. Others call to mind how over-
merry the old man had been four weeks ago, when his
youngest grandchild was christened, and that is ever a sign
of approaching decease. “And only a week ago,” says
another village authority, “when we buried old N—— N——,
there was an amazing power of dust round the grave, and
the Herr Vater sneezed twice during his sermon; and that,
as every one knows, infallibly means another funeral before
long. Mark my words, ere eight days have passed he will be
lying under the nettles!”
“So it is,” chimes in another gossip. “He will hear the cuckoo
cry no more.”
The village carpenter, who has long been out of work, now
hangs about the street in hopes of a job. “How is the old
man?” he anxiously inquires of a neighbor.
“The preacher has just gone in to knock off the old sinner’s
irons,” is the irreverent reply, at which the carpenter
brightens up, hoping that he may soon be called in to make
the “fir-wood coat,” for he has a heap of damaged boards
lying by which he fain would get rid of.
Sometimes, however, it is the thrifty peasant himself, who,
knowing the ways of village carpenters, and foreseeing this
inevitable contingency, has taken care to provide himself
with a well-made solid coffin years before there was any
probability of its coming into use. He has himself chosen out
the boards, tested their soundness, and driven a hard
bargain for his purchase, laying himself down in the coffin to
assure himself of the length being sufficient. For many years
this useless piece of furniture has been standing in the loft
covered with dust and cobwebs, and serving, perhaps, as a
receptacle for old iron or discarded boots; and now it is the
dying man himself who, during a passing interval of
consciousness, directs that his coffin should be brought
down and cleaned out; his glassy eye recovering a
momentary brightness as he congratulates himself on his
wise forethought.
Death is indeed approaching with rapid strides. Only two
spoonfuls of the prescribed medicine has the patient
swallowed. “Take it away,” he says, when he has realized his
situation—“take it away, and keep it carefully for the next
person who falls ill. It can do me no good, and it is a pity to
waste it on me, for I feel that my time has come. Send for
the preacher, that I may make my peace with the Almighty.”
The last dispositions as to house and property have been
made in the presence of the pastor or preacher. The house
and yard are to belong to the youngest son, as is the
general custom among the Saxons; the eldest son or
daughter is to be otherwise provided for. The small back
room belongs to the widow, as jointure lodging for the rest
of her life; likewise a certain proportion of grain and fruit is
assured to her. The exact spot of the grave is indicated, and
two ducats are to be given to the Herr Vater if he will
undertake to preach a handsome funeral oration, and to
compose a suitable epitaph for the tombstone.
When it becomes evident that the last death-struggle is
approaching, the mattress is withdrawn from under the
dying man, for, as every one knows, he will expire more
gently if laid upon straw.
Scarcely has the breath left his body than all the last clothes
he has worn are taken off and given to a gypsy. The corpse,
after being washed and shaved, is dressed in bridal attire—
the self-same clothes once donned on the wedding-morning
long ago, and which ever since have been lying by, carefully
folded and strewn with sprigs of lavender, in the large
painted truhe (bunker), waiting for the day when their turn
must come round again. Possibly they now prove a
somewhat tight fit; for the man of sixty has considerably
developed his proportions since he wore these same clothes
forty years ago, and no doubt it will be necessary to make
various slits in the garments in order to enable them to fulfil
their office.
The coffin is prepared to receive the body by a sheet being
spread over a layer of wood-shavings; for the head a little
pillow, stuffed with dried flowers and aromatic herbs, which
in most houses are kept ready prepared for such
contingencies. In sewing this pillow great care must be
taken not to make any knot upon the thread, which would
hinder the dead man from resting in his grave, and likewise
prevent his widow from marrying again; also, no one should
be suffered to smell at the funeral wreaths, or else they will
irretrievably lose their sense of smell.
A new-dug grave should not if possible stand open
overnight, but only be dug on the day of the funeral itself.
An hour before the funeral, the ringer begins to toll the
seelenpuls (soul’s pulse), as it is called; but the sexton is
careful to pause in the ringing when the clock is about to
strike, for “if the hour should strike into the bell” another
death will be the consequence.
Standing before the open grave, the mourners give vent to
their grief, which, even when true and heartfelt, is often
expressed with such quaint realism as to provoke a smile:
“My dearest husband,” wails a disconsolate widow, “why
hast thou gone away? I had need of thee to look after the
farm, and there was plenty room for thee at our fireside. My
God, is it right of thee to take my support away? On whom
shall I now lean?”
The children near their dead mother.—“Mother, mother, who
will care for us now? Shall we live within strange doors?”
A mother bewailing her only son.—“O God, thou hast had no
pity! Even the Emperor did not take my son away to be a
soldier. Thou art less merciful than the Emperor!”
Another mother weeping over two dead children.—“What a
misfortune is mine, O God! If I had lost two young foals, at
least their hides would have been left to me!” And the
children, standing by the open grave of their father, cry out,
“Oh, father, we shall never forget thee! Take our thanks for
all the good thou hast done to us during thy lifetime, as well
as for the earthly goods thou hast left behind!”
The banquet succeeding the obsequies is in some places
still called the tor—perhaps in reference to the old god Thor,
who with his hammer presides alike over marriages and
funerals.
 CHAPTER XVII.

THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR ORIGIN.

“IT is a fine country, but there are dreadfully many
Roumanians,” was the verdict of a respectable Saxon, who
accompanied his words with a deep sigh and a mournful
shake of the head. Evidently the worthy man thought
necessary to adopt a deprecatory tone in alluding to these
objectionable people, as though the presence of
Roumanians in a landscape were matter for apology, like the
admission of rats in a stable, or bugs in a bedstead. To an
unprejudiced outsider, it is certainly somewhat amusing to
observe the feelings with which the three principal races
inhabiting this country regard each other: thus, to the
Hungarian and the Saxon the Roumanian is but simple,
unqualified vermin; while the Saxon regards the Magyar as a
barbarian, which compliment the latter returns by
considering the Saxon a boor; and the poor Roumanian,
even while cringing before his Saxon and Hungarian
masters, is taught by his religion to regard as unclean all
those who stand outside his faith.
Briefly to sum up the respective merits of these three races,
it may be allowable to define them as representing
manhood in the past, present, and future tenses.
The Saxons have been men, and right good men, too, in
their day; but that day has gone by, and they are now
rapidly degenerating into mere fossil antiquities, physically
deteriorated from constant intermarriage, and morally
opposed to any sort of progress involving amalgamation
with the surrounding races.
The Hungarians are men in the full sense of the word,
perhaps all the more so that they are a nation of soldiers
rather than men of science and letters.
The Roumanians will be men a few generations hence, when
they have had time to shake off the habits of slavery and
have learned to recognize their own value. There is a wealth
of unraised treasure, of abilities in the raw block, of
uncultured talent, lying dormant in this ignorant peasantry,
who seem but lately to have begun to understand that they
need not always bend their neck beneath the yoke of other
masters, nor are necessarily born to slavery and humiliation.
In face of their rapidly increasing population, of the thirst for
knowledge and the powerful spirit of progress which have
arisen among them of late years, it is scarcely hazardous to
prophesy that this people have a great future before them,
and that a day will come when, other nations having
degenerated and spent their strength, these descendants of
the ancient Romans, rising phœnix-like from their ashes, will
step forward with a whole fund of latent power and virgin
material to rule as masters where formerly they have
crouched as slaves.
Two popular legends current in Transylvania may here find a
place, as somewhat humorously defining the national
characteristics of the three races just alluded to.
“When God had decreed to banish Adam and Eve from
Paradise because they had sinned against his laws, he first
deputed his Hungarian angel Gabor (Gabriel) to chase them
out of the garden of Eden. But Adam and Eve were already
wise, for they had eaten of the fruit of knowledge; so they
resolved to conciliate the angel by putting good cheer
before him, and inviting him to partake of it. In truth, the
angel ate and drank heartily of the good things on the table,
and, after having eaten, he had not the heart to repay his
kind hosts for their hospitality by chasing them out of
Paradise, so he returned to heaven without having executed
his commission, and begged the Lord to send another in his
place, for he could not do it.
“Then God sent the Wallachian angel Florian, thinking he
was less fine-feeling and would execute the mission better.
Adam and Eve were sitting at table when the servant of the
Lord entered, shod in leather opintschen (sandals) and with
fur cap under his arm. After humbly saluting, he told his
errand. But Adam, on seeing the appearance of this
messenger, felt no more fear, and asked roughly, ‘Hast
brought no written warrant with thee?’ At this the angel
Florian began to tremble, turned round on the spot, and
went back to heaven.
“Then the Lord became angry, and sent down the German
Archangel Michael. Adam and Eve were mightily terrified on
seeing him, but resolved to do their best to soften his heart;
so they prepared for him a sumptuous meal of his favorite
dishes—ham-sausage, pickled sauerkraut, beer, wine, and
sweet mead. The German angel was highly pleased, and
played such a good knife and fork that Adam and Eve began
to feel light of heart again. But hardly had the archangel
eaten his fill when, rising from the table, he swung his
flaming sword overhead and thundered forth to his terrified
hosts, ‘Now pack yourselves off!’ In vain did our first parents
beg and sue for mercy; nothing served to touch the heart of
the inflexible German angel, who, without further ado, drove
them both out of Paradise.”
The second legend relates to the Holy Sepulchre, and tells
us how a deputation, consisting of a Hungarian, a Saxon,
and a Wallachian, was once sent by the Transylvanian Diet
to Palestine in order to recover the Saviour’s body from the
infidels. “They started on their journey full of hope, but
when they had reached Jerusalem they found the sepulchre
guarded by a strong enforcement of Roman soldiers. What
was now to be done? was the question debated between
them. The Hungarian was for cutting into the soldiers at
once with his sword, but the canny Saxon held him back and
said, ‘They are stronger than we, and we might receive
blows; let us rather attempt to barter.’ The Wallachian only
winked with one eye and whispered, ‘Let us wait till
nightfall, and then we can steal the body.’”

There has been of late years so much learned discussion

about the origin of this Roumanian people that it were
presumption, in face of the erudite authorities enlisted on
either side, to advance any independent opinion on the
subject. German writers, especially Saxons, have been
strenuous in sneering down all claims to Roman extraction,
and contending that whatever Roman elements remained
over after their evacuation of the territory must long since
have been swallowed up in the great rush of successive
nations which passed over the land in the early part of the
Middle Ages. Roumanian writers, on the contrary, are fond
of laying great stress on the direct Roman lineage which it is
their pride to believe in, sometimes, however, injuring their
own cause by over-anxiety to claim too much—laying too
little stress on the admixture of Slave blood, which is as
surely a fundamental ingredient of the race. One of the
most enlightened Roumanian authors, Joan Slavici, states
the case more accurately in saying that the ethnographical
importance of the Roumanians does not lie in the fact of
their being descendants of the ancient Romans, nor in that
of the long-vanished Dacian race having been Romanized by
the conquerors, but solely and entirely therein; that this
people, placed between two sharply contrasting races, form
an important connecting link in the chain of European tribes.
The classical type of feature so often to be met with among
Roumanian peasants of both sexes pleads strongly in favor
of the theory of Roman origin; and if in a former chapter I
compared the features of Saxon peasants to those of
Noah’s-ark figures, rudely cut out of the very coarsest wood,
the Roumanians as often remind me of a type of face chiefly
to be met with on cameo ornaments or ancient signet-rings.
If we take at random a score of individuals from any
Roumanian village, we cannot fail to find a goodly choice of
classical profiles, worthy to be immortalized on agate, onyx,
or jasper, like a handful of antique gems which have been
strewn broadcast over the land.
Wallack, or Wlach, by which name this people was generally
designated up to the year ’48, points equally to Roman
extraction—Wallack being but another version of the
appellations Welsh, Welch, Wallon, etc., given by Germans
to all people native of Italy. It may, however, not be
superfluous here to mention that at no period whatever did
these people describe themselves otherwise than as
“Romāns,” Roumanians, and would have been as little likely
to speak of themselves as Wallacks as would be an
American to call himself a Yankee, or a Londoner to
designate himself as a cockney. As far as I can make out, a
certain sense of opprobrium seems to be attached to this
word Wallack as applied by strangers, explainable perhaps
by the fact that the appellation Wlach was formerly used to
describe all people subjugated by the Romans.
 CHAPTER XVIII.

THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR RELIGION,

POPAS, AND CHURCHES.
IN order at all to understand the Roumanian peasant, we
must first of all begin by understanding his religion, which
alone gives us the clew to the curiously contrasting shades
of his complicated character. Monsieur De Gérando, writing
of the Wallacks some forty years ago, says,
“Aujourd’hui leur seul mobile est la religion, si on peut
donner ce nom à l’ensemble de leurs pratiques
superstitieuses;” and another author, with equal accuracy,
remarks that “the whole life of a Wallack is taken up in
devising talismans against the devil.”
Historians are very much divided as to the date of the
Roumanians’ conversion to Christianity, for while some
consider this to have only taken place in the time of
Patriarch Photius (in the ninth century), others are of opinion
that they embraced Christianity as early as the third
century. It is not improbable that during the Roman
occupation of Transylvania in the second and third centuries
Christians may have come hither, and so imparted their
religion to the ancient inhabitants with whom they
intermingled.
Up to the end of the seventeenth century all the
Transylvanian Roumanians belonged to the Greek
Schismatic Church. In the year 1698, however, the Austrian
Government succeeded in inducing a great portion of the
people to embrace the Greek united faith, and acknowledge
the supremacy of the Pope; and at the present day the
numbers of the two confessions in Transylvania are pretty
equally balanced, with only a small proportion in favor of the
Schismatic Church.
The united Roumanians in Transylvania are subject to an
archbishop residing at Blasendorf, while those of the Greek
Schismatic Church stand under another archbishop, whose
seat is at Hermanstadt.
Old chronicles of the thirteenth century make mention of
the Wallacks as a people “which, though professing the
Christian faith, is yet given to the practice of manifold pagan
rites and customs wholly at variance with Christianity;” and
even to-day the Roumanians are best described by the
paradoxical definition of Christian-pagans, or pagan-
Christians.
True, the Roumanian peasant will never fail to uncover his
head whenever he passes by a way-side cross, but his
salutation to the rising sun will be at least equally profound;
and if he goes to church and abstains from work on the
Lord’s Day, it is by no means certain whether he does not
regard the Friday (Vinere), dedicated to Paraschiva (Venus),
as the holier day of the two. The list of other unchristian
feast-days is lengthy, and still lengthier that of Christian
festivals, in whose celebration pagan rites may yet be
traced.
Whoever buries his dead without placing a coin in the hand
of the corpse is regarded as a pagan by the orthodox
Roumanian. “Nu-i-de-legea-noastra”—he is not of our law—
he says of such a one; and whosoever stands outside the
Roumanian religion, be he Christian, pagan, Jew, or
Mohammedan, is invariably regarded as unclean, and
consequently whatever comes in contact with any such
individual is unclean likewise.
The Roumanian language has a special word to define this
uncleanness—spurcat—which corresponds somewhat to the
koscher and unkoscher of the Jews.
If any animal fall into a well of drinking-water, then the well
forthwith becomes spurcat, and spurcat likewise whoever
drinks of this water. If it be a large animal, such as a calf or
goat, which has fallen into the well, then the whole water
must be bailed out; and should this fail to satisfy the
conscience of any ultra-orthodox proprietor, then the popa
must be called in to read a mass over the spot where
perhaps a donkey has found a watery grave. But when it is a
man who has been drowned there, no further rehabilitation
is possible for the unlucky well, which must therefore be
filled up and discarded as quite too hopelessly spurcat.
Every orthodox Roumanian household possesses three
different classes of cooking and eating utensils: unclean,
clean for the meat-days, and the cleanest of all for fast-
days.
The cleansing of a vessel which has, through some accident,
become spurcat is only conceded in the case of very large
and expensive articles, such as barrels and tubs; copious
ablutions of holy-water, besides thorough scouring,
scraping, and rubbing, being resorted to in such cases. All
other utensils which do not come under this denomination
must simply be thrown away, or at best employed for
feeding the domestic animals. The Roumanian who does not
strictly observe all these regulations is himself spurcat.
This same measure he applies to all individuals whom he
considers to be clean or unclean, according to their
observance of these rules. The uncleanliness, according to
him, does not lie in the individual, but in his laws, which fail
to enforce cleanliness; the law it is, therefore, which is
unclean, lege spurcat, which, for the Roumanian, is
synonymous with unchristian. For instance, a man who eats
horse-flesh is by him regarded as a pagan.
This recognition of the uncleanliness of most of his fellow-
creatures is, however, wholly independent of either hatred
or contempt on the part of the Roumanian, who, on the
contrary, shows much interest in foreign countries and
habits; and when he wishes to affirm the high character of a
stranger, he says of him that he is a man who keeps his own
law—tine la legea lui—spite of which the Roumanian will
refuse to wear the coat or eat off the plate of this honorable
stranger, and would regard any such familiarity as a deadly
sin.
The idea so strongly rooted in the Roumanian mind, that
they alone are Christians, and that, consequently, no man
can be a Christian without being also a Roumanian, seems
to imply that there was a time when the two words were
identical for them, and that, surrounded for long by pagans
with whom they could hold no sort of community, they
lacked all knowledge of other existing Christian races.
On the other hand, these people are curiously liberal
towards strangers in the matter of religion, allowing each
one, whatsoever be his confession, to enter their churches
and receive their sacraments. No Roumanian popa durst
refuse to administer a sacrament to whosoever may apply
to him, be he Catholic, Protestant, Jew, or pagan, provided
he submits to receive it in the manner prescribed by the
Oriental Church. So to-day, as six hundred years ago, the
popa cannot, without incurring scandal, refuse to bury a Jew,
or administer the sacrament to a dying infidel; his church
must be open to all mankind, and all are welcome to avail
themselves of its blessings and privileges.
This liberality in religious matters cannot, however, be
reversed, and no true Roumanian ever consents to receive a
sacrament from a priest of a different confession; and
though he may occasionally assist at a Protestant or
Catholic service, he conforms himself to no foreign forms of
worship, but is careful to comport himself precisely as
though he were in his own church. He does not mind joining
a Catholic procession on occasion, but no power on earth
can induce him to take part in a strange funeral.

The position occupied by the Roumanian clergyman towards

his flock is such a peculiar one that it deserves a special
notice. Though his influence over his people is unlimited, it
is in nowise dependent on his personal character. Unlike the
Saxon pastor, it is quite superfluous for the popa to present
in his person a model of the virtues he is in the habit of
describing from the altar. He may, for his part, be drunken,
dishonest, and profligate to his heart’s content, without
thereby losing his prestige as spiritual head. Like the Indian
Bramins, his official character is absolutely intangible, and
not to be shaken by any private misdemeanors; and the
Roumanian proverb which says, “face zice popa dar unce
face el”—that is to say, “do as the popa tells you, but do not
act as he does”—describes his attitude with perfect
accuracy. Only the popa has the privilege of wearing a
beard, as he alone is privileged to indulge in certain pet
vices which it is his mission officially to condemn, and, like
the virtue of charity, this beard may often be said literally to
cover a very great multitude of sins.
These Roumanian popas, with their thick curly beards, long
flowing garments, and wide-brimmed hats, used to give me
the impression of a set of jolly apostles, such as we
sometimes see depicted on old church-windows; not
infrequently the extreme joviality of their appearance
threatening to overpower the apostolic character altogether,
and completing the simile by suggesting further ideas of
glorious crimson sunsets deepening each tint of the mellow-
stained glass.
Mr. Boner, in his work on Transylvania, mentions an instance
of a group of Roumanian villagers who were seen on a
Saturday afternoon dragging their sorely resisting spiritual
head in the direction of the church. On being asked what
they were about, the peasants explained that they were
going to lock him up till Sunday morning, else he would be
too drunk to say mass for the congregation. “When church
is over we shall let him out again.” From personal
observation I have no doubt of the veracity of this story,
having come across more than one Roumanian village popa
who would have been none the worse for a little such
judicious confinement.
Although of late years, thanks chiefly to the enlightened
efforts of the late Archbishop Schaguna, much has been
done to raise the moral standard of the Roumanian clergy,
yet there remains still much to do before the prevailing
coarseness, brutality, and ignorance too often
characterizing this class can be removed. At present the
average village popa is simply a peasant with a beard, and
is not necessarily a particularly respected or respectable
individual. Many well-authenticated cases are told of popas
who could not write or read, and who betrayed their
ignorance by holding the book of Gospels upside down.
On week-days the popa goes about his agricultural duties
like any other peasant, digging in the garden or going
behind the plough as a matter of course; his wife is a simple
peasant woman, and her children run about as dirty and
unkempt as any other brats in the village.
On one occasion when I had visited a Roumanian church I
dropped twenty kreuzers (about fourpence) into the hand of
the peasant lass who had unlocked the door for me. She
accepted the coin with humble gratitude, but I felt myself to
have been guilty of a terrible gaucherie when I subsequently
discovered the young lady to be no other than Madame
Popa herself!
Towards any one of the higher classes the popa, as a rule, is
crouching and obsequious, humbly uncovering his head, and
hardly daring to take a seat when offered. An old Hungarian
gentleman told me of a Roumanian popa who, when
requested to be seated, declined so doing, as he
considerately observed that he should not like to distress
the noble gentleman by leaving vermin on his furniture.

The Roumanian churches offer a pleasant contrast to the

bleak, uncompromising appearance of the Saxon ones. Even
when architecturally not remarkable, they are invariably
covered with a profusion of ornament and decoration of
extremely artistic effect. Few places of worship appeal so
strongly to the imagination as these Oriental buildings,
which, without as well as within, are one mass of warm soft
coloring. The belfry tower is encircled by a procession of
celestial beings, and the walls divided off into little arched
niches beneath the roof, each of which harbors some quaint
Byzantine saint, with pale golden aureole and shadowy
palm-branch. Though the outlines may be somewhat
primitive, and the laws of perspective but imperfectly
understood, nature, the greatest artist of all, has here
stepped in to complete the picture: summer showers and
winter snows have mellowed each tint, and blended
together the color into perfect harmony.
The same style of ornament is repeated inside with
increased effect; for here the saintly legions which adorn the
walls are brighter and more vivid, stronger and fiercer
looking, because in better preservation. They seem to be
the living originals of which those others outside are but the
pale ghosts, and appear to rush at us from all sides as we
enter the place, increasing in numbers as our eyesight gets
used to the dim, mysterious twilight let in by the narrow
windows. Not a corner but from which starts up some
grinning devil, not a nook but reveals some choleric-looking
saint, till we feel ourselves to be surrounded by a whole
pageant of celestial and diabolical beings, only
distinguishable from one another by the respective fashions
of their head-gear—horns or halos, as the case may be.
These horned devils play a very important part in each
Roumanian church, where usually a large portion of the
walls is given up to representations of the place of eternal
punishment. The poor Roumanian peasant, whose daily life
is often so wretched and struggling as hardly to deserve
that name, seems to derive considerable consolation from
anticipations of the day when the tables are to be turned,
and the hitherto despised poor shall receive an eternal
crown. Thus the hapless victims depicted as being marched
off to the infernal regions under the escort of several
ferocious-looking demons armed with terrific pitchforks, are
invariably recruited from the ranks of the upper ten
thousand. They are all being conducted to their destination
with due regard for etiquette, and rigid observance of the
laws of exact precedence. First comes a row of kings, easily
to be distinguished by their golden crowns; then a
procession of mitred bishops, followed by a line of noblemen
booted and spurred; while on the other side of the wall a
crowd of simple peasants and a group of shaven friars are
being warmly invited by St. Peter, key in hand, to step over
the threshold of the golden gate which leads to Paradise.
 ARCHBISHOP SCHAGUNA.
Each of these churches is divided into three sections: first,
there is the sanctuary, partitioned off by trellised gates,
painted and gilt, behind which the priest disappears at
certain parts of the ceremony; then, in the body of the
church, up to the step approaching the sanctuary, stand the
men, and behind them, in a sort of outer department
connected by an archway, are the women, next to the door,
and close to the pictures of hell.
In the more primitive buildings there are rarely benches for
the congregation, but a curious sort of prong may be
sometimes seen, constructed out of the forked branch of a
tree, and which, placed at intervals along the walls, is
intended to give support to feeble old people unable to
stand upright during a lengthy service.
It is a pretty sight to look on at the celebration of mass in
any Roumanian church, more especially in summer, when
every matron and maiden carries a bunch of sweet-scented
flowers in her hand, and each man has a similar nosegay
stuck in the cap which he holds beneath his arm. These
flowers bestow an additional sprinkling of bright color over
the scene, and counteract any closeness in the atmosphere
by their pungent aromatic scent.
 CHAPTER XIX.

THE ROUMANIANS: THEIR

CHARACTER.
THE Roumanian is very obstinate in character, and does not
let himself be easily persuaded. He does nothing without
reflection, and often he reflects so long that the time for
action has passed. This slowness has become proverbial, for
the Saxon says, “God grant me the enlightenment which the
Roumanian always gets too late.” In the same proportion as
he is slow to make up his mind, he is also slow to change it.
Frankness is not regarded as a virtue, and the Roumanian
language has no word which directly expresses this quality.
The Hungarians, on the contrary, regard frankness and
truth-speaking as a duty, and are therefore often laughed at
by their Roumanian neighbors, who consider as a fool any
man who injures himself by speaking the truth.
Of pride the Roumanian has little idea as yet; he has been
too long treated as a degraded and serf-like being, and the
only word approaching this characteristic would rather seem
to express the vanity of a handsome man who sees himself
admired. Also for dignity the epithet is wanting, and the
nearest approach to it is to say that a man is sensible and
composed if you would express that he is dignified.
Revenge is cultivated as a virtue, and whoever would be
considered a respectable man must keep in mind the
injuries done to him, and show resentment thereof on fitting
occasions. Reconciliation is regarded as opprobrious, and
forgiveness of wrongs degrading. But the Roumanian’s rage
is stealthy and disguised, and while the Hungarian lets his
anger openly explode, the Roumanian will dissemble and
mutter between his teeth, “Tine mente” (“Thou shalt
remember this”); and his memory is good, for he does not
suffer himself to forget. When an injury has been done to
him henceforward it becomes his sacred duty to brood over
his vengeance. He must not say a good word more to his
enemy nor do him a service, and must strive to injure his
foe to the best of his ability—with, however, this nice
distinction, that he himself do not profit by the injury done.
Thus, it would not be consistent with the Roumanian’s code
of honor were he to steal the horse or ox of his enemy, but
there can be no reasonable objection to his advising or
inducing another man to do so. Such behavior is considered
only right and just, and by so acting he will only be fulfilling
his duty as an honest and honorable man.
The Roumanian does not seem to be courageous by nature
—at least not as we understand courage—nor does courage
exactly take rank as a virtue in his estimation, for courage
implies a certain recklessness of consequences, and,
according to his way of thinking, every action should be
circumscribed, and only performed after due deliberation.
When, however, driven to it by circumstances, and brought
to recognize the necessity, he can fight bravely and is a
good soldier. In the same way, he will never expose his life
without necessity, and will coolly watch a house burning
down without offering assistance; but when compelled to
action under military orders, he will go blindly into the fire,
even knowing death to be inevitable.
What is commonly understood by military enthusiasm is
wanting in the Roumanian (at least on this side of the
frontier), for he is too ignorant to perceive the advantage of
letting himself be shot in the service of a foreign master, for
a cause of which he understands nothing and cares less. He
is extremely sorry for himself when forced to enlist, and
sometimes becomes most poetically plaintive on the
subject, as in the following verses translated from a popular
song:

“To the battle-field I go,

There to fight the country’s foe.
Wash my linen, mother mine,
All my linen white and fine.[20]
Rinse it in thy tears, and then
Dry on burning breast again.
Send it, mother, to me there
Where you hear the trumpet’s blare.
Where the banners droop o’erhead,
There shall I be lying dead,
Stricken by the musket’s lead,
Seamed by gashes rosy red,
Trampled by the charger’s tread.”

Something of the spirit of the ancient Spartans lies in the

Roumanian’s idea of virtue and vice. Stealing and
drunkenness are not considered to be intrinsically wrong,
only the publicity which may attend these proceedings
conveying any sense of shame to the offender. Thus a man
is not yet a thief because he has stolen; and whoever
becomes accidentally aware of the theft should, if he have
no personal interest in the matter, hold his peace, on the
Shakespearian principle that

“He that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.”

Even the injured party whose property has been abstracted

is advised if possible to reckon alone with the thief, without
drawing general attention to his fault.
Neither is drunkenness necessarily degrading. On the
contrary, every decent man should get drunk on suitable
occasions, such as weddings, christenings, etc., and then go
quietly to a barn or loft and sleep off his tipsiness. Bea cat
vrei apoi te calcu si dormi (drink thy fill and then lie down
and sleep) says their proverb; but any man who has been
seen reeling drunk in the open street, hooted at by children
and barked at by dogs, were it but once, is henceforward
branded as a drunkard. It is therefore the duty of each
Roumanian who sees a drunken man to conduct him quietly
to the nearest barn or loft.
There are some few villages where even the noblest
inhabitants are not ashamed to be seen drunk in the open
street, but in such villages the moral standard is a low one
throughout.
Another curious side of the Roumanian’s morality is the
point of view from which he regards personal property, such
as grain and fruit. In general, whatever grows plentifully in
the fields, or, as they term it, “whatever God has given,”
may be taken with impunity by whoever passes that way,
but with this restriction, that he merely take so much as he
can consume at the moment. This is but right and just, and
the proprietor who makes complaint at having his vineyard
or his plum-trees rifled in this manner only exposes himself
to ridicule. Whoever carries away of the fruits with him is a
thief, but, strictly speaking, only when he sells the stolen
goods, not when he shares them quietly with his own family.
With regard to fowls, geese, lambs, and sucking-pigs, the
rule is more or less the same. Whoever steals only in order
to treat himself to a good dinner is not blamed, and may
even boast of the feat on the sly; but the man caught in the
act is punished by having the stolen goods tied round his
neck, and being led round the village to the sound of the
drum to proclaim his shame to the people. If, however, he
has stolen from a stranger—that is, some one of another
village—the culprit does not usually lose his good
reputation; and he who robs a rich stranger is never
considered base, but simply awkward to have exposed
himself to the odium of discovery.
The Roumanian only looks at deeds and results, motives
being absolutely indifferent to him. So the word passion he
translates as pâtima, which really expresses weakness. Thus
an om pâtima—a weak man—may be either a consumptive
invalid, a love-sick youth, or a furious drunkard. Passion is a
misfortune which should excite compassion, but not
resentment; and whoever commits a bad action is above all
foolish, because it is sure to be found out sooner or later.
An anecdote which aptly characterizes the Roumanian’s
moral sense is told by Mr. Patterson. Three peasants waylaid
and murdered a traveller, dividing his spoils between them.
Among his provisions they discovered a cold roast fowl,
which they did not eat, however, but gave to their dog, as,
being a fast-day, they feared to commit sin by tasting flesh.
This was related by the murderers themselves when caught
and driven to confess the crime before justice.
While on the subject of fasts, I may as well here mention
that those prescribed by the Greek Church are numerous
and severe; and it is a well-ascertained fact that the largest
average of crimes committed by Roumanians occurs during
the seasons of Advent and Lent, when the people are in a
feverish and over-excited state from the unnatural
deprivation of food—just as the Saxon peasants are most
quarrelsome immediately after the vintage.
Another English traveller, speaking disparagingly of the serf-
like, crouching demeanor of the Roumanians, remarked that
“perhaps nothing else could be expected of people who are
required to fast two hundred and twenty-six days in the
year.”
The inhabitants of each Roumanian village are divided into
three classes:
First, the distinguished villagers—front-men—called fruntasi,
or oameni de frunta.
Second, the middle-men—mylocasi, or oameni de mana
adona—men of second-hand.
Third, the hind-men, or codas (tail-men).
Each man, according to his family, personal gifts,
reputation, and fortune, is ranged into one or other of these
three classes, which have each their separate customs,
rights, and privileges, which no member of another class
durst infringe upon.
Thus the codas may do much which would not be suitable
for the other two classes. The mylocasi have, on the whole,
the most difficult position of the three, and are most
severely judged, being alternately accused of presumption
in imitating the behavior of the fruntas, and blamed for
demeaning themselves by copying the irregular habits of
the codas. In short, it would seem to be all but impossible
for an unfortunate middle-man to hit off the juste milieu,
and succeed in combining in his person the precise
proportions of dignity and deference required of his state.
Nor is the position of the front-men entirely an easy one.
Each one of these has a separate party of hangers-on,
friends and admirers, who profess a blind faith and
admiration for him—endorsing his opinion on all occasions,
and recognizing his authority in matters of dispute. His
dress, his words, his actions are all strictly regulated on the
axiom noblesse oblige; but woe to him if he be caught erring
himself—for only in the case of the popa is it allowable for
the practice to differ from the preaching. A fruntas may sit
down to table with the codas of his own village, whenever
they are in his service helping him to bring in the harvest or
to build a house; but he durst not, under pain of losing
caste, be equally familiar with any strange codas.
There are, moreover, whole districts which are reckoned as
distinguished, and whose codas take rank along with the
mylocasi, or even the front-men, of less aristocratic villages.
A single woman, coming from one of these distinguished
neighborhoods, may in a short time transform the whole
village into which she marries, the inhabitants eagerly
studying and imitating her dress, manners, and gestures,
down to the most insignificant details.

A distinctive quality of the Roumanian race is the touching

affection which mostly unites all members of one family.
Unlike the Saxon, who seeks to limit the number of his
offspring, the poor Roumanian, even when plunged into the
direst poverty, yet regards each addition to his family as
another gift of God; while to be a childless wife is considered
as the greatest of misfortunes.
Numerous instances are recorded of children of other
nationalities, who, deserted by their unnatural parents, have
been taken in by poor Roumanians, themselves already
burdened with a numerous family.
There is an ancient Roumanian legend which tells us how in
olden times there used to prevail the custom of killing off all
old men and useless encumbrances, on the same principle
as in Mr. Trollope’s “Fixed Period.” One young man, however,
being much attached to his parent, could not resign himself
to executing this cruel order; but fearing the anger of his
country-people, he concealed his father in an empty barrel
in the cellar, where every day he secretly brought him food
and drink.
But it came to pass that all arms-bearing men were
summoned together to sally forth in quest of a terrible
dragon which was devastating the land. The pious son,
sorely puzzled to know how to provide his father with
nourishment during his absence, carried together all the
victuals in the house, lamenting to him that possibly he
might never return from the expedition, in which case his
beloved parent would be obliged to die of hunger. The old
man answered,
“If in truth thou returnest not, then life has no more charms
for me, and gladly will I let my weak body sink into the
grave. But wouldst thou come back victorious out of the
conflict with the dragon, listen to my words. The cavern
inhabited by the monster has over a hundred subterraneous
passages and galleries which run like a labyrinth in every
direction, so that even if the enemy be killed the victors,
unable to find the outlet, will perish miserably. Therefore
take with thee our black mare which goes to pasture with a
foal, and lead them both to the mouth of the cavern. There
kill and bury the foal, but take the mother with thee, and
when the struggle with the dragon is over, she will safely
lead thee back to the light of day.”
The son then took leave of his father with many tears, and
marched away with his comrades, and when he reached the
cavern he obeyed the given directions, without, however,
revealing the secret to any one.
After a desperate struggle, the monster in the cavern was
slain; but terror and dismay took possession of the warriors
when it proved impossible to find the outlet from this
dreadful labyrinth. Then stepped forward the pious son with
his black mare, and called upon the others to follow him.
The mare began to neigh for her foal, and, seeking the
daylight, soon hit on the right track, which brought them
safely to the mouth of the cavern.
The warriors, seeing how their comrade had saved them all
from certain death, now besought him to reveal to them
how he chanced to have hit on this cunning device. But he
now took fright that if he spoke the truth, not only his own
life but that of his old father would be forfeited for having
thus dared to disobey the law of the land. Only at last, when
all had sworn to do him no injury, did he consent to unseal
his lips and tell them how, in his cellar, there lived his
father, an old and experienced man, who, at parting, had
given him this advice with regard to the mare.
On hearing this the warriors were mightily astonished, and
one of them called out, “Our ancestors did not do wisely in
teaching us to kill the old ones, for these are more
experienced than we, and can often help the people with
their sage counsels when mere strength of arm is powerless
to conquer.”
All applauded this sentiment, and the cruel law which
demanded the death of the aged was henceforth abolished.
 CHAPTER XX.

ROUMANIAN LIFE.
THE Roumanians seem to be a long-lived race, and it is no
uncommon thing to come across peasants of ninety and
upwards, in full possession of all their faculties. In 1882 an
old Roumanian peasant, being called as witness in a court of
justice in Transylvania, and desired to state his age, was,
like many people of his class, unable to name the year of his
birth, and could only designate it approximately by saying,
“I remember that, when I was a boy, our emperor was a
woman,” which, as Maria Theresa died in 1780, could not
have made him less than one hundred and ten years of age.
Many people have supposed the Roumanians to be more
productive than other races, but the truth will more likely be
found to be that although the births are not more numerous
than among many other races, the mortality among infants
is considerably less; the children inheriting the hardy
resisting nature of the parents, and so to say, coming into
the world ready-seasoned to endure the hardships in store
for them.
Perhaps it is because the Roumanian has himself so few
wants that he feels no anxiety about the future of his
children, and therefore the rapid increase of his family
occasions him no uneasiness. Having little personal
property, he is a stranger to the cares which accompany
their possession. Like the lilies of the field, he neither sows
nor reaps, and the whole programme of his life, of an
admirable simplicity, may be thus summed up:
In early infancy the Roumanian babe is treated as a bundle,
often packed in a little wooden oval box, and slung on its
mother’s back, thus carried about wherever she goes. If to
work in the field, she attaches the box to the branch of a
tree; and when sitting at market it can be stowed on the
ground between a basket of eggs and a pair of cackling
fowls. When after a very few months it outgrows the box,
and crawls out of its cocoon, the baby begins to share its
parents’ food, and soon learns to manage for itself. The food
of both children and adults chiefly consists of maize-corn
flour, which, cooked with milk, forms a sort of porridge
called balmosch, or, if boiled with water, becomes mamaliga
—first-cousin to the polenta of the Italians. This latter
preparation is eaten principally in Lent, when milk is
prohibited altogether; and there are many families who,
during the whole Lenten season, nourish themselves
exclusively on dried beans.
When the Roumanian child has reached a reasonable age, it
is old enough to be a help and comfort to its parents, and
assist them in gaining an honest livelihood. By a reasonable
age may be understood five or six, and an honest livelihood,
translated—helping them to steal wood in the forest. Later
on the boy is often bound over as swine or cow herd to
some Saxon landholder for a period of several years, on
quitting whose service he is entitled to the gift of a calf or
pig from the master he is leaving.
Once in actual possession of a calf the Roumanian lad
considers himself to be a made man. He has no ground of
his own; but such petty considerations not affecting him, he
proceeds to build himself a domicile, wherever best suits his
purpose, on some waste piece of land. Stone hardly ever
enters into the fabrication of his building; the framework is
roughly put together of wooden beams, and the walls clay-
plastered and wattled, while the roof is covered with thatch
of reeds or wooden shingles, according as he may happen to
live nearest to a marsh or a forest. Yet, such as it is, the
Roumanian’s hut is his castle, and he is as proud of its
possession as the King can be of his finest palace. Each
man’s hut is regarded as his own special sanctuary, and
however intimate a man may be with his neighbor, it is not
customary for him to step over the threshold, or even enter
the court-yard, after dusk. Only in special and very pressing
cases does this rule admit of any exception.
The inside of a Roumanian hut is by no means so miserable
as its outward appearance would lead us to suppose. The
walls are all hung with a profusion of holy pictures, mostly
painted on glass and framed in wood; while the furniture is
brightly painted in rough but not inartistic designs—the
passion these people have for ornamenting all their wood-
work in this fashion leading them even to paint the yoke of
their oxen and the handles of their tools. There is always a
weaving-loom set up at one end of the room, and mostly a
new-born baby swinging in a basket suspended from the
rafters.
The products of the loom—consisting in stuffs striped,
chiefly blue, scarlet, and white, in Oriental designs,
sometimes with gold or silver threads introduced in the
weaving—are hung upon ropes or displayed along the walls.
These usually belong to the trousseau of the daughter
(perhaps the self-same infant we see suspended from the
ceiling), but can occasionally be purchased after a little
bargaining.
Every Roumanian woman spins, dyes, and weaves as a
matter of course; and almost each village has its own set of
colors and patterns, according to its particular costume,
which varies with the different localities, though all partake
alike of the same general character, which, in the case of
the women, is chiefly represented by a long alb-like under-
garment of linen reaching to the feet, and above two
straight-cut Roman aprons front and back, which have the
effect of a tunic slit up at the sides. The subject of
Roumanian dress offers a most bewildering field for
description, and the nuances and varieties to be found
would lead one on ad infinitum were I to attempt to
enumerate all those I have come across.

ROUMANIAN COSTUMES.
Thus in one village the costume is all black and white, the
cut and make of an almost conventual simplicity, forming a
piquante contrast to the blooming faces and seductive
glances of the beautiful wearers, who thus give the
impression of a band of light-hearted maidens
masquerading in nun’s attire. In other hamlets I have visited
blue or scarlet was the prevailing color; and a few steps
over the Roumanian frontier will show us glittering costumes
covered with embroidery and spangles, rich and gaudy as
the attire of some Oriental princess stepped straight out of
the “Arabian Nights.”
The Roman aprons, here called câtrinte, are in some
districts—as, for instance, in the Banat—composed of long
scarlet fringes, fully three-quarters of a yard in length, and
depending from a very few inches of solid stuff at the top.
The résumé of this attire—a linen shirt and a little fringe as
sole covering for a full-grown woman—may, in theory, be
startling to our English sense of propriety, but in practice
the effect has nothing objectionable about it. Dress, after
all, is merely a matter of comparison, as we are told by a
witty French writer. A Wallachian woman considers herself
fully dressed with a chemise, while a Hungarian thinks
herself naked with only three skirts.
The head-dress varies much with the different districts;
sometimes it is a brightly colored shawl or handkerchief,
oftener a creamy filmy veil, embroidered or spangled, and
worn with ever-varied effect; occasionally it is wound round
the head turban fashion, now floating down the back like a
Spanish mantilla, or coquettishly drawn forward and
concealing the lower part of the face, or again twisted up in
Satanella-like horns, which give the wearer a slightly
demoniacal appearance.
Whatever is tight or strained-looking about the dress is
considered unbeautiful; the folds must always flow
downward in soft easy lines, the sleeves should be full and
bulging, and the skirt long enough to conceal the feet, so
that in dancing only the toes are visible.
The men have also much variety in their dress for grand
occasions, but for ordinary wear they confine themselves to
a plain coarse linen shirt, which hangs down over the
trousers like a workman’s blouse, confined at the waist by a
broad red or black leather belt, which contains various
receptacles for holding money, pistols, knife and fork, etc.
The trousers, which fit rather tightly to the leg, are in
summer of linen, in winter of a coarse sort of white cloth. Of
the same cloth is made the large overcoat which he wears
in winter, sometimes replaced by a sheepskin pelisse.
Both sexes wear on the feet a sort of sandal called
opintschen, which consists of an oval-shaped piece of
leather drawn together by leather thongs, beneath which
the feet are swaddled in wrappings of linen or woollen rags.
Dress makes the man, according to the Roumanian’s
estimate, and rather than want for handsome clothes a man
should deprive himself of food and drink. Stomacul nu are
oglinda (the stomach has no mirror), says their proverb;
therefore the man who has no fitting costume to wear on
Easter Sunday should hide himself rather than appear at
church shabbily attired.
 ROUMANIAN WOMEN.
To be consistent with the Roumanian’s notion of cleanliness,
his clothes should by rights be spun, woven, and made at
home. Sometimes he may be obliged to purchase a cap or
coat of a stranger, but in such cases he is careful to select a
dealer of his own nationality.
Roumanian women are very industrious, and they make far
better domestic servants than either Hungarians or Saxons,
the Germans living in towns often selecting them in
preference to their own countrywomen. In some places you
never see a Roumanian woman without her distaff; she even
takes it with her to market, and may frequently be seen
trudging along the high-road twirling the spindle as she
goes.
The men do not seem to share this love of labor, having, on
the contrary, much of the Italian lazzarone in their
composition, and not taking to any kind of manual labor
unless driven to it by necessity. The life of a shepherd is the
only calling which the Roumanian embraces con amore, and
his love for his sheep may truly be likened to the Arab’s love
of his horse. A real Roumanian shepherd, bred and brought
up to the life, has so completely identified himself with his
calling that everything about him—food and dress, mind and
matter—has, so to say, become completely “sheepified.”
Sheep’s milk and cheese (called brindza) form the staple of
his nourishment. His dress consists principally of sheepskin,
four sheep furnishing him with the cloak which lasts him
through life, one new-born lamb giving him the cap he
wears; and when he dies the shepherd’s grave is marked by
a tuft of snowy wool attached to the wooden cross above
the mound. His whole mental faculties are concentrated on
the study of his sheep, and so sharpened have his
perceptions become in this one respect that he is able to
divine and foretell to a nicety every change of the weather,
merely from observing the demeanor of his flock.
Forests have no charm for the shepherd, who, regarding
everything from a pastoral point of view, sees in each tree
an insolent intruder depriving his sheep of their rightful
nourishment; and he covertly seeks to increase his pasture
by setting fire to the woods whenever he can hope to do so
with impunity. Whole tracts of noble forest have thus been
laid waste, and it is much to be feared that half a century
hence the country will present a bleak and desolate
appearance, unless some means can be discovered in order
to prevent this abuse.
 CHAPTER XXI.

ROUMANIAN MARRIAGE AND

MORALITY.
MARRIAGEABLE Roumanian girls often wear a head-dress richly
embroidered with pearls and coins; this is a sign that their
trousseaus are ready, and that they only wait for a suitor.
The preparation of the trousseau, involving as it does much
spinning, weaving, and embroidering, in order to get ready
the requisite number of shirts, towels, pillow-covers, etc.,
considered indispensable, often keeps the girl and her
family employed for years beforehand. In some districts we
are told that it is customary for the young man who is
seeking a girl in marriage to make straight for the painted
wooden chest containing her dowry; and only when
satisfied, by the appearance of the contents, of the skill and
industry of his intended, does he proceed to the formal
demand of her hand. If, on the contrary, the coffer prove to
be ill-furnished, he is at liberty to beat a retreat, and back
out of the affair. The matter has been still further simplified
in one village, for there, during the carnival-time, the
mother of each marriageable daughter is in the habit of
organizing a sort of standing exhibition of the maiden’s
effects in the dwelling-room, where each article is displayed
to the best advantage, hung against the walls or spread out
upon the benches. The would-be suitor is thus enabled to
review the situation merely by pushing the door ajar, and
need not even cross the threshold if the display falls short of
his expectations.
In some districts a pretty little piece of acting is still kept up
on the wedding-morning. The bridegroom, accompanied by
his friends, arrives on horseback at full gallop before the
house of his intended, and roughly calls upon the father to
give him his daughter. The old man denies having any
daughter; but after some mock wrangling he goes into the
house and leads out an old toothless hag, who is received
with shouts and clamors. Then, after a little more fencing,
he goes in again and leads out the true bride dressed in her
best clothes, and with his blessing gives her over to the
bridegroom.[21]
An orthodox Roumanian wedding should last seven days
and seven nights, neither less nor more; but as there are
many who cannot afford this sacrifice of time, they
circumvent the difficulty by interrupting the festivities after
the first day, and resuming them on the seventh.
The ceremony itself is accomplished with much gayety and
rejoicing. The parents of the bridegroom go to fetch the
bride, in a cart harnessed with four oxen whose horns are
wreathed with flower garlands; the village musicians march
in front, and the chest containing the trousseau is placed on
the cart. One of the bride’s relations carries her dowry tied
up in a handkerchief attached to the point of a long pole.
Whoever is invited to a Roumanian wedding is expected to
bring not only a cake and a bottle of wine, but also some
other gift of less transitory nature—a piece of linen, an
embroidered towel, a handkerchief, or such-like.
In some villages it is customary for the bride, after the
wedding-feast, to step over the banqueting-table and upset
a bucket of water placed there for the purpose.[22] After this
begins the dancing, at which it is usual for each guest to
take a turn with the bride, and receive from her a kiss in
return for the civility.
An ancient custom, now fast dying out, was the tergul de
fete—the maidens’ market—celebrated each year at the top
of the Gaina mountain, at a height of nearly six thousand
feet above the level of the sea, and where all the
marriageable girls for miles around used to assemble to be
courted on the 29th of June, Feast of St. Peter and St. Paul.
The trousseau, packed in a gayly decorated chest, was
placed in a cart harnessed with the finest horses or the
fattest oxen, and thus the girl and her whole family
proceeded to the place of rendezvous. Sheep, calves,
poultry, and even beehives, were likewise brought by way of
decoration; and many people went the length of borrowing
strange cattle or furniture, in order to cut a better figure and
lure on the suitors—although it was an understood thing
that only a part of what was thus displayed really belonged
to the maiden’s dowry. The destination being reached, each
family having a girl to dispose of erected its tent, with the
objects grouped around, and seated in front was the head of
the family, smoking his pipe and awaiting the suitors.
The young men on their side came also accompanied by
their families, bringing part of their property with them,
notably a broad leather belt well stocked with gold and
silver coins.
When an agreement had been effected, then the betrothal
took place on the spot, with music, dancing, and singing,
and it hardly ever happened that a girl returned home
unbetrothed from this meeting. But, to say the truth, this
was, latterly, only because each girl attending the fair went
there virtually betrothed to some youth with whom all the
preliminaries of courtship had already been gone through,
and this was merely the official way of celebrating the
betrothal, the Roumanians in these parts believing that
good-luck will attend only such couples as are affianced in
this manner. Any girl who had not got a bridegroom in spe
rarely went there at all, or, if she went, did not take her
trousseau, but considered herself as a mere spectator.
In former days, however, this assemblage had a real
signification, and was, moreover, dictated by a real
necessity. There were fewer villages, and a far larger
proportion than now of the population led the wandering,
nomadic life of mountain shepherds, cut off from intercourse
with their fellow-creatures during the greater part of the
year, and with no opportunity of making choice of a consort.
The couples thus betrothed on the 29th of June could not be
married till the following spring, for immediately after this
date the shepherds remove their flocks to higher
pasturages, and, proceeding southward as the year
advances, do not return to that neighborhood till the Feast
of St. George.
Another curious custom in connection with the maidens’
market was, that on Holy Saturday each girl who had been
betrothed on the preceding 29th of June on the Gaina
mountain came to a village of that district called Halmagy,
dressed in her best clothes, and there offered a kiss to each
respectable person of either sex she happened to meet on
her way. The individual thus saluted was bound to give a
present in return, even were it but a copper coin; and to
decline or resist the embrace was regarded as the greatest
affront. This custom, known as the kiss market, seems to
have originated at the time when all the newly married
young shepherdesses used to leave the neighborhood to
follow their husbands in their roving life, and this was their
mode of bidding farewell to all friends and relations. This
custom has now likewise become almost extinct, for the
conditions of daily life have been considerably modified
during the last fifty years, and nowadays the newly married
shepherd, after a very brief honeymoon, goes away alone
with his flock, leaving his wife established in the village,
even though his absence may extend over a year. Many
Roumanian villages are thus virtually inhabited solely by
women, and to a population of several thousand females we
not unfrequently find but twenty or thirty men, and these
mostly old and decrepit, the real lords and masters only
appearing from time to time on a short and flying visit.
Szeliste, one of the largest Roumanian villages in the
neighborhood of Hermanstadt, and celebrated for the good
looks of its inhabitants, presents thus, during the greater
part of the year, a touching array of desolate Penelopes;
and it is much to be feared that the score of feeble old men
left them as guardians are altogether insufficient to defend
the wholesale amount of female virtue intrusted to their
charge.
The Roumanian always regards marriage with a stranger as
something opprobrious. The man who marries other than a
Roumanian woman ceases to be a Roumanian in his
people’s eyes, and is henceforward regarded as unclean;
and a popa whose wife was not a Roumanian would not be
accepted by any congregation. Yet more severely
condemned is the woman who marries a stranger; the
marriage itself is considered invalid, and no Roumanians
who respect themselves would keep up acquaintance with
such a person.
According to their views a girl should remain in her own
village, but a man may, without losing caste, marry into
another neighborhood. Any father will consider it an honor
to take a strange son-in-law into his house, and the greater
the distance this latter has come, in the same proportion
does the honor increase. But a man who gives his daughter
in marriage out of the village loses his prestige in exact
proportion as she goes farther away from home. “He has
given his daughter away from home” is a reproach to which
no man cares to expose himself.
In districts where Roumanians live together with other races
professing the Greek faith, these marriage laws have been
somewhat modified. So unions in the Bukowina with
Ruthenians and in the Banat with Serbs, though still
regarded as objectionable, are not so rare as they used to
be.
No respectable girl should leave her parents’ house unless
driven to it by necessity; and if she be obliged to go into
service, it should only be in the house of the popa, or in that
of some particularly distinguished native of the place. The
Roumanian girls serving in the towns are mostly such as
have been obliged to leave their native village in
consequence of a moral slip.
Much has been said about the lightness of behavior
characterizing Roumanian girls—Saxons in particular being
fond of drawing attention to the comparative statistics of
the two races, which show, it is true, a very large balance of
legitimate births in their own favor. If, however, we look at
the matter somewhat more closely, we are forced to
acknowledge that the words legitimate and illegitimate can
only here be taken in a very modified sense; for while the
Saxon peasant marries and divorces with such culpable
lightness as to render the marriage tie of little real value,
the Roumanian has introduced a sort of regularity even into
his irregular connections which goes far to excuse them.
Whatever, also, may be said of the loose conduct of many of
the Roumanian married women, the same reproach cannot
be applied to the girls.
It happens frequently that among the Roumanians, who, like
most Southern races, attain manhood early, there are many
young men who have chosen a partner for life long before
the time they are called for military conscription; and as it is
here illegal for all such to marry before they have
accomplished their three years’ service as soldiers, and no
parents could therefore be induced to give them their
daughter, a curious sort of elopement takes place. Two or
more of the lover’s friends carry off the girl, after a mock
resistance on her part, to some other village, where he
himself awaits her with his witnesses. These latter receive
the reciprocal declaration of the young couple that they
wish to be man and wife. The girl is then solemnly invested
with a head-kerchief, veil, or comb, whichever happens to
be the sign of matronhood in her village; and from that
moment she takes rank as a married woman, the lad as her
husband, and their children are considered as legitimate as
those born in regular wedlock. Three or four years later,
when the young man has served his time as a soldier, the
union is formally blessed by the priest in church; but in that
case none of the usual marriage festivities take place.
It is very rare that a man deserts the girl to whom he has
been wedded in this irregular fashion; and in cases where he
has been known to do so and take another wife, both he and
she are tabooed by the neighbors, and the first wife is
regarded as the real one.
As, however, all children originating from such unions are
officially classified as illegitimate, the barren figures would
give an erroneously unfavorable idea of the Roumanian
state of morality to those unacquainted with these details;
and it is therefore really no anomaly to say that illegitimate
here is tantamount to three-quarters legitimate, while the
Saxons’ legitimacy does not always quite deserve that
name.
A jilted lover will revenge himself on his mistress by
ostentatiously dancing with some other lass; and in order to
do her some material injury as well, he goes secretly at
night and cuts down with a sickle the unripe hemp and flax
which were to have served for spinning her wedding-
clothes. It is always an understood thing that the hemp
belongs to the female members of the family, and there is a
certain poetry in the idea of thus cutting off the faithless
one’s thread. Thus the father, finding his hemp prematurely
cut down, is at once aware that something has gone wrong
about his daughter’s love-affair.
 CHAPTER XXII.

THE ROUMANIANS: DANCING, SONGS,

MUSIC, STORIES, AND PROVERBS.
THE dances habitual among the Roumanians may briefly be
divided into three sorts:
1. Caluseri and Batuta, ancient traditional dances performed
by men only, and often executed at fairs and public
festivals. For these a fixed number of dancers is required,
and a leader called the vatav. Each dancer is provided with
a long staff, which he occasionally strikes on the ground in
time to the music.
2. Hora and Breûl, round dances executed either by both
sexes or by men only.
3. Ardeleana, Lugojana, Marnteana, Pe-picior, and
Hategeana, danced by both sexes together, and in which
each man may have two or more female partners.
These last-named dances rather resemble a minuet or
quadrille, and are chiefly made up of a sort of swaying,
balancing movement, alternately advancing and retreating,
with varied modes of expression and different rates of
velocity. Thus the Ardeleana is slow, the Marnteana rather
quicker but still dignified, and the Pe-picior is fastest of all.
Also, each separate dance has two distinct measures, as in
the Scotch reel or the Hungarian csardas—the slow rhythm
being called domol, or reflectively, and the fast one being
danced cu foc, with fire.
All these dances are found in different districts with varied
appellations.
There is also a very singular dance which I have not myself
witnessed, but which is said to be sometimes performed in
front of the church in order to insure a good harvest—one
necessary condition of which is that the people should
dance till in a state of violent perspiration, figurative of the
rain which is required to make the corn grow; then the arms
must be held on high for the hops to grow, wild jumps in the
air for the vines, and so on, each grain and fruit having a
special movement attributed to it, the dance being kept up
till the dancers have to give in from sheer fatigue.
The Roumanian does not say that a man is dancing with a
girl, but that “he dances her,” as you would talk of spinning
a top. This conveys the right impression—namely, that the
man directs her dancing and disposes her attitudes, so as to
show off her grace and charms to the best advantage. Thus
a good dancer here does not imply a man who dances well
himself, but rather one skilful at showing off two or three
partners at a time. He acts, in fact, as a sort of showman to
the assortment of graces under his charge, to which he calls
attention by appropriate rhymes and verses. Therefore the
sharpest wit rather than the nimblest legs is required for the
post of vatav flacailor, or director of dances in the village.
Dancing usually takes place in the open air; and in villages
where ball-room etiquette is duly observed, the fair ones
can only be conducted to the dance by the director himself,
or by one of his appointed aides-de-camp. It is so arranged
that after the leader has for a time shown off several girls in
the manner described—so to say, set them agoing—he
makes a sign to other young men to take them off his
hands, while he himself repeats the proceeding with other
débutantes.
The music usually consists of bagpipes and violin, the latter
sometimes replaced by one or two flutes. The musicians,
who are frequently blind men or cripples, stand in the
centre, the dancers revolving around them. Tzigane-players
are rarely made use of for Roumanian dances, as they do
not interpret the Roumanian music correctly, and are
accused of imparting a bold, licentious character to it.
There are many occasions on which music is prescribed, and
on all such it should not be wanting; but it is considered
unseemly for music to play without special motive, and
when the Roumanian hears music he invariably asks, “La ce
cântà?”—for whom do they play?
Fully as many matrons as maidens figure at the village
merrymakings, for, unlike the Saxon, the Roumanian woman
does not dream of giving up dancing at her marriage.
Wedlock is to her an emancipation, not a bondage, and she
only begins really to enjoy her life from the moment she
becomes a wife. For instance, it is considered quite correct
for a married woman, especially if she has got children, to
suffer herself to be publicly kissed and embraced by her
dancer, and no one present would think of taking umbrage
at such harmless liberties.

In reciting or making a speech, the Roumanian is careful to

speak slowly and distinctly, with dignity and deliberation,
and to avoid much gesticulation, which is regarded as
ridiculous. It is also considered distinguished to speak rather
obscurely, and veil the meaning under figures of speech—a
man who says his meaning plainly in so many words being
considered as wanting in breeding.
As in Italy, the recitatore (story-teller), called here
provestitore, holds an important place among the
Roumanians. The stories recited usually belong to the class
of ogre and fairy tale, and would seem rather adapted to a
nursery audience than to a circle of full-grown men and
women. Sometimes in verse, sometimes in prose, these
stories oftenest set forth the adventures of some prince
subjected to the cruel persecutions of a giant or sorcerer.
The hero has usually a series of tasks allotted to him, or
difficulties to be overcome, before he is permitted to enjoy
his father’s throne in peace and lead home the beautiful
princess to whom he is attached. The tasks dealt out to him
must be three at least, sometimes six, seven, nine, or
twelve; but never more than this last number, which indeed
is quite sufficient for the endurance even of a fairy prince.
When the tasks are nine or twelve in number they are then
grouped together in batches of three, each batch being
finished off with some stereotyped phrase, such as, “But our
hero’s trials were not yet over by any means, and much
remains still to be told.” As a matter of course, these trials
must always be arranged crescendo, advancing in horror
and difficulty towards the end.
The story invariably opens with the words,
“A fost ce a fost; dacà n’ar fi fost nici nu s’ar povesti,”
which, corresponding to our “once upon a time,” may be
thus translated: “It was what once took place, and if it had
never been, it would not now be related;” and the
concluding phrase is often this one, “And if they have not
died, they are all yet alive.”
It is not every one who can relate a story correctly according
to the Roumanian’s mode of thinking. He is most particular
as to the precise inflections of voice, which must alternately
be slow and impressive, or impetuous and hurried,
according to the requirements of the narrative. If the story
winds up with a wedding, the narrator is careful to observe
that he also was present on the occasion, in proof of which
he enumerates at great length the names of the guests
invited and the dishes which formed part of the banquet;
and according to the fertility of imagination he displays in
describing these details he will be classed by his audience
as a provestitore of first, second, or third rank.
The Roumanians have a vast répertoire of songs and rhymes
for particular occasions, and many of these people seem to
possess great natural fluency for expressing themselves in
verse, assisted, no doubt, by the rich choice of rhymes
offered by their language. Some people would seem to talk
as easily in verse as in prose, and there are districts where it
is not considered seemly to court a girl otherwise than in
rhymed speech. All these rhymes, as well as most of their
songs and ballads, are moulded in four feet verse, which
best adapts itself to the fundamental measure of Roumanian
music. Among the principal forms of song prevalent in the
country are the Doina, the Ballad, the Kolinda, the Cantece
de Irogi, the Cantece de Stea, the Plugul, the Cantece de
Paparuga, the Cantece de Nunta, the Descantece, and the
Bocete.
1. The Doina is a lyrical poem, mostly of a mournful,
monotonous character, much resembling the gloomy
Dumkas of the Ruthenians, and from which, perhaps, its
name is derived; and this is all the more probable, as many
of the songs sung by the Roumanians of the Bukowina are
identical with those to be heard sung by their countrymen
living in the Hungarian Banat. Thus it is of curious effect to
hear the celebrated song of the Dniester, “Nistrule riu
blestemal” (Dniester, cursed river), in which lament is made
over the women carried off by the Tartars, sung on the
plains of Hungary, so many hundred miles away from the
scenes which originated it.
2. The Ballad, also called Cantece, or song proper, its title
usually specifying whose particular song it is; for instance,
“Cantecul lui Horia”—the song of Hora, or more literally,
Hora, his song—lui Jancu, lui Marko, etc.
These ballads are sung to the accompaniment of a
shepherd’s pipe or flute, but are oftener merely recited, it
not being considered good form to have them sung except
by blind or crippled beggars, such as go about at markets or
fairs.[23]
3. The Kolinda, or Christmas song, the name derived from a
heathen goddess, Lada.[24] These consist of songs and
dialogues, oftenest of a mythological character, and bearing
no sort of allusion to the Christian festival. The performers
go about from house to house knocking at each door, with
the usual formula, “Florile s’dalbe, buna sara lui Cracinim”—
white is the flower, a happy Christmas-night to you.
The Turca, or Brezaia, also belongs to the same category as
the Kolinda, but is of a somewhat more boisterous
character, and is performed by young men, who, all
following a leader grotesquely attired in a long cloak and
mask (oftenest representing the long beak of a stork, or a
bull’s head, hence the name), go about the villages night
and day as long as the Christmas festivities last, pursuing
the girls and terrifying the children. A certain amount of
odium is attached to the personification of the Turca himself,
and the man who has acted this part is regarded as unclean
or bewitched by the devil during a period of six weeks, and
may not enter a church nor approach a sacrament till this
time has elapsed.
In the Bukowina the Turca, or Tur, goes by the name of the
Capra, and is called Cleampa in the east of Transylvania.
4. The Cantece de Irogi is the name given to the text of
many carnival games and dialogues in which Rahula
(Rachel) and her child, a shepherd, a Jew, a Roumanian
popa, and the devil appear in somewhat unintelligible
companionship.
5. The Cantece de Stea—songs of the star—are likewise
sung at this period by children, who go about with a tinsel
star at the end of a stick.
6. The Plugul—song of the plough—a set of verses sung on
New-year’s Day by young men fantastically dressed up, and
with manifold little bells attached to feet and legs. They
proceed noisily through the streets of towns and villages,
cracking long whips as though urging on a team of oxen at
the plough.
7. The Cantece de Paparuga are songs which are sung on
the third Sunday after Easter, or in cases of prolonged
drought.
8. The Cantece de Nunta are the wedding songs, of which
there are a great number. These are, however, rarely sung,
but oftener recited. They take various forms, such as that of
invitation, health-drinking, congratulations, etc. To these
may be added the Cantece de Cumetrie and the Cantecul
ursitelor, which express rejoicings over a new-born infant.
9. The Descantece, or descantations, are very numerous.
They consist in secret charms or spells expressed in rhyme,
which, in order to be efficacious, must be imparted to
children or grandchildren only when the parent is lying on
his death-bed. These oftenest relate to illnesses of man or
beast, to love or to life; and each separate contingency has
its own set formula, which is thus transmitted from
generation to generation.
10. The Bocete are songs of mourning, usually sung over
the corpse by paid mourners.
On the principle that the character of a people is best
demonstrated by its proverbs, a few specimens of those
most current among Roumanians may be here quoted:
“A man without enemies is of little value.”
“It is easier to keep guard over a bush full of live hares than
over one woman.”
“A hen which cackles overnight lays no egg in the morning.”
“A wise enemy is better than a foolish friend.”
“In the daytime he runs away from the buffalo, but in the
night he seizes the devil by the horn.”[25]
“Carry your wife your whole life on your back, but, if once
you set her down, she will say, ‘I am tired.’”
“The just man always goes about with a bruised head.”
“Sit crooked, but speak straight.”
“Father and mother you will never find again, but wives as
many as you list.”
“The blessing of many children has broken no man’s roof as
yet.”
“Better an egg to-day than an ox next year.”
“No one throws a stone at a fruitless tree.”
“Patience and silence give the grapes time to grow sweet.”
“If you seek for a faultless friend you will be friendless all
your life.”
“There where you cannot catch anything, do not stretch out
your hand.”
“Who runs after two hares will not even catch one.”
“The dog does not run away from a whole forest of trees,
but a single stick will make him run.”
“A real Jew will never pause to eat until he has cheated
you.”
“You cannot carry two melons in one hand.”
“Who has been bitten by a snake is afraid of a lizard.”
 CHAPTER XXIII.

ROUMANIAN POETRY.
IT is hardly necessary to remark that the history of
Roumanian literature must needs be a scanty one as yet.
Considering the past history of these people on either side
of the frontier, and the manner in which they have been
oppressed and persecuted, the wonder is rather to find
them to-day so far advanced on the road that leads to
immortality.
The first Roumanian book (a collection of psalms, probably
translated from the Greek) was printed at Kronstadt in 1577,
and was succeeded by many other similar works, all printed
in Cyrillian characters.
As historians and chroniclers, the names of Ureki, Miron
Kostin, Dosithei, and of Prince Dimetrie Kantemir, all hold
honorable positions between the end of the sixteenth and
the beginning of the eighteenth century. Political events
then stemmed the current of progress for a time, and made
of the rest of the eighteenth century a period of intellectual
stagnation for all Roumanians, whether of Wallachia,
Moldavia, or Transylvania. It was from the latter country that
about the year 1820 was given the first impulse towards
resurrection, connected with which we read the names of
Lazar, Majorescu, Assaki, Mikul, Petru Major, Cipariu,
Bolinteanu, Balcescu, Constantin Negruzzi, and
Cogalnitscheanu.
It was only after the middle of the present century that Latin
characters began to be adopted in place of Cyrillian ones,
and indeed it is not easy to understand why the Cyrillian
alphabet ever came to be used at all. On this subject
Stanley, writing in 1856, speaks as follows:
“The Latinity of Rouman is, however, sadly
disguised under the Cyrillic alphabet, in which it
has hitherto been habited. This alphabet was
adopted about 1400 A.D., after an attempt by one
of the popes to unite the Roumans to the Catholic
Church. The priests then burned the books in the
Roman or European letters, and the Russians have
opposed all the attempts made latterly to cast off
the Slavonic alphabet, by which the Rouman
language is enchained and bound to the Slavonic
dialects.... The difficulty of coming to an agreement
among the men of letters, as to the system to be
adopted for rendering the Cyrillic letters by Roman
type, has retarded this movement as much,
perhaps, as political opposition.”
The first Roumanian political newspaper was issued by
Georg Baritiu in 1838. At present several Roumanian
newspapers appear in Transylvania, of which the
Observatorul and the Telegraful Roman are the principal
ones. There are in the country two Greek Catholic
seminaries for priests, and one Greek Oriental one, a
commercial school at Kronstadt, four upper gymnasiums,
and numerous primary schools, all of which are self-
supporting, and receive no assistance from the Hungarian
Government.

Some portion of the rich store of folk songs which from time
immemorial have been sung in the country by wandering
minstrels, called cantari, has been rescued from oblivion by
the efforts of Alexandri, and after him Torceanu, who, going
about from village to village, have written down all they
could learn from the lips of the peasants. One of the most
beautiful and pathetic of the ballads thus collected by
Alexandri is that of Curte d’Arghisch, an ancient and well-
known Roumanian legend, the greater part of which I have
here endeavored to reproduce in an English version. These
ballads are, however, exceedingly difficult to translate at all
characteristically, our language neither possessing that
abundant choice of rhyme, so apt to drive a translator to
envious despair, nor yet the harmonious current of sound
which lends a peculiar charm to the loose and rambling
metre in which these songs are mostly written.

CLOISTER ARGHISCH.
I.

By the Arghisch river,

By the bonny brim,
Goes the Voyvod Negru,[26]
Other ten with him.
Nine of these his comrades,
Master masons be,
And the tenth is Manoll,
Masters’ master he.
And the ten are questing,
Where along the tide
They shall build the minster,
And their fame beside.
Then as on they stray,
Meets them on the way
A shepherd lad, that ditty sad
Upon his pipe doth play.

“Shepherd lad, dear shepherd lad,

Mournful ditty playing,
Up the river has thy flock
And hast thou been straying?
Down have strayed both thou and they,
Down along the river?
In thy wanderings where hast been,
Say, hast thou a building seen
Standing by the river,
Built of moss-grown ancient stone,
All unfinished and alone,
Where the hazels, green and lank,
Shoot amid the copsewood dank?”

“Ay, my master, that have I

Sighted as I wandered by;
Sooth, a wall doth on the strand
Lonely and unfinished stand,
At whose sight my hounds in haste
Howling fled across the waste!”

When this word the prince had heard,

Joyful man was he:
“Haste away! come, no delay,
Haste thee instantly;
These, my master masons nine,
Lead unto yon wall,
And Manoll the tenth, that is
Master of them all.”

“See ye yonder wall of mine?

Know that here the spot I name
For the sacred cloister’s shrine,
For my everlasting fame.
Now, ye mighty masters all,
Fellows of the builder’s craft,
Haste away! night and day
Raise ye, build ye, roof and wall.
Build a cloister worthy me,
Such as never men did see;
Fail to build it as I say,
I will build you instantly,
Build you living, every one,
’Neath the pile’s foundation-stone.”

II.

Hastily with line and rule

Work they out the cloister’s plan;
Hastily with eager tool
Delve foundations in the sod,
Where shall stand the house of God.
Never resting night or day,
Building, ever building, they
Hurry on the work alway.
But what in the day has grown,
In the night is overthrown.
Next day, next, and next again,
What within the hours of light
They have reared with toil and pain,
Falls to ruin in the night,
And all labor is in vain;
For the pile will not remain,
Falling nightly down again.

Wondering and wrathful then

Doth the prince the builders call,
Raging, threatens once again
He will build them, build them all,
Build them in beneath the wall.
And the master builders nine,
Thus, their wretched lives at stake,
Quaking toil, and toiling quake,
All throughout the summer light,
Till the day gives way to night.
But Manoll upon a day
Puts the irksome task away,
Lays him down to sleep, and thus
Dream he dreameth marvellous,
Which, awak’ning from repose,
Straightway doth he then disclose:

“Hear my story, masters mine,

Ye my fellow-craftsmen nine;
Hearken to me while I tell
Dream in sleep that me befell:
From the height of heaven clear
Was it borne upon my ear.
Ever we shall build in vain,
Crumbling still our work again,
Till together swear we all
To immure within the wall
Her who at the peep of day
Chances first to come this way
Hither, who is sent by fate,
Bearing food for swain or mate,
Wife or sweetheart though it be,
Maid or matron equally.
Therefore listen, comrades mine:
Would you build this holy shrine—
Would you to enduring fame
Evermore transmit your name—
Vow we all a solemn vow,
As we stand together now,
Whosoever it shall be
That his lovèd one shall see,
Chancing here her way to take
When the morrow’s light doth break,
Will as victim bid her fall,
Buried living in the wall!”
 III.

Smiling doth the morning break;

With the dawn Manoll, awake,
Scaling the enclosure’s bound,
Mounts the scaffold; all around,
Hill and dale, with glance of fear,
Anxious searcheth far and near.
What is this that greets his eyes?
Who is it that hither hies?
’Tis his wife he doth behold,
Sweetest blossom of the wold;
She it is that hasteth here,
Bringing for her husband dear
Meat and wine his heart to cheer.

Sure too awful is the sight!

Can his senses witness right?
Leaps his heart and reels his brain
In an agony of pain.
Then on bended knees he falls,
Desperate on Heaven calls:

“O Lord my God,
That rul’st on high,
Ope thou the flood-gates
Of the sky;
Down upon earth
Thy torrents pour,
Till brook and river
Rise and roar,
Till raging floods
My wife shall stay,
Shall turn her back
The homeward way!”
 Lo! in pity God has hearkened—
That which he has asked is done;
Clouds the heaven’s face have darkened,
They have blotted out the sun;
Down the rains in torrents pour,
Brook and river rage and roar.
But nor storm nor flood can stay
Manoll’s wife upon her way;
Pressing onward, halting never,
Plunging through the foaming river,
Knowing naught of doubt or fear,
Near she hasteth, and more near.

The poem goes on to say how Manoll a second time

implores the Creator to send a hurricane which shall ravage
the face of nature and impede her progress. Once more his
prayer is granted, and a mighty wind, which,

Sighing loud and moaning,

Thundering and droning,
Down the plane-trees bending,
And the pines uprending,

rages over the land.

But no earthly force

Checks her steady course,
And all vainly passed
By the furious blast,
In the storm she quavers,
But yet never wavers,
And, oh, hapless lot!
Soon has reached the spot.

The fourth canto relates how the nine master masons are
filled with joy at sight of this heaven-sent victim. Manoll
alone is sad, as, kissing his wife, he takes her in his arms
and carries her up the scaffolding. There he places her in a
niche, explaining that they are going to pretend to build her
in merely as a joke; while the poor young wife, scenting no
danger, claps her hands in childish pleasure at the idea.

But her spouse, with gloomy face,

Speaks no word, and works apace;
Of his dream he thinks alone,
As they pile up stone on stone.
And the church walls upward shoot,
Cover soon her dainty foot,
Reaching then above the knee;
Where is vanished all her glee?
As, becoming deadly pale,
Thus the wife begins to wail:

“Manolli, dear Manolli!

Master, master Manolli!
Prithee, now this joking cease,
And thy wife from here release;
See, the wall is closing fast,
In its grip am I compassed.
Manolli, dear Manolli!
Master, master Manolli!”

But Manoll makes no reply,

Works with restless energy.
Higher and yet higher
Grows the wall entire,
Grows with lightning haste,
Reaches soon her waist,
Reaches soon her breast;
She no more can jest,
Hardly can she speak,
With voice faint and weak:
 “Manolli, dear Manolli!
Master, master Manolli!
Stop this joke and set me free—
Soon a mother shall I be;
See, the wall is crushing me,
These hard stones my babe will kill;
With salt tears my bosom fill.”

But Manoll makes no reply,

Works with restless energy.
Higher and yet higher
Grows the wall entire;
O’er her dainty foot
Fast the church walls shoot;
Fair Annika’s knee
Soon no more they see,
Building on in haste
To her lithesome waist;
Hidden is her breast,
By the stones compressed;
Hidden now her eye,
As the wall grows high;
Building on apace,
Hidden soon her face!
And the hapless woman, she
Laughs no longer now in glee,
But from out the cruel wall
Still the feeble voice doth call:

“Manolli, dear Manolli!

Master, master Manolli!
See the wall is closing quite,
Vanished the last ray of light.”

There is still a fifth canto to this ballad, but of such

decidedly inferior merit as to suggest the idea that it is a
piece of patchwork added on at a later period. The prince,
delighted at the success of the building, asks the master
masons whether they could undertake to raise a second
church of yet nobler, loftier proportions than the first. This
question being answered in the affirmative, the tyrannical
Voyvod, probably afraid of their embellishing some other
country with the work of their genius, orders the ladders and
scaffolding to be removed from the building, so that the ten
illustrious architects are left standing on the roof, there to
perish of starvation. Hoping to escape this doom, each of
the master masons constructs for himself a pair of artificial
wings, or rather a sort of parachute, out of light wooden
shingles, and by means of which he hopes safely to reach
the ground. But the parachutes are a miserable failure, and
crashing down with violence, the nine master masons are
turned into as many stones. Manoll, the last to descend, and
distracted at hearing the wailing voice of his dying wife
calling upon him, falls likewise; but the tears welling up from
his breast cause him to be transformed into a spring of
crystal water flowing near the church, and to this day known
by the name of Manolli’s well.
“Miora,” or “The Lamb,” is another popular ballad, which,
sung and recited throughout Roumania and Transylvania, is
gracefully illustrative of the idyllic bond by which shepherd
and flock are united:

MIORA.

Where the mountains open, there

Runs a path-way passing fair,
And along this flowery way
Shepherds came one summer day.
Snowy flocks were three,
Led by shepherds three.
One from Magyarland had come,
Wrantscha was another’s home,
From Moldavia one had come;
But the one from Magyarland,
And from Wrantscha—hand in hand,

Council held they secretly,

And resolved deceitfully,
When behind the hill
Sank the sun, to kill
The Moldavian herd, for he
Was the richest of the three.
Strongest were his rams,
Fattest were his dams,
Whitest were his lambs,
And his dogs the fiercest,
And his horse the fleetest.

But a lambkin white,

With eyes soft and bright,
Since the break of day
Bleats so piteously,
Does not cease to bleat,
No more grass will eat.

“Little lambkin white,

Thou my favorite,
Why since break of day
Bleat so piteously?
Never cease to bleat,
No more grass wiltst eat,
O my lambkin sweet,
Wherefore dost complain?
Say, dost suffer pain?”

“Gentle shepherd, master dear,

Prithee but my warning hear;
Lead away thy flock of sheep
Where the woodland shades are deep;
There in peace can we abide—
Forests dense there are to hide.
Shepherd, shepherd! list to me;
Call thy dog to follow thee;
Choose the fiercest one of all,
Ear most watchful to thy call,
For the other herds have sworn
Thou shalt die before the morn!”

“Little lamb, if true dost say,

Hast the gift to prophesy,
And if it must come to pass
That I thus shall die, alas!
Is it written that my life
Thus shall end a cruel knife,
Tell the shepherds where to lay
My cold body in the clay.
Near unto my sheep
Would I wish to sleep,
From the grave to hark
When the sheep-dogs bark.
On the mound I pray
Three new flutes to lay:
One of beech-wood fine be made,
Sings of love that cannot fade;
One carved out of whitest bone,
For my broken heart makes moan;
One of elder-wood let be,
For its tones are proud and free.
When at evenfall
’Gin the winds to call,
List’ning to the sound,
Gather then around
All my faithful sheep,
 Bloody tears to weep.
But that I am dead
Let no word be said:
Tell them that a queen
Passing fair was seen,
Took me for her mate;
That we sit in state
On a lofty throne;
That the sun and moon
Held the golden crown,
And a star fell down
Straight above my head.
Say, when I was wed,
Oak-tree, beech, and pine,
All were guests of mine
At the wedding-feast;
And the holy priest
Was a mountain high.
Made sweet melody
Thousand birds from near and far,
Every torch a golden star.
But if thou shouldst meet,
Oh, if thou shouldst meet,
A poor haggard matron,
Torn her scarlet apron,
Wet with tears her eyes,
Hoarse with choking sighs,
’Tis my mother old,
Running o’er the wold,
Asking every one,
‘Have you seen my son?
In the whole land none
Other was so fair,
With such raven hair,
Soft to feel as silk;
Like the purest milk,
 None had skin so white;
None had eyes so bright,
As a pair of sloes.
And where’er he goes,
Shepherd none there be
Half so fair as he!’
Lamb, oh pity take,
Else her heart will break.
Tell her that a queen
Passing fair was seen,
Took me for her mate;
That we sit in state
On a lofty throne;
That the sun and moon
Held the golden crown,
And a star fell down
Straight above my head.
Say, when I was wed,
Oak-tree, beech, and pine,
All were guests of mine
At the wedding-feast;
And the holy priest
Was a mountain high.
Made sweet melody
Thousand birds from near and far,
Every torch a golden star.”[27]

The third and last of those folk songs which limited space
permits me here to quote is one I have selected as being
peculiarly characteristic of the tender and clinging affection
these people bear to their progeny. Devoid of poetical merit
it may perhaps be, but surely the unsatisfied yearnings of a
childless woman have seldom been more pathetically
rendered.

THE ROUMANIAN’S DESIRE.

Would it but th’ Almighty please
This my yearning heart to ease,
But to send a little son,
Little cherub for mine own.

All the day and all the night

Would I rock my angel bright;
Gently shielded it should rest
Ever on my happy breast.

I would feed it, I would tend it,

From each peril I’d defend it;
Whisp’ring with the voice of love,
Suck, my chick, my lamb, my dove.

Did but Heaven hear my voice,

Evermore would I rejoice;
Golden gifts so bright and rare,
Little baby soft and fair.

Love that on him I’d bestow,

Other child did never know;
Such his loveliness and worth,
Ne’er was like him child on earth.

Lips like coral, skin like snow,

Eyes like those of mountain roe;
And the roses on his cheek
Elsewhere you in vain would seek.

Mouth so sweet, and eyes so bright,

Would I kiss from morn to night;
Kiss his cheek and kiss his hair,
Singing, “How my child is fair!”

Every holy prayer I know

Should secure my child from woe;
 Every magic herb I’d pluck,
For to bring him endless luck.[28]

Surely, then, he’d grow apace,

Strong of limb and fair of face,
And a hero such as he
Earth before did never see!

It is not easy to classify the cultivated Roumanian writers of

the present day, still less so is it to select appropriate
specimens from their works. Roumanian literature is in a
transition state at present, and, despite much talent and
energy on the part of its representatives, has not as yet
regained any fixed national character. Perhaps, indeed, it
would be more correct to say that precisely the talent and
energy of some of the most gifted writers have harmed
Roumanian literature more than they have assisted it, by
dragging into fashion a dozen different modes utterly
incongruous with one another, and with the mainsprings of
Roumanian thought and feeling. No doubt the custom of
sending their children to be educated outside the country is
much to blame for this; and, naturally enough, French poets
have been imported into the land along with Parisian
fashions.
Béranger and Musset, along with Shakespeare, Goethe,
Byron, and Heine, have all been abused in this manner by
men who should have understood that the strength of any
literature does not lie in the successful imitation of foreign
models, however excellent, but rather in the intelligent
exploitation of its own historical and artistic treasures. Even
Basil Alexandri, the first and most national of Roumanian
poets, sometimes falls unconsciously into this error, still
more perceptible in the works of Rosetti, Negruzzi, and
Cornea.
Odobescu, Gane, Alexi, and Dunca have acquired some
fame as writers of fiction; and Joan Slavici in particular may
here be cited for his charming sketches of rural life, which
have something of the force and delicacy of Turguenief’s
hand.

FET LOGOFET[29] (literally, YOUNG FOOLHARDY).

Thou radiant young knight,

With glance full of light,
With golden-locked hair,
Oh, turn thy proud steed;
Of the forest take heed—
The dragon lies there.

Thou fairest of maids,

With silken-like braids,
So slender thy zone,
My good sword will pierce
The monster so fierce,
And fear I have none.

Thou wrestler, thou ranger,

Thou seeker of danger,
With eyes flashing fire;
Thy fate will be dolesome;
The dragon is loathsome,
And fearful his ire.

Thou coaxer, thou pleader,

Thou sweet interceder,
My star silver bright!
Both dragon and drake,
Before me they quake,
And fly at my sight.
Thou stealer of hearts,
With golden-tipped darts,
Yet list to my cry!
Thou canst not escape,
His open jaws gape,
Turn water to sky!

Thou angel-like child,

With blue eyes so mild,
Yet needst not to sigh;
For this my good steed
The wind can outspeed,
And rear heaven-high!

Oh, radiant young knight,

With eyes full of light,
That masterful shine;
Oh, hark to my prayer,
And do not go there—
My heart it is thine!

Yet needs I must ride

To win as my bride
Thou, maiden most sweet;
I must gain renown—
Either death or a crown—
To lay at thy feet.

THE FAULT IS NOT THINE.[30]

Full oft hast thou sworn that on this side the grave
Thy love and thy heart should forever be mine;
But thou hast forgotten, and I—I forgave,
For such is the world, and the fault is not thine.

And again was thy cry, “Thou beloved of my heart,

 In heaven itself, without thee I’d pine!”
On earth still we dwell—yet dwell we apart;
’Tis the fault of our age, and the fault is not thine.

My arms they embraced thee, I drank with delight

The dew from thy lips like a nectar divine;
But the dew turned to venom, its freshness to blight,
For such is thy sex, and the fault is not thine.

Thy love and thine honor, thy virtue and troth,

Given now to another, were yesterday mine;
Thou knowest not Love! then why should I be wroth?
’Tis the fault of thy race, and the fault is not thine.

Far stronger than Love were both riches and pride,

And swiftly and surely thy faith did decline;
Thy wounds they are healed, thy tears they are dried,
Thou couldst not remember—the fault is not thine.

Yet though thou art faithless, and falsely hast left me,
My eyes can see naught but an angel divine;
My heart flutters wildly whenever I see thee—
’Tis the fault of my love, and the fault is not mine!

I do not suppose that any one with the slightest knowledge

of Roumania and Roumanians can fail to detect an alien
note in both these compositions, despite the grace of the
originals; nor can one help feeling that these authors should
have been capable of far better things.
And surely far better and grander things will come ere long
from this nation, at once so old and so young! when, having
regained its lost self-confidence, it comes to understand that
more evil than good is engendered by a blind conformity to
foreign fashions.
Already a step in the right direction has been taken in the
matter of national dress, which, thanks to the praiseworthy
example of the Roumanian queen, has lately received much
attention. And as in dress, so in literature, does Carmen
Sylva take the lead, and endeavor to teach her people to
value national productions above foreign importations.
When, therefore, Roumanian writers begin to see that their
force lies not in the servile imitation of Western models, but
in working out the rich vein of their own folk-lore, and in
bridging over the space which takes them back to ancient
pagan traditions, then, doubtless, a new era will set in for
the literature of the country. Let Roumanian poets leave
Béranger and Musset to moulder on their book-shelves, and
consign to oblivion Heinrich Heine, whose exquisitely morbid
sentimentality is far too fragile an article to bear
importation; let them cease from wandering abroad, and
assuredly they will discover in their own forests and
mountains better and more vigorous material than Paris or
Germany can offer: the old stones around them will begin to
speak, and the old gods will let themselves be lured from
out their hiding-places. Then will it be seen that Apollo’s lyre
has not ceased to vibrate, and the lays of ancient Rome will
arise and develop to new life.
 CHAPTER XXIV.

THE ROUMANIANS: NATIONALITY AND

ATROCITIES.
THE Roumanians have often been called slavish and cringing,
but, considering their past history, it is not possible that
they should be otherwise, oppressed and trampled on,
persecuted, and treated as vermin by the surrounding
races; and it should rather be matter for surprise that they
have been able to continue existing at all under such a
combination of adverse circumstances, which would
assuredly have worn out a less powerful nature.
Until little more than a century ago, it was illegal for any
Wallachian child to frequent a German or Hungarian school;
while at that same period the Wallachian clergy were
compelled to carry the Calvinistic bishop on their shoulders
to and from his church, whenever he thought fit to exact
their services. Still more inhuman was a law which
continued in force up to the end of the sixteenth century,
ordaining that each Wallachian out of the district of Poplaka,
in the neighborhood of Hermanstadt, who injured a tree, if
only by peeling off the bark, was to be forthwith hung up to
the same tree. “Should, however, the culprit remain
undiscovered,” prescribes the law, “then shall the
community of Poplaka be bound to deliver up for execution
some other Wallachian in his place.”
The faults of the Roumanians are the faults of all slaves.
Like all serfs, they are lazy, not being yet accustomed to
work for themselves, nor caring to work for a master; they
have acquired cunning and deceit as the only weapons
wherewith to meet tyranny and oppression. Sometimes,
when goaded to passion, the Roumanian forgets himself,
and his eyes flash fiercely on his tormentor; but the gaze is
instantly corrected, and the eyes lowered again to their
habitual expression of abject humility.
Occasionally they have cast off the yoke and taken cruel
revenge on their real or imaginary oppressors, as in 1848,
when, instigated and stirred up by Austrian agents, they
rose against their masters the Hungarian noblemen, and
perpetrated atrocities as numerous as disgusting. They
pillaged the country houses, setting everything on fire, and
put the nobles to death with many torturing devices,
crucifying some and burying others up to the neck, cutting
off tongues and plucking out eyes, as a diabolical fancy
suggested.
This was all the more surprising, as the bond between serfs
and masters had always been of a most peaceful and
patriarchal character, and it was to his Hungarian landlord
that the Wallachian had been always accustomed to turn for
counsel or assistance. True, the serf was forced to pay
certain tithes to his master; but in return, whenever the
crops failed, the master himself was obliged to sustain the
serf, and provide him with corn out of his own granaries.
A Hungarian lady related to me a very horrible instance of
cruelty which had happened on the property of a near
relation of her own in the revolution of 1848. This
gentleman, one of the most generous and humane
landlords, did not usually reside at his country place, but
had spent much time in foreign travel, and was unknown to
most of his people, which, however, did not prevent them
from resolving on his death. Hearing of the riots which had
broken out on his estate, the nobleman was hastening to
the spot; and the excited peasantry, informed of his
impending arrival, prepared to receive him with scythes and
pickaxes.
The servants of the household had all fled the neighborhood
at the first alarm; but there remained behind at the chateau
the foster-daughter of the gentleman, a girl of sixteen, who,
brought up with the family, was warmly attached to her
benefactor, whom she called father. Shutting herself up in a
turret-room, she tremblingly awaited the dénouement of the
fearful drama which was being enacted around her. From
her window she could overlook the road by which her foster-
father was expected to arrive, and she stood thus all day at
her post, straining her eyes for what she feared to see, and
praying God to keep her benefactor away.
Twilight had set in, and the moon began to rise, when a
solitary rider was at last descried coming down the
neighboring hill. The poor girl’s heart sank within her, for
she knew that this could be no other than her father; and
even had she doubted it, the wild-beast roar which broke
from the peasants at the sight of their long-expected prey
destroyed all remnant of hope. As in a horrible nightmare,
she saw them advance towards the horseman in a black,
heaving mass, like a crawling thunder-cloud, broken here
and there by the sinister gleam of a sharpened scythe.
Paralyzed with horror, she yet was unable to look away, and
no merciful fainting-fit came to spare her the sight of any of
the horrible details which followed: how the hapless rider
was surrounded and speedily overpowered; how a dreadful
scuffle ensued; and after an interval which seemed like an
eternity, how something was hoisted up at the end of a long
pole—something round in shape and ghastly in hue—the
head of her beloved benefactor!
By-and-by she was roused from her grief by the loud voices
of rioters approaching, and presently the front door being
shaken and forced in with a resounding crash, the bloody
wretches proceeded to overrun the house, and ransack the
larders and cellar, laying hands on whatever viands they
could discover. In the large vaulted hall they began the
carouse, seated round the banqueting-table, and on a
platter in the centre was placed the head of their victim.
Two of the peasants who had been searching the upper
apartments now appeared on the scene, dragging between
them a convulsively trembling girl, who looked ready to die
with terror. “They had found her up-stairs in the turret,” they
explained, “sobbing like a fool, and calling out for her father,
like a suckling whelp that has lost its dam.”
“The old man’s daughter!” shouted one of the revellers; “let
us cut off her head as well—they will look fine together on
the platter!”
“No,” said another; “she is not worth killing, she is half dead
already. Let her look at her dear father, since it is for him
she is crying;” and raising the dish from the table, he held it
in horrible proximity to her shrinking face.
The poor girl tightly closed her eyes in order to escape the
dreadful sight, but her persecutors were not inclined to let
her off so easily. Maddened alike by blood and drink, they
grasped her roughly, and seizing her long black eyelashes
on either side, by main force they compelled her to raise her
eyelids and fix her swimming eyes on the gory head.
At first she could distinguish nothing for the blinding tears
which obscured her vision, but suddenly the mist cleared
away, and the cry she then uttered was so sharp and
piercing that it re-echoed again from the vaulted roof, and
caused the drinkers to pause for a minute, glass in hand.
Lucky it was for her and hers that the dull ear of the tipsy
murderers had failed to distinguish the meaning of that cry
aright; for in moments of intense emotion widely different
feelings are apt to resemble each other in expression, so
that joy may be mistaken for grief, and hope for despair—
and it was hope, not despair, which had given that piercing
sharpness to her voice, for the ghastly grinning head before
her was the head of a stranger!
The joyful exclamation rising to her lips was checked just in
time, as her dazed brain began to recognize the urgency of
the situation. She must not undeceive these men, who were
exulting over the death of their landlord. Her father was not
dead, it is true, but neither was the danger yet past, and his
safety might depend on keeping up the delusion a little
longer. By good-luck her confusion passed unnoticed by the
semi-tipsy revellers, who presently had no more thought but
for their bumpers, so that the young girl, enabled to creep
away unobserved, was ultimately the means of saving the
nobleman’s life by sending a messenger to warn him of his
danger.
The man who had been executed in his place turned out to
be a gentleman from some neighboring district, who in the
dusk had taken a wrong turn on the road, thus occasioning
the mistake which cost him his life.

Many such instances of cruelty, of which the Roumanians

made themselves guilty in the year ’48, have deprived them
of the sympathy to which they might have laid claim as a
suffering and oppressed race; but people who have a
thorough knowledge of the Roumanian character, and are
able to estimate correctly all the influences brought to bear
on them at that time, do not hesitate to affirm that these
people were far more sinned against than sinning, and
cannot be held responsible for the atrocities they
perpetrated. Even Hungarian nobles, themselves the
greatest sufferers by all that occurred during the revolution,
are wont to speak of them with a sort of pitying
commiseration, as of poor misguided creatures led astray by
unscrupulous agents, and wholly incapable of
comprehending the heinousness of their behavior.
An amusing illustration has been given of the ignorance of
these revolutionary peasants in 1848. Some of them, having
broken into a nobleman’s mansion, discovered a packet of
old letters in a drawer, and believing these to be patents of
nobility, they proceeded to burn them in front of the portrait
of one of the family ancestors, exclaiming, tauntingly, “See,
proud lord, how thy family becomes once more as ignoble
as we ourselves are!”
Few races possess in such a marked degree the blind and
immovable sense of nationality which characterizes the
Roumanians: they hardly ever mingle with the surrounding
races, far less adopt manners and customs foreign to their
own; and it is a remarkable fact that the seemingly stronger-
minded and more manly Hungarians are absolutely
powerless to influence them even in cases of intermarriage.
Thus the Hungarian woman who weds a Roumanian
husband will necessarily adopt the dress and manners of his
people, and her children will be as good Roumanians as
though they had no drop of Magyar blood in their veins;
while the Magyar who takes a Roumanian girl for his wife
will not only fail to convert her to his ideas, but himself,
subdued by her influence, will imperceptibly begin to lose
his nationality. This is a fact well known and much lamented
by the Hungarians themselves, who live in anticipated
apprehension of seeing their people ultimately dissolving
into Roumanians. This singular tenacity of the Roumanians
to their own manners and customs is doubtless due to the
influence of their religion, which teaches them that any
deviation from their own established rules is sinful—which,
as I have said before, is the whole pivot of Roumanian
thought and action.
In some districts where an attempt was made in the time of
Maria Theresa to replace the Greek popas by other
clergymen belonging to the united faith, the inhabitants
simply absented themselves from all church attendance or
reception of the sacraments; and there are instances on
record of villages whose churches remained closed for over
thirty years, because the people could not be induced to
accept the change.
As to that portion of the Transylvanian Roumanians which in
1698 consented to embrace the united faith, their
separation from their schismatic brethren is but a skin-deep
one after all, having no influence whatsoever on their
customs and superstitions, or on the strong bond of
nationality which holds them all together.
It is a notable fact that among all Oriental races the ideas of
religion and nationality are inextricably bound together. So
with the Roumanians, whose language has no other word
wherewith to express religion or confession but lege, law—
obviously derived from the Latin lex.
The deeply inrooted sense of Roumanian nationality has,
moreover, received fresh stimulus in the comprehension
which of late years has been slowly but surely dawning on
the minds of these people—that they are a nation like other
nations, with a right to be governed by a monarch of their
own choice, instead of being bandied about, backward and
forward, changing masters at each European treaty. There is
no doubt that the bulk of Roumanians living to-day in
Hungary and Transylvania consider themselves to be
serving in bondage, and covertly gaze over the frontier for
their real monarch; and who can blame them for so doing?
In the many Roumanian hovels I have visited in
Transylvania, I have frequently come across the portrait of
the King of Roumania hung up in the place of honor, but
never once that of his Austrian Majesty. Old wood-cuts
representing Michel the Brave, the great hero of the
Roumanians, and of the rebel Hora,[31] are also pretty sure
to be found adorning the walls of many a hut. It is likewise
by no means uncommon to see village taverns bearing such
titles as, “To the King of Roumania,” or “To the United
Roumanian Kingdom,” etc.
A little incident which, taking place under my eyes,
impressed me very strongly at the time, helped me to
understand this feeling more clearly than I had done before.
Two Roumanian generals engaged in some business
regarding the regulation of the frontier, being at
Hermanstadt for a few days, paid visits to the principal
Austrian military authorities, and were the object of much
courteous attention. One evening the Austrian commanding
general had ordered the military band to play in honor of his
Roumanian confrères, and seated along with them on the
promenade, we were listening to the music. Presently two or
three private soldiers passing by stopped in front of us to
stare at the foreign uniforms. Apparently their curiosity was
not easily satisfied, for after five minutes had elapsed they
still remained standing, as though rooted to the spot, and
other soldiers had joined them as well, till the group soon
numbered above a dozen heads.
Being engaged in conversation, I did not at the moment pay
much attention to this circumstance, but happening to turn
round again some minutes later, I was surprised to see that
the spectators had become doubled and quadrupled in the
mean time, and were steadily increasing every minute. Little
short of a hundred soldiers were now standing in front of us,
all gazing intently. Why were they staring thus strangely?
what were they looking at? I asked myself confusedly, but
luckily checked the question rising to my lips, when it
suddenly struck me that all these men had swarthy
complexions, and each one of them a pair of dark eyes, and
simultaneously I remembered that the infantry regiment
whose uniform they wore was recruited from Roumanian
villages round Hermanstadt.
They were perfectly quiet and submissive-looking, betraying
no sign of outward excitement or insubordination; but their
expression was not to be mistaken, and no attentive
observer could have failed to read its meaning aright. It was
at their own generals they were gazing in that hungry,
longing manner; and deep down in every dusky eye,
piercing through a thick layer of patience, stupidity, apathy,
and military discipline, there smouldered a spark of
something vague and intangible, the germ of a sort of fire
which has often kindled revolutions and sometimes
overturned kingdoms.
Heaven alone knows what was passing in the clouded brain
of these poor ignorant men as they stood thus gaping and
staring, in the intensity of their rapt attention! Visions of
glory and freedom perchance, dreams of peace and of
prosperity; dim far-off pictures of unattainable happiness, of
a golden age to come, and an Arcadian state of things no
more to be found on the dull surface of this weary world!
The Austrian generals tried not to look annoyed, the
Roumanian generals strove not to look elated, and the
English looker-on endeavored (I trust somewhat more
successfully) to conceal her amusement at the serio-
comicality of the situation, which one and all we tacitly
ignored with that exquisite hypocrisy characterizing well-
bred persons of every nation.
 CHAPTER XXV.

THE ROUMANIANS: DEATH AND

BURIAL—VAMPIRES AND WERE-
WOLVES.
NOWHERE does the inherent superstition of the Roumanian
peasant find stronger expression than in his mourning and
funeral rites, which are based upon a totally original
conception of death.
Among the various omens of approaching death are the
groundless barking of a dog, the shriek of an owl, the falling
down of a picture from the wall, and the crowing of a black
hen. The influence of this latter may, however, be annulled,
and the catastrophe averted, if the bird be put in a sack and
carried sunwise thrice round the dwelling-house.
It is likewise prognostic of death to break off the smaller
portion of a fowl’s merry-thought, to dream of troubled
water or of teeth falling out,[32] or to be merry without
apparent reason.
A falling star always denotes that a soul is leaving the earth
—for, according to Lithuanian mythology, to each star is
attached the thread of some man’s life, which, breaking at
his death, causes the star to fall. In some places it is
considered unsafe to point at a falling star.
A dying man may be restored to life if he be laid on Holy
Saturday outside the church-door, where the priest passing
with the procession may step over him; or else let him eat
of a root which has been dug up from the church-yard on
Good Friday; but if these and other remedies prove
inefficient, then must the doomed man be given a burning
candle into his hand, for it is considered to be the greatest
of all misfortunes if a man die without a light—a favor the
Roumanian durst not refuse to his deadliest enemy.
The corpse must be washed immediately after death, and
the dirt, if necessary, scraped off with knives, because the
dead man will be more likely to find favor above if he
appear in a clean state before the Creator. Then he is attired
in his best clothes, in doing which great care must be taken
not to tie anything in a knot, for that would disturb his rest
by keeping him bound down to the earth. Nor must he be
suffered to carry away any particle of iron about his person,
such as buttons, boot-nails, etc., for that would assuredly
prevent him from reaching Paradise, the road to which is
long, and, moreover, divided off by several tolls or ferries. To
enable the soul to pass through these a piece of money
must be laid in the hand, under the pillow, or beneath the
tongue of the corpse. In the neighborhood of Forgaras,
where the ferries or toll-bars are supposed to amount to
twenty-five, the hair of the defunct is divided into as many
plaits, and a piece of money secured in each. Likewise a
small provision of needles, thread, pins, etc., is put into the
coffin, to enable the pilgrim to repair any damages his
clothes may receive on the way.
The family must also be careful not to leave a knife lying
with the sharpened edge uppermost as long as the corpse
remains in the house, or else the soul will be forced to ride
on the blade.
The mourning songs, called Bocete, usually performed by
paid mourners, are directly addressed to the corpse, and
sung into his ear on either side. This is the last attempt
made by the survivors to wake the dead man to life by
reminding him of all he is leaving, and urging him to make a
final effort to arouse his dormant faculties—the thought
which underlies these proceedings being that the dead man
hears and sees all that goes on around him, and that it only
requires the determined effort of a strong will in order to
restore elasticity to the stiffened limbs, and cause the torpid
blood to flow anew in the veins.
Here is a fragment of one of these mourning songs, which
are often very pathetic and fanciful:

“Mother dear, arise, arise,

Dry the tearful household’s eyes!
Waken, waken from thy trance,
Speak a word or cast a glance!
Pity thou thy children’s lot!
Rise, O mother, leave us not!
Death triumphant, woe is me,
From thy children snatcheth thee!
To the wall hast turned thee now,
Son nor daughter heedest thou.
Laid the church-yard sod beneath,
Thou shalt feel no breeze’s breath
On the surface of thy grave;
From thy brow shall grasses wave,
From those eyes so mild and true
Nodding harebells take their blue.”

Women alone are allowed to take part in these

lamentations, and all women related to the deceased by ties
of blood or friendship are bound to assist as mourners;
likewise, those whose families have been on unfriendly
terms with the dead man now appear to ask his forgiveness.
The corpse must remain exposed a full day and night in the
chamber of death, and during that time must never be left
alone, nor should the lamentations be suffered to cease for
a single moment. For this reason it is customary to have
hired women to act the part of mourners, by relieving each
other at intervals in singing the mourning songs. Often the
deceased himself, in his last testamentary disposition, has
ordered the details of his funeral, and fixed the payment—
sometimes very considerable—which the mourning women
are to receive.
The men related to the deceased are also bound to spend
the night in the house, keeping watch over the corpse. This
is called keeping the privegghia, which, however, has not
necessarily a mournful character, as they mostly pass the
time with various games, or else seated at table with food
and wine.
Before the funeral the priest is called in, who, reciting the
words of the fiftieth psalm, pours wine over the corpse. After
this the coffin is closed, and must not be reopened unless
the deceased be suspected to have died of a violent death,
in which case the man accused of the crime is confronted
with the corpse of his supposed victim, whose wounds will,
at his sight, begin to bleed afresh.
In many places two openings corresponding to the ears of
the deceased are cut in the wood of the coffin, to enable
him to hear the songs of mourning which are sung on either
side of him as he is carried to the grave. This singing into
the ears has passed into a proverb, and when the
Roumanian says, “I-a-cantat la urechia” (they have sung
into his ear), it is tantamount to saying that prayer, advice,
and remonstrance have all been used in vain.
Whoever dies unmarried must not be carried by married
bearers to the grave: a married man or woman is carried by
married men, and a youth by other youths, while a maiden
is carried by other maidens with hanging, dishevelled hair.
In every case the rank of the bearer should correspond to
that of the deceased, and a fruntas can as little be carried
by mylocasi as the bearers of a codas may be higher than
himself in rank.
In many villages no funeral takes place in the forenoon, as
the people believe that the soul will reach its destination
more easily by following the march of the sinking sun.
The mass for the departed soul should, if possible, be said in
the open air; and when the coffin is lowered into the grave,
the earthen jar containing the water in which the corpse has
been washed must be shattered to atoms on the spot.
A thunder-storm during the funeral denotes that another
death will shortly follow.
It is often customary to place bread and wine on the fresh
grave-mound; and in the case of young people, small fir-
trees or gay-colored flags are placed beside the cross, to
which in the case of a shepherd a tuft of wool is always
attached.
Seven copper coins, and seven loaves of bread with a
lighted candle sticking in each, are often distributed to
seven poor people at the grave. This also is intended to
signify the tolls to be cleared on the way to heaven.
In some places it is usual for the procession returning from a
funeral to take its way through a river or stream of running
water, sometimes going a mile or two out of their way to
avoid all bridges, thus making sure that the vagrant soul of
the beloved deceased will not follow them back to the
house.
Earth taken from a fresh grave-mound and laid behind the
neck at night will bring pleasant dreams; it may also serve
as a cure for fever if made use of in the following manner:
The person afflicted with fever repairs to the grave of some
beloved relative, where, calling upon the defunct in the
most tender terms, he begs of him or her the loan of a
winding-sheet for a strange and unwelcome guest. Taking,
then, from the grave a handful of earth, which he is careful
to tie up tightly and place inside his shirt, the sick man goes
away, and for three days and nights he carries this talisman
about with him wherever he goes. On the fourth day he
returns to the grave by a different route, and replacing the
earth on the mound, thanks the dead man for the service
rendered.
A still more efficacious remedy for fever is to lay a string or
thread the exact length of your own body into the coffin of
some one newly deceased, saying these words, “May I
shiver only when this dead man shivers.” Sore eyes may be
cured by anointing them with the dew gathered off the
grass of the grave of a just man on a fine evening in early
spring; and a bone taken from the deceased’s right arm will
cure boils and sores by its touch. Whoever would keep
sparrows off his field must between eleven o’clock and
midnight collect earth from off seven different graves and
scatter it over his field; while the same earth, if thrown over
a dog addicted to hunting, will cure him of this defect.
The pomeana, or funeral feast, is invariably held after the
funeral, for much of the peace of the defunct depends upon
the strict observance of this ancient custom. All the favorite
dishes of the dead man are served at this banquet, and
each guest receives a cake, a jug of wine, and a wax candle
in his memory. Similar pomeanas are repeated after a
fortnight, six weeks, and on each anniversary of the death
for the next seven years. On the first anniversary it is usual
to bring bread and wine to the church-yard. The bread is
distributed to the poor, and the wine poured down through
the earth into the grave.
During six weeks after the funeral the women of the family
let their hair hang uncombed and unplaited in sign of
mourning. It is, moreover, no uncommon thing for
Roumanians to bind themselves down to a mourning of ten
or twenty years, or even for life, in memory of some beloved
deceased one. Thus in one of the villages there still lived,
two years ago, an old man who for the last forty years had
worn no head-covering, summer or winter, in memory of his
only son, who had died in early youth.
In the case of a man who has died a violent death, or in
general of all such as have expired without a light, none of
these ceremonies take place. Such a man has neither right
to bocete, privegghia, mass, or pomeana, nor is his body
laid in consecrated ground. He is buried wherever the body
may be found, on the bleak hill-side or in the heart of the
forest where he met his death, his last resting-place only
marked by a heap of dry branches, to which each passer-by
is expected to add by throwing a handful of twigs—usually a
thorny branch—on the spot. This handful of thorns—o mânâ
de spini, as the Roumanian calls it—being the only mark of
attention to which the deceased can lay claim, therefore to
the mind of this people no thought is so dreadful as that of
dying deprived of light.
The attentions due to such as have received orthodox burial
often extend even beyond the first seven years after death;
for whenever the defunct appears in a dream to any of the
family, this likewise calls for another pomeana, and when
this condition is not complied with, the soul thus neglected
is apt to wander complaining about the earth, unable to find
rest.
This restlessness on the part of the defunct may either be
caused by his having concealed treasures during his
lifetime, in which case he is doomed to haunt the place
where he has hidden his riches until they are discovered; or
else he may have died with some secret sin on his
conscience—such, for instance, as having removed the
boundary stone from a neighbor’s field in order to enlarge
his own. He will then probably be compelled to pilger about
with a sack of the stolen earth on his back until he has
succeeded in selling the whole of it to the people he meets
in his nightly wanderings.
These restless spirits, called strigoi, are not malicious, but
their appearance bodes no good, and may be regarded as
omens of sickness or misfortune.
More decidedly evil is the nosferatu, or vampire, in which
every Roumanian peasant believes as firmly as he does in
heaven or hell. There are two sorts of vampires, living and
dead. The living vampire is generally the illegitimate
offspring of two illegitimate persons; but even a flawless
pedigree will not insure any one against the intrusion of a
vampire into their family vault, since every person killed by
a nosferatu becomes likewise a vampire after death, and
will continue to suck the blood of other innocent persons till
the spirit has been exorcised by opening the grave of the
suspected person, and either driving a stake through the
corpse, or else firing a pistol-shot into the coffin. To walk
smoking round the grave on each anniversary of the death
is also supposed to be effective in confining the vampire. In
very obstinate cases of vampirism it is recommended to cut
off the head, and replace it in the coffin with the mouth
filled with garlic, or to extract the heart and burn it, strewing
its ashes over the grave.
That such remedies are often resorted to even now is a well-
attested fact, and there are probably few Roumanian
villages where such have not taken place within memory of
the inhabitants. There is likewise no Roumanian village
which does not count among its inhabitants some old
woman (usually a midwife) versed in the precautions to be
taken in order to counteract vampires, and who makes of
this science a flourishing trade. She is frequently called in
by the family who has lost a member, and requested to
“settle” the corpse securely in its coffin, so as to insure it
against wandering. The means by which she endeavors to
counteract any vampire-like instincts which may be lurking
are various. Sometimes she drives a nail through the
forehead of the deceased, or else rubs the body with the fat
of a pig which has been killed on the Feast of St. Ignatius,
five days before Christmas. It is also very usual to lay the
thorny branch of a wild-rose bush across the body to
prevent it leaving the coffin.
First-cousin to the vampire, the long-exploded were-wolf of
the Germans, is here to be found lingering under the name
of prikolitsch. Sometimes it is a dog instead of a wolf whose
form a man has taken, or been compelled to take, as
penance for his sins. In one village a story is still told—and
believed—of such a man, who, driving home one Sunday
with his wife, suddenly felt that the time for his
transformation had come. He therefore gave over the reins
to her and stepped aside into the bushes, where, murmuring
the mystic formula, he turned three somersaults over a
ditch. Soon after, the woman, waiting vainly for her
husband, was attacked by a furious dog, which rushed
barking out of the bushes and succeeded in biting her
severely as well as tearing her dress. When, an hour or two
later, the woman reached home after giving up her husband
as lost, she was surprised to see him come smiling to meet
her; but when between his teeth she caught sight of the
shreds of her dress bitten out by the dog, the horror of this
discovery caused her to faint away.
Another man used gravely to assert that for several years
he had gone about in the form of a wolf, leading on a troop
of these animals, till a hunter, in striking off his head,
restored him to his natural shape.
This superstition once proved nearly fatal to a harmless
botanist, who, while collecting plants on a hill-side many
years ago, was observed by some peasants, and, in
consequence of his crouching attitude, mistaken for a wolf.
Before they had time to reach him, however, he had risen to
his feet and disclosed himself in the form of a man; but this
in the minds of the Roumanians, who now regarded him as
an aggravated case of wolf, was but additional motive for
attacking him. They were quite sure that he must be a
prikolitsch, for only such could change his shape in this
unaccountable manner; and in another minute they were all
in full cry after the wretched victim of science, who might
have fared badly indeed had he not succeeded in gaining a
carriage on the high-road before his pursuers came up.
I once inquired of an old Saxon woman, whom I had visited
with a view to extracting various pieces of superstitious
information, whether she had ever come across a prikolitsch
herself.
“Bless you!” she said, “when I was young there was no
village without two or three of them at least, but now there
seem to be fewer.”
“So there is no prikolitsch in this village?” I asked, feeling
particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of a real live
were-wolf.
“No,” she answered, doubtfully, “not that I know of for
certain, though of course there is no saying with those
Roumanians. But close by here in the next street, round the
corner, there lives the widow of a prikolitsch whom I knew.
She is still a young woman, and lost her husband five or six
years ago. In ordinary life he was a quiet enough fellow,
rather weak and sickly-looking; but sometimes he used to
disappear for a week or ten days at a time, and though his
wife tried to deceive people by telling them that her
husband was lying drunk in the loft, of course we knew
better, for those were the times when he used to be away
wolving in the mountains.”
Thinking that the relict of a were-wolf was the next best
thing to the were-wolf himself, I determined on paying my
respects to the interesting widow; but on reaching her
house the door was closed, and I had the cruel
disappointment of learning that Madame Prikolitsch was not
at home.
We do not require to go far for the explanation of the
extraordinary tenacity of the were-wolf legend in a country
like Transylvania, where real wolves still abound. Every
winter here brings fresh proof of the boldness and cunning
of these terrible animals, whose attacks on flocks and farms
are often conducted with a skill which would do honor to a
human intellect. Sometimes a whole village is kept in
trepidation for weeks together by some particularly
audacious leader of a flock of wolves, to whom the peasants
not unnaturally attribute a more than animal nature; and it
is safe to prophesy that as long as the flesh-and-blood wolf
continues to haunt the Transylvanian forests, so long will his
spectre brother survive in the minds of the people.
 CHAPTER XXVI.

ROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION: DAYS

AND HOURS.
GRIMM has said that “superstition in all its multifariousness
constitutes a species of religion applicable to all the
common household necessities of daily life;”[33] and if we
view it as such, particular forms of superstition may very
well serve as guide to the character and habits of the
particular nation in which they are prevalent. In
Transylvania, however, the task of classifying all the
superstitions that come under our notice is a peculiarly hard
one, for perhaps nowhere else does this curious crooked
plant of delusion flourish so persistently and in such
bewildering variety as in the land beyond the forest; and it
would almost seem as though the whole species of demons,
pixies, witches, and hobgoblins, driven from the rest of
Europe by the wand of science, had taken refuge within this
mountain rampart, aware that here they would find secure
lurking-places whence to defy their persecutors yet a while.
There are many reasons why such fabulous beings should
retain an abnormally firm hold on the soil of these parts, and
looking at the matter closely, we find no less than three
distinct sources of superstition:
First, there is what may be called the indigenous
superstition of the country, the scenery of which is
particularly adapted to serve as background to all sorts of
supernatural beings. There are innumerable caverns whose
depths seem made to harbor whole legions of evil spirits;
forest glades, fit only for fairy folk on moonlight nights;
solitary lakes, which instinctively call up visions of water-
sprites; golden treasures lying hidden in mountain chasms—
all of which things have gradually insinuated themselves
into the minds of the oldest inhabitants, the Roumanians, so
that these people, by nature imaginative and poetically
inclined, have built up for themselves, out of the
surrounding materials, a whole code of fanciful superstition,
to which they adhere as closely as to their religion itself.
Secondly, there is here the imported superstition—that is to
say, the old German customs and beliefs brought hither by
the Saxon colonists from their native land, and, like many
other things, preserved here in greater perfection than in
the original country.
Thirdly, there is the influence of the wandering superstition
of the gypsy tribes, themselves a race of fortune-tellers and
witches, whose ambulatory caravans cover the country as
with a net-work, and whose less vagrant members fill up the
suburbs of towns and villages.
All these kinds of superstition have twined and intermingled,
acted and reacted upon each other, so that in many cases it
becomes a difficult matter to determine the exact parentage
of some particular belief or custom; but in a general way the
three sources I have named may be admitted as a rough
sort of classification in dealing with the principal
superstitions here afloat.

Few races offer such an interesting field for research in their

folk-lore as the Roumanians, in whose traditions we find side
by side elements of Celtic, Slav, and Roman mythology—a
subject well worth a closer attention than it has hitherto
received. The existence of the Celtic element has been
explained by the assumption (believed by many historians
to be well founded), that as the present Roumanians are a
mixed race originating in the fusion of Romans with Dacians,
so were these latter themselves a complex nationality
composed of Slav and Celtic ingredients.
The spirit of evil—or, not to put too fine a point on it, the
devil—plays a conspicuous part in the Roumanian code of
superstition, and such designations as Gaura Draculuj[34]
(devil’s hole), Gregyna Draculuj (devil’s garden), Jadu
Draculuj (devil’s abyss), frequently found attached to rocks,
caverns, and heights, attest that these people believe
themselves to be surrounded on all sides by whole legions
of evil spirits. These devils are furthermore assisted by
ismejus (another sort of dragon), witches, and goblins, and
to each of these dangerous beings are ascribed particular
powers on particular days and at certain places. Many and
curious are therefore the means by which the Roumanians
endeavor to counteract these baleful influences; and a
whole complicated study, about as laborious as the
mastering of an unknown language, is required in order to
teach an unfortunate peasant to steer clear of the dangers
by which he supposes himself to be beset on all sides. The
bringing up of a common domestic cow is apparently as
difficult a task as the rearing of any “dear gazelle,” and
even the well-doing of a simple turnip or potato about as
precarious as that of the most tender exotic plant.
Of the seven days of the week, Wednesday (Miercuri) and
Friday (Vinere) are considered suspicious days, on which it is
not allowed to use needle or scissors, or to bake bread;
neither is it wise to sow flax on these days. No bargain
should ever be concluded on a Friday; and Venus (here
called Paraschiva), to whom the Friday is sacred, punishes
all infractions of this rule by causing conflagrations.
Tuesday, however—or Marti, named from Mars, the bloody
god of war—is a decidedly unlucky day, on which spinning is
utterly prohibited; and even such seemingly harmless
actions as washing the hands and combing the hair are not
unattended by danger. About sunset on Tuesday the evil
spirit of that day is at its fullest force, and many people
refrain from leaving their huts between sunset and
midnight. “May the mar sara (spirit of Tuesday evening)
carry you off!” is here equivalent to saying, “May the devil
take you!”
It must not, however, be supposed that Monday, Thursday,
and Saturday are unconditionally lucky days, on which the
Roumanian is at liberty to do as he pleases. Thus every well-
informed Roumanian matron knows that she may wash on
Thursday and spin on Saturday, but that it would be a fatal
mistake to reverse the order of these proceedings; and
though Thursday is a lucky day for marriage,[35] and is on
that account mostly chosen for weddings, it is
proportionately unfavorable to agriculture. In many places it
is considered unsafe to work in the fields on all Thursdays
between Easter and Pentecost, for it is believed that if these
days be not kept as days of rest, ravaging hail-storms will be
the inevitable consequence. Many of the more enlightened
Roumanian popas have preached in vain against this belief;
and some years ago the inhabitants of a village presented
an official complaint to the bishop, requesting the removal
of their popa, on the ground that he not only gave scandal
by working on the prohibited days, but had actually caused
them serious material damage by the hail-storms his sinful
behavior had provoked. This respect of the Thursday would
seem to be the result of a deeply rooted, though now
unconscious, worship of Jupiter (Joi), who gives his name to
the day.
To different hours of the day are likewise ascribed different
influences, favorable or the reverse. Thus it is always
considered unlucky to look at one’s self in the mirror after
sunset; neither is it wise to sweep dust over the threshold in
the evening, or to restore a whip borrowed of a neighbor.
The exact hour of noon is precarious, because of the evil
spirit Pripolniza;[36] and so is midnight, because of the miase
nopte (night spirit); and it is safer to remain in-doors at
these hours. If, however, some misguided peasant does
happen to leave his home at midnight, and espies (as very
likely he may) a flaming dragon in the sky, he need not
necessarily give himself up as lost, for if he have the
presence of mind to stick a fork into the ground alongside of
him, the fiery monster will thereby be prevented from
carrying him off.
The advent of the new moon is always more or less fraught
with danger, and nothing may be sown or planted at that
time.
The Oriental Church has an abnormal number of feast-days,
to each of which peculiar customs and superstitions are
attached, a few of which may here find place.
On New-year’s Day it is customary for the Roumanian to
interrogate his fate by placing a leaf of evergreen on the
freshly swept and heated hearth-stone. If the leaf takes a
gyratory movement, he will be lucky; but if it shrivels up
where it lies, then he may expect misfortune during the
coming year.[37] To insure the welfare of the cattle, it is
advisable to place a gold or silver piece in the water-trough
out of which they drink for the first time on New-year’s
morning.
The Feast of the Epiphany, or Three Kings (tre crai), is one of
the oldest festivals, and was solemnized by the Oriental
Church as early as the second century. On this day, which
popular belief regards as the coldest in the winter, the
blessing of the waters, known as the Feast of the Jordan or
Bobetasu (baptism), takes place. The priests, attired in full
vestments, proceed to the shore of the nearest river or lake,
and there bless the waters, which have been unclosed by
cutting a Greek cross, some six to eight feet long, in the ice.
Every pious Roumanian is careful to fill a bottle with this
consecrated water before the surface freezes over again,
and keeps it tightly corked and sealed up, as a remedy in
case of illness. On this day the principal food in most
Roumanian houses consists of a sort of jelly; and in the
evening the popa, coming to each house in order to bless
the cattle, which he does by sprinkling holy-water with a
bunch of wild basil-weed,[38] finds a table with food and
drink awaiting him, from which a dish of boiled plums must
never be wanting.
He who dies on that day is considered particularly lucky, for
he will be sure to go straight to heaven, the gate of which is
believed to stand open all day, in memory of the descent of
the Holy Ghost at the baptism of Christ.
The Feast of St. Theodore, January 11th (corresponding to
our 23d of January), is a day of rest for the girls, those
transgressing this rule being liable to be carried off by the
saint, who sometimes appears in the shape of a beautiful
youth, sometimes in that of a terrible monster. No decent
girl should leave her house unescorted on this day, for fear
of the terrible Theodore.[39] In some districts youths and
maidens choose this day for swearing friendship, which
bonds are inaugurated by a tree being hung over with little
circular cakes, and danced round with songs and music,
after which each cake is broken in two and divided between
a youth and a maiden.[40]
On the Wednesday in Holy Week the Easter loaves and
cakes are baked, which next day are blessed, and some of
the hallowed crumbs mixed up with the cows’ fodder. Woe
to the woman who indulges in a nap to-day; for the whole
year she will not be able to shake off her drowsiness. In the
evening the young men bind as many wreaths as there are
persons in their family, and each of these, marked with the
name of an individual, is thrown up on the roof, the wreaths
which fall to the ground indicating those who will die that
year.
Skin diseases are cured by taking a bath on Good Friday in a
stream or river which flows towards the east. This will not
only cure the patient, but prevent the disease recurring
within the year.[41]
In the night preceding Easter Sunday witches and demons
are abroad, and hidden treasures are said to betray their
site by a glowing flame. No God-fearing peasant will,
however, allow himself to be tempted by the hope of such
riches, which he cannot on that day appropriate without sin.
He must not omit to attend the midnight church-service,
and his devotion will be rewarded by the mystic qualities
attached to the wax candle he has carried in his hand, and
which, when lighted hereafter during a thunder-storm, will
keep the lightning from striking his house.
The greatest luck which can befall a mortal is to be born on
Easter Sunday, and this luck is increased if the birth take
place at mid-day when the bells are ringing; but it is not
lucky to die on that day.
Egg-shells are glued up against the doors in memory of the
Israelites, who anointed the door-posts with the lambs’
blood at their flight from Egypt; and the wooden spoon with
which the Easter eggs have been removed from the boiling
pot is carefully treasured up by each shepherd, for, worn in
his belt, it gives him the power to distinguish the witches
who seek to molest his flocks. Witches may also be descried
by the man who on Easter Monday takes up his stand on a
bridge above running water, remaining there from sunrise to
sunset.
Perhaps the most important day in the Roumanian’s year is
that of St. George, April 24th (May 6th), the eve of which is
said to be still frequently kept up by occult meetings taking
place at night in lonely caverns or within ruined walls, and
where all the ceremonies usual to the celebration of a
witches’ Sabbath are put into practice. This night is the
great one to beware of witches, to counteract whose
influence square-cut blocks of turf (to which are sometimes
added thorny branches) are placed in front of each door and
window.[42] This is supposed effectually to bar their entrance
to house or stables; but for still greater precaution it is usual
for the peasants to keep watch all night near the sleeping
cattle. This same night is likewise the best one for seeking
treasures.
The Feast of St. George, being the day when most flocks are
first driven out to pasture, is in a special manner the feast of
all shepherds and cow-herds, and on this day only is it
allowed for the Roumanian shepherd to count his flocks and
assure himself of the exact number of sheep—these
numbers being, in general, but approximately guessed at
and vaguely described. Thus, when interrogated as to the
number of his master’s sheep, the Roumanian shepherd will
probably inform you that they are as numerous as the stars
of heaven, or as the daisies which dot the meadows.
The custom of throwing up wreaths on to the roof, as
described above, is in some districts practised on the Feast
of St. John the Baptist, June 24th (July 6th), instead of on the
Wednesday in Holy Week. This is the day when the sun,
having reached its zenith, begins its backward course
(according to the people) with a trembling, dancing
movement, in the same way as the sun is said to dance on
Easter Sunday. The gate-way of each house is decorated
with a wreath of field-flowers; and at night fires lighted on
the mountain heights are supposed to keep away evil spirits
from the flocks. This custom of the St. John fires is, however,
to be found in many other countries, and is undoubtedly a
remnant of the old sun-worship practised by Greeks,
Romans, Scandinavians, Celts, Slavs, Indians, Parsees, etc.
The Feast of St. Elias, July 20th (August 1st), is a very
unlucky day, on which the lightning may be expected to
strike.[43] Every year—so we are told in an ancient legend—
St. Elias appears in heaven before the throne of the
Almighty, and humbly inquires when his feast-day is to be.
He is invariably put off with divers excuses, being
sometimes told that his feast-day has not yet come,
sometimes that the date for it is already past. At this the
saint grows angry, and wishing to punish the human race for
thus forgetting him, he hurls down his thunderbolts upon
the earth.
The Feast of St. Spiridion, December 13th (January 24th), is
an ominous day, especially for housewives; and this saint
often destroys those who desecrate his feast by manual
labor.
That the cattle are endowed with speech during the
Christmas night is a general belief, but it is not considered
wise to pry upon them, or try to overhear what they say, as
the listener will rarely overhear any good. This night is
likewise favorable to the discovery of hidden treasures, and
the man who has courage to conjure up the evil one will be
sure to see him if he call upon him at midnight. Three
burning coals placed on the threshold will prevent the devil
from carrying him off.
A round cake baked at Christmas goes by the name of the
rota (wheel), and is probably symbolic of the sun’s rotation.
The girl whose thoughts are turned towards love and
matrimony has many approved methods of testing her fate
on the new-year’s night. First of all, she may, by cracking
her finger-joints, accurately ascertain the number of her
admirers; also a fresh-laid egg broken into a glass of water
will give much clew to the events in store for her by the
shape it assumes; and a swine’s bristle stuck in a straw and
thrown on the heated hearth-stone is reliable as a talisman
which disperses love or jealousy.[44] To form a conjecture as
to the figure and build of her future husband, she is
recommended to throw an armful of firewood as far as she
can backward over her shoulder; the piece which has gone
farthest will be the image of her intended, according as the
stick happens to be long or short, broad or slender, straight
or crooked.
Another such game is to place on the table a row of earthen
pots upside down. Under each of these is concealed
something different—as corn, salt, wool, coals, or money—
and the girl is desired to make her choice; thus money
stands for a rich husband, and wool for an old one; corn
signifies an agriculturist, and salt connubial happiness; but
coals are prophetic of misfortune.
If these general indications do not suffice, and the maiden
desire to see the reflection of her bridegroom’s face in the
water, she has only to step naked at midnight into the
nearest lake or river; or if she not unnaturally shrink from
this chilly oracle, let her take her stand on the more
congenial dunghill, with a piece of Christmas cake in her
mouth, and, as the clock strikes twelve, listen attentively for
the first sound of a dog’s bark which reaches her ear. From
whichever side it proceeds will also come the expected
suitor.
It is likewise on the last day of the year that the agriculturist
seeks a prognostic of the weather for the coming year, by
making what is called the onion calendar, which consists in
putting salt into twelve hollowed-out onions and giving to
each the name of a month. Those onions in which the salt
has melted by the following morning will be rainy months.
[45]
 CHAPTER XXVII.

ROUMANIAN SUPERSTITION—
CONTINUED: ANIMALS, WEATHER,
MIXED SUPERSTITIONS, SPIRITS,
SHADOWS, ETC.
OF the household animals the sheep is the most highly
prized by the Roumanian, who makes of it his companion,
and frequently his oracle, as by its bearing it is often
supposed to give warning when danger is near.
The swallows here, as elsewhere, are luck-bringing birds,
and go by the name of galinele lui Dieu—fowls of the Lord.
There is always a treasure to be found where the first
swallow has been espied.
The crow, on the contrary, is a bird of evil omen, and is
particularly ominous when it flies straight over the head of
any man.[46]
The magpie, when perched on a roof, gives notice of the
approach of guests,[47] but a shrieking magpie meeting or
accompanying a traveller denotes death.
The cuckoo is an oracle to be consulted in manifold
contingencies. This bird plays a great part in Roumanian
poetry, and is frequently supposed to be the spirit of an
unfortunate lover.
It is never permissible to kill a spider, but a toad taking up
its residence in a cow-byre should be stoned to death, as
assuredly standing in the service of a witch, and sent there
to purloin the milk.
The same liberty must not, however, be taken with the
equally pernicious weasel, and when these animals are
found to inhabit a barn or stable, the peasant endeavors to
render them harmless by diverting their thoughts into a
safer channel. To this end a tiny thrashing-flail is prepared
for the male weasel, and a distaff for his female partner,
and these are laid at some place the animals are known to
frequent.
Those houses which can boast of a house-snake are
particularly lucky.[48] Food is regularly placed for it near the
hole; and killing it would entail dire misfortune to the family.
The skull of a horse placed over the gate of the court-yard,
[49] or the bones of fallen animals buried under the door-

step, are preservatives against ghosts.

The place where a horse has rolled on the ground is
unwholesome, and the man who steps upon it will be visited
by eruptions, boils, or other skin diseases.
Black fowls are always viewed with suspicion, as possibly
standing in the service of a witch; and the Brahmapootra
fowl is, curiously enough, believed to be the offspring of the
devil and a Jewish girl.
The best remedy for a murrain among the cattle is with an
axe to behead a living pig, hoisting up its head on the end of
a long pole at the village entrance. This, however, is only
efficacious when it is the cattle or sheep which are thus
afflicted; and should an illness have broken out among the
swine themselves, the only remedy for it will be for the
herd, divested of his clothes, to lead his drove to pasture in
the early morning.[50]
The skull of a ram is often stuck up at the boundary of a
parish, and if turned towards the east is supposed to be
efficacious in keeping off cattle diseases.
A cow that has wandered can be insured against wolves if
the owner recollect to stick a pair of scissors in the centre
cross-beam of the dwelling-room.
A whirlwind always denotes that the devil is dancing with a
witch, and whoever approaches too near to the dangerous
circle may be carried off bodily to hell, and sometimes only
barely escapes by losing his cap.
As a matter of course, such places as church-yards, gallows-
trees, and cross-roads are to be avoided; but even the left
bank of a river may, under circumstances, become equally
dangerous.
The finger which points at a rainbow will be seized by a
gnawing disease, and a rainbow appearing in December
always bodes misfortune. Pointing at an approaching
thunder-storm is also considered unsafe, and whoever
stands over-long gazing at the summer lightning will go
mad.
If a house struck by lightning begins to burn, it is not
allowed to put out the flames, because God has lit the fire,
and it were presumption for man to dare meddle with his
work.[51] In some places it is supposed that a fire kindled by
lightning can only be extinguished with milk.
An approved method for averting the lightning from striking
a house is to form a top by sticking a knife through a loaf of
bread, and spin it on the floor of the loft while the storm
lasts. The ringing of bells is also efficacious in dispersing a
storm, provided, however, that the bell in question has been
cast under a perfectly cloudless sky.
As I am on the subject of thunder-storms, I may as well here
mention the scholomance, or school, supposed to exist
somewhere in the heart of the mountains, and where the
secrets of nature, the language of animals, and all magic
spells are taught by the devil in person. Only ten scholars
are admitted at a time, and when the course of learning has
expired, and nine of them are released to return to their
homes, the tenth scholar is detained by the devil as
payment, and, mounted upon an ismeju, or dragon,
becomes henceforward the devil’s aide-de-camp, and
assists him in “making the weather”—that is, preparing the
thunder-bolts.
A small lake, immeasurably deep, and lying high up in the
mountains to the south of Hermanstadt, is supposed to be
the caldron where is brewed the thunder, under whose
water the dragon lies sleeping in fair weather. Roumanian
peasants anxiously warn the traveller to beware of throwing
a stone into this lake, lest it should wake the dragon and
provoke a thunder-storm. It is, however, no mere
superstition that in summer there occur almost daily
thunder-storms at this spot, and numerous stone cairns on
the shores attest the fact that many people have here found
their death by lightning. On this account the place is
shunned, and no true Roumanian will venture to rest here at
the hour of noon.
Whoever turns three somersaults the first time he hears the
thunder will be free from pains in the back during a
twelvemonth; and the man who wishes to be insured
against headache has only to rub his forehead with a piece
of iron or stone on that same occasion.
A comet is sign of war; and an earthquake denotes that the
fish on which the earth is supposed to rest has moved.
Another version informs us that originally the world was
balanced on the backs of four fishes, one of which was
drowned in the flood, so that the earth, now lacking support
at one corner, has sunk down and is covered by the sea.
The Slav custom of decking out a girl at harvest-time with a
wreath of corn-ears, and leading her in procession to the
house of the priest or the landed proprietor, is likewise
practised here, with the difference that, instead of the songs
customary in Poland, the girl is here followed by loud shouts
of Prihu! Prihu! or else Priku![52] and that whoever meets her
on the way is bound to sprinkle her with water. If this detail
be neglected, the next year’s crops will assuredly fail. It is
also customary to keep the wreaths till next sowing-time,
when the corn, if shaken out and mingled with the grain to
be sown afresh, will insure a rich harvest.
Every fresh-baked loaf of wheaten bread is sacred, and
should a piece inadvertently fall to the ground, it is hastily
picked up, carefully wiped and kissed, and if soiled thrown
into the fire—partly as an offering to the dead, and partly
because it were a heavy sin to throw away or tread upon
any particle of it.
It is unfortunate to meet an old woman or a Roumanian
popa, but the meeting of a Catholic or Protestant clergyman
is indifferent, and brings neither good nor evil.
To be met by a gypsy the first thing in the morning is
particularly lucky.
It is bad-luck if your path be traversed by a hare, but a fox
or wolf crossing the way is a good omen.
Likewise, it is lucky to meet a woman with a jugful of water,
while an empty jug or pail is unlucky; therefore the
Roumanian maiden meeting you on the way back from the
well will smilingly display her brimming pitcher as she
passes, with a pleased consciousness of bringing good-luck;
while the girl whose pitcher is empty will slink past
shamefacedly, as though she had a crime to conceal.
The Roumanian is always very particular about the exact
way he meets any one. If he happens to be placed to the
right of the comer, he will be careful not to cross over to the
left, or vice versa. Should, however, his way lead him
straight across the path of another higher in rank, he will
stop and wait till the latter has passed. These precautions
are taken in order not to cut or disturb the thread of a
person’s good-luck.
Every orthodox Roumanian woman is careful to do homage
to the wodna zena, or zona, residing in each spring, by
spilling a few drops on the ground after she has filled her
jug, and it is regarded as an insult to offer drink to a
Roumanian without observing this ceremony. She will never
venture to draw water against the current, for that would
strike the spirit home and provoke her anger, nor is it
allowable, without very special necessity, to draw water in
the night-time; and whoever is obliged to do so should
nowise neglect to blow three times over the brimming jug to
undo all evil spells, as well as to pour a few drops on to the
glowing embers.
The vicinity of deep pools of water, more especially
whirlpools, is to be avoided, for here resides the dreadful
balaur, or the wodna muz—the cruel waterman who lies in
wait for human victims.
Each forest has likewise its own particular spirit, its mama
padura,[53] or forest mother. This fairy is generally supposed
to be good-natured, especially towards children who have
lost their way in the wood.
Less to be trusted is Panusch,[54] who haunts the forest
glades and lies in wait for helpless maidens.
In deep forests and wild mountain-gorges there wanders
about a wild huntsman of superhuman size and mysterious
personality, but rarely seen by living eyes. Oftenest he is
met by huntsmen, to whom he has frequently given good
advice. He once appeared to a peasant who had already
shot ninety-nine bears, and warned him now to desist, for
no man can shoot the hundredth bear. But the passion for
sport was too strong within the peasant; so, disregarding
the advice, he shot at the next bear he met, and missing his
aim, was torn to pieces by the infuriated animal. Another
hunter to whom he appeared learned from him the secret
that if he loaded his gun on New-year’s night with a live
adder, the whole of that year he would never miss a shot.
Another and more malevolent forest-spectre is the wild man
—or, as the Roumanian calls him, the om ren—usually seen
in winter, when he is the terror of all hunters and shepherds.
Whoever may be found dead in the forest is supposed to
have fallen a prey to his vengeance, which pursues all such
as venture to chase his deer and wild-boar, or approach too
near the cavern where he resides. His rage sometimes takes
the form of uprooting pine-trees, with which to strike dead
the intruder; or else he throws his victims down a precipice,
or rolls down massive rocks on the top of them.
Oameni micuti (small men), as the Roumanian calls them,
are gray-bearded dwarfs, who, attired like miners, with axe
and lantern, haunt the Transylvanian gold and silver mines.
They seldom do harm to a miner, but give warning to his
wife when he has perished by three knocks on her door.
They are, however, very quarrelsome among themselves,
and may often be heard hitting at one another with their
sharp axes, or blowing their horns as signal of battle.
Also the mountain monk plays a great part in mining
districts, but is to be classed among the malevolent spirits.
He delights in kicking over water-pails, putting out lamps,
and breaking tools, and will sometimes even strangle or
suffocate workmen to whom he has taken aversion.
Occasionally, but rarely, he has been known to help
distressed miners in replenishing the oil in their lamps, or
guiding those who have lost their way; but woe to the man
who relates these circumstances, for he will be sure to
suffer for it.
The gana is the name of a beautiful but malicious witch who
presides over the evil spirits holding their meetings on the
eve of the first of May. Gana is said to have been the
mistress of Transylvania before the Christian era. Her beauty
bewitched many; but whoever succumbed to her charms,
and let himself be lured into quaffing mead from her ure-ox
drinking-horn, was doomed. Once the handsome Maldovan,
the Roumanian national hero, when riding home from
visiting his bride, waylaid by the siren, and beguiled into
drinking from the horn, reached his mountain fortress a sick
and dying man, and was a corpse before next morning.
Ravaging diseases like the pest, cholera, etc., are attributed
to a spirit called the dschuma, to whom is sometimes given
the shape of a toothless old hag, sometimes that of a fierce
virgin, only to be appeased by the gift of clothing of some
sort. Oftenest the spirit is supposed to be naked and
suffering from cold, and its complaining voice may be heard
at night crying out for clothing whenever the disease is at
its highest. When this voice is heard, the inhabitants of a
village hasten to comply with its summons by preparing the
required clothing. Sometimes it is seven old women who are
to spin, weave, and sew a scarlet shirt all in one night, and
without breaking silence; sometimes the maidens are to
make garments and hang them out at the entrance of the
afflicted village. Mr. Paget mentions having once seen a
coarse linen pair of trousers suspended by means of a rope
straight across the road where he was driving, and on
inquiring being informed that this was to pacify the cholera
spirit.
Some places, moreover, can boast of a perpetually naked
spirit, who requires a new suit of clothes every year. These
are furnished by the inhabitants, who on each New-year’s
night lay them out in readiness near some place supposed
to be haunted by the spirit.
In a Wallachian village in the county of Bihar, during the
prevalence of the cholera in 1866, the following precautions
were taken to protect the village from the epidemic: six
maidens and six unmarried youths, having first laid aside
their clothes, with a new ploughshare traced a furrow round
the village, thus forming a charmed circle, over which the
cholera demon was supposed to be unable to pass.
When the land is suffering from protracted and obstinate
droughts, the Roumanian not unfrequently ascribes the evil
to the Tziganes, who by occult means procure the dry
weather in order to favor their own trade of brickmaking. In
such cases, when the necessary rain has not been produced
by soundly beating the guilty Tziganes, the peasants
sometimes resort to the papaluga, or rain-maiden. This is
done by stripping a young Tzigane girl quite naked, and
dressing her up with garlands of flowers and leaves, which
entirely cover her, leaving only the head visible. Thus
adorned, the papaluga is conducted round the village to the
sound of music, each person hastening to pour water over
her as she passes. The part of the papaluga may also be
enacted by Roumanian maidens, when there is no particular
reason to suspect the Tziganes of being concerned in the
drought. The custom of the rain-maiden is also to be found
in Serbia, and I believe in Croatia.
Killing a frog is sometimes effectual in bringing on rain; but
if this also fails in the desired effect, then the evil must
evidently be of deeper nature, and is to be attributed to a
vampire, who must be sought out and destroyed, as before
described.
The body of a drowned man can be recovered only by
sticking a lighted candle into a hollowed-out loaf of bread,
and setting it afloat at night on the lake or river: there,
where the light comes to a stand-still, the corpse will be
found. Till this has been done the water will continue to rise
and the rain to fall.
At the birth of a child each one present takes a stone and
throws it behind him, saying, “This into the jaws of the
strigoi”—a custom which would seem to suggest Saturn and
the swaddled-up stones. As long as the child is unbaptized it
must be carefully watched over for fear of being changed or
harmed by a witch. A piece of iron or a broom laid beneath
the pillow will keep spirits away.
Even the Roumanian’s wedding-day is darkened by the
shadow of superstition. He can never be sure of his affection
for his bride being a natural, spontaneous feeling, since it
may just as well have been caused by the influence of a
witch; and he lives in anticipated dread lest the devil, in
shape of a fiery comet, may appear any day to make love to
his wife. Likewise at church, when the priest offers the
blessed bread to the new-made couple, he will tremblingly
compare the relative sizes of the two pieces, for whoever
chances to get the smaller one will inevitably be the first to
die.
Although it has been said of the Roumanian that his whole
life is taken up in devising talismans against the devil, yet
he does not always endeavor to keep the evil one at arm’s-
length—sometimes, on the contrary, directly invoking his
aid, and entering into a regular compact with him.
Supposing, for instance, that a man wishes to insure a flock,
garden, or field against thieves, wild beasts, or bad weather,
the matter is very simple. He has only to repair to a cross-
road, at the junction of which he takes his stand in the
centre of a circle traced on the ground. Here, after
depositing a copper coin as payment, he summons the
demon with the following words:
“Satan, I give thee over my flock [garden, or field] to keep
till —— [such and such a term], that thou mayst defend and
protect it for me, and be my servant till this time has
expired.”
He must, however, be careful to keep within the circle
traced until the devil, who may very likely have chosen to
appear in the shape of a goat, crow, toad, or serpent, has
completely disappeared, otherwise the unfortunate man is
irretrievably lost. He is equally sure to lose his soul if he die
before the time of the contract has elapsed.
As long as the contract lasts, the peasant may be sure of
the devil’s services, who for the time being will put a
particular spirit—spiridusui—at his disposal. This spirit will
serve him faithfully in every contingency; but in return he
expects to be given the first mouthful of every dish partaken
of by his master.[55]
Apothecaries in the towns say that they are often applied to
for an unknown magic potion called spiridusch (that is, I
suppose, a potion compelling the services of the demon
spiridusui), said to have the property of disclosing hidden
treasures to its lucky possessor. While I was at Hermanstadt,
an apothecary there received the following letter, published
in a local paper, and which I here give as literally as
possible:
WORTHY SIR,—I wish to ask you of something I have
been told by others—that is, that you have got for
sale a thing they call spiridusch, but which, to
speak more plainly, is the devil himself; and if this
be true, I beg you to tell me if it be really true, and
how much it costs, for my poverty is so great that I
must ask the devil himself to help me. Those who
told me were weak, silly fellows, and were afraid;
but I have no fear, and have seen many things in
my life—therefore I pray you to write me this, and
 to take the greeting of an unknown and unhappy
man.
N. N.
Besides the tale of the Arghisch monastery which I have
quoted in a former chapter, there are many other
Roumanian legends which tell us how every new church, or
otherwise important building, became a human grave, as it
was thought indispensable to its stability to wall in a living
man or woman, whose spirit henceforth haunted the place.
In later times, people having become less cruel, or more
probably because murder is now attended with greater
inconvenience to those concerned, this custom underwent
some modifications, and it became usual, in place of a living
man, to wall in his shadow. This is done by measuring the
shadow of a person with a long piece of cord, or a tape
made of strips of reed fastened together, and interring this
measure instead of the person himself, who, unconscious
victim of the spell thus cast upon him, will pine away and
die within forty days. It is, however, an indispensable
condition to the success of this proceeding that the chosen
victim be ignorant of the part he is playing, wherefore
careless passers-by near a building in process of erection
may chance to hear the warning cry, “Beware lest they take
thy shadow!” So deeply ingrained is this superstition that
not long ago there were still professional shadow-traders,
who made it their business to provide architects with the
victims necessary for securing their walls. “Of course the
man whose shadow is thus interred must die,” argues the
Roumanian, “but being unaware of his doom, he feels
neither pain nor anxiety, so it is less cruel than to wall in a
living man.”
Similar to the legend of the Arghisch monastery is that told
of the fortress of Deva, in Transylvania, which twelve
architects had undertaken to build for the price of half a
quarter of silver and half a quarter of gold. They set to work,
but what they built each morning fell in before sunset, and
what they built overnight was in ruins by next morning.
Then they held counsel as to what was to be done in order
to give strength to the building; and so it was resolved to
seize the first of their wives who should come to visit her
husband, and, burning her alive, mix up her ashes with the
mortar to be used in building.
Soon after this the wife of Kelemen, the architect, resolving
to visit her husband, ordered the carriage to be got ready.
On the way she is overtaken by a heavy thunder-storm, and
the coachman, an old family servant, warns her against
proceeding, for he has had an ominous dream regarding her.
She, however, persists in her resolve, and soon comes in
sight of the building. Her husband, on seeing her, prays to
God that the carriage might break down or the horses fall
lame, in order to hinder her arrival; but all is in vain, and the
carriage soon reaches its destination. The sorrowing
husband now reveals to his wife the terrible fate in store for
her, to which she resigns herself, only begging leave to say
farewell to her little son and her friends. This favor is
granted, and returning the following day, she is burned.
Her ashes mixed with the mortar give solidity to the walls;
the building is completed, and the architects obtain the high
price for which they had contracted.
Meanwhile the unhappy widower, returning home, is
questioned by his little son as to where his mother stays so
long. At first the father is evasive, but subsequently
confesses the truth, on learning which the child falls dead of
a broken heart.
Also, at Hermanstadt we are shown a point in the old town
wall where a live student, dressed in ampel and toga, the
costume of those days, was walled in, in order to “make
fast” the fortified wall.
If we compare these legends with the traditions of other
countries we find many instances of a like belief: so at Arta,
in Albania, where, according to Grimm, a thousand masons
labored in vain at a bridge, whose walls invariably crumbled
away overnight. There was heard the voice of an archangel
saying, “If ye do not wall in a living person the bridge will
never stand; neither an orphan nor yet a stranger shall it be,
but the own wife of the master builder.” The master loves
his wife, but yet stronger is his ambition to see his name
made famous by the bridge; so when his wife comes to the
spot he pretends to have dropped a ring in the foundations,
and asks her to seek for it, in doing which she is seized upon
and walled up. In dying she speaks a curse upon the bridge,
that it may ever tremble like the head of a flower on its
stalk.
In Serbia there is a similar legend of the fortress Skoda; and
at Magdeburg, in Germany, the same is told of Margaretha,
bondwoman of the Empress Editha, wife of the Emperor
Otto, who voluntarily gave up her illegitimate child to be
walled up in the gate-way of the newly fortified town. Fifty
years later, devoured by remorse, Margaretha appears
before the judges to confess her crime, and crave Christian
burial for the bones of her child. The wall being now opened
at the place she indicates, there steps forth a small wizened
figure with long, tangled gray beard and shrunken limbs—no
other than the child who, walled up here for half a century,
had been miraculously kept alive by the birds of the air
bringing him food through an opening in his narrow prison.

Sometimes, indeed, the Roumanian seeks covertly to

compass the death of a fellow-creature without the excuse
of public benefit, and merely from motives of personal
revenge. In such cases it is recommended to send gifts of
unleavened bread to nine different churches to be used
simultaneously on the same Sunday at mass. This will insure
the death of the victim.
To the hand of a man who has committed murder from
revenge is ascribed the virtue of healing pains in the side.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.

SAXON SUPERSTITION: REMEDIES,

WITCHES, WEATHER-MAKERS.
THE superstitions afloat among Saxon peasants are of less
poetical character than those en vogue with the
Roumanians; there is more of the quack and less of the
romantic element here to be found, and the invisible
spiritual world plays less part in their beliefs, which oftenest
relate to household matters, such as the well-being of cattle
and poultry, the cure of diseases, and the success of
harvest and vintage.
Innumerable are the recipes for curing the ague, or frīr as it
is termed in Saxon dialect. So, for instance:
1. To cover up the patient during his shivering-fit with nine
articles of clothing, each of a different color and material.
2. To go into an inn or public-house, and after having drunk
a glass of wine go out again without breaking silence or
paying, but leaving behind some article of clothing which is
of greater value than the wine taken.
3. Drinking in turn out of nine different wells.
4. To go into the garden when no one is looking, shake a
young tree, and return to the house without glancing back.
The fever will then have passed into the tree.
5. Any article of clothing purposely dropped on the ground
will convey the fever to whoever finds it. This method is,
however, to be distrusted, we are told by village authorities,
for the finder may avert the spell by thrice spitting on the
article in question. According to Saxon notions, you can
apparently never go wrong in spitting on each and every
occasion, this being a prime recipe for averting evil of all
sorts. “When in doubt, play trumps,” we are told in the rules
for whist; and in the same way the Saxon would seem to
say, “When in doubt, spit.”
6. A spoonful of mortar taken from three different corner
houses in the village, and, dissolved in vinegar, given to the
patient to drink before the paroxysm.
7. If it be a child that is suffering from the fever, it may be
rolled at sunrise over the grave-mounds in the church-yard,
particular formulas being murmured the while.
8. The first three corn-ears seen in spring will, if gathered
and eaten, keep off the ague during that whole year.
9. Take a kreuzer (farthing), an egg, and a handful of salt,
and with these walk backward to the nearest cross-way,
without looking back or breaking silence, and laying them
down at the place where the roads join, speak the following
words: “When these three things return to me, then may
likewise the fever come back.”
10. Or else go to a stream or river, and throw something
into it over the shoulder without looking back.
The intermittent fever recurring on every third day is here
called the schweins-fieber (swine-fever), and for recovery it
is recommended to eat with the pigs out of their trough, and
to lie down on the threshold of the pigsty, where the swine
may walk over the prostrate body.
To shake off drowsiness, it is advised to swallow some drops
of the water which falls back from the horses’ mouths when
they drink at the trough.
A person afflicted with warts can take as many dried peas as
there are warts, and, standing before the fire, count
backward, thus: “Five, four, three, two, one, none,” and with
the last word throw all the peas on to the glowing embers,
running away quickly, so as not to hear the crackling sound
of the bursting peas, which would counteract the spell.
Another method is to lay a piece of bacon on the top of a
hedge or paling, saying these words:

“This meat I give to the crow,

That away the warts may go.”

Rheumatism is cured by wearing a little bag filled with garlic

and incense, or putting a knife under the pillow; and water
taken from the spot where two ditches cross is good for sore
eyes.
An approved love-charm is to take the two hind-legs of a
green tree-frog, bury these in an ant-hill till all the flesh is
removed, then securely tie up the bones in a linen cloth.
Whoever then touches this cloth will be at once seized with
love for its owner.
Still more infallible is it to procure a piece of stocking or
shoe-lace of the person you desire to captivate, boil it in
water, and wear this token night and day against your heart.
This recipe has passed into a proverb, for it is here said of
any man known to be desperately in love, that “she must
have secretly boiled his stockings.”
It is usually considered lucky to dream of pigs, except in
some villages, where there is a prevalent belief that such a
dream is prognostic of a death in the family.
To avert any illnesses which may occur to the pigs, it is still
customary in some places for the swine-herd to dispense
with his clothes the first time he drives out his pigs to
pasture in spring. A newly elected Saxon pastor, regarding
this practice as immoral, tried to prohibit it in his parish, but
was sternly asked by the village Hann whether he were
prepared to pay for all the pigs which would assuredly die
that year in consequence of the omission.
The same absence of costume is recommended to women
assisting a cow to calve for the first time.
When the cows are first driven to pasture in spring they
should be made to step over a ploughshare placed across
the threshold of the byre. Three new-laid eggs, deposited
each at the junction of a different cross-road, will likewise
bring luck to the herd.
If a swallow flies under a cow feeding in the meadow it is
believed that the milk will turn bloody. In some villages the
skin of a weasel is kept in every byre, with which to rub the
udder when the milk is bloody.
The ancient belief that certain old village matrons have the
power surreptitiously to purloin their neighbors’ milk is
prevalent throughout Transylvania, as I have had occasion
over and over again to learn. “They mostly do it out of
revenge,” I was informed by a village oracle, to whom I owe
much information on this and other subjects, “and are apt to
molest those houses whose children have mocked at or
played tricks upon them; but just leave them alone, and
they are not likely to do you any harm.”
In former days, however, people in Transylvania were by no
means inclined to “leave alone” those suspected of such
occult proficiency, and witch-burning was a thing of quite
every-day occurrence. In the neighborhood of Reps alone, in
the seventeenth century, the number of unfortunates who
thus perished in the flames was upwards of twenty-five; and
in 1697, Michael Hirling, member of the Schässburg Council,
has, with significant brevity, noted down in his diary under
such and such a date, “Went to Keisd, burned a witch,” just
as a sportsman of to-day might note down in his game-book
that he shot a hare or a pheasant.
The widow of the Saxon Comes and Royal Judge Valentin
Seraphim had a similar fate in 1659 at Hermanstadt, and
there is mention of another witch destroyed in 1669 in the
same town. The very last witch-burning in Transylvania took
place at Maros-Vasharhely in 1752.
The following is an extract from the account of a witch’s trial
at Mühlbach in the last century:
“A woman had engaged two laborers by the day to assist
her in working in the vineyard. After the mid-day meal all
three lay down to rest a little, as is customary. An hour later
the workmen got up and wanted to wake the woman, who
lay there immovable on her back, with open mouth; but
their efforts to rouse her were all in vain, for she neither
seemed to feel them when they shook her, nor to hear them
shouting in her ear. So the men let her lie, and went about
their work. Coming back to the spot about sunset, they
found the woman still lying as they had left her, like a
corpse. And as they gazed at her wonderingly, a big fly
came buzzing past, which one of the men caught and shut
up in his leathern pouch. Then they renewed their attempts
to awake the woman, but with no better success than
before. After about an hour they released the fly, which
straightway flew into the mouth of the sleeping woman, who
immediately woke up and opened her eyes. On seeing this
the two workmen had no further doubt that she was a
witch.”
Also, in the year 1734, an Austrian officer who had been in
Transylvania related the following story as authentic: Once
when the roll was called on Sunday morning a soldier was
missing. The corporal being sent to fetch him, the soldier
called down from the window of the house where he was
billeted, “I cannot go to church, for I have only one boot.”
Hereupon the corporal went up-stairs, and the soldier
explained how, seeking for something wherewith to grease
his boots in the absence of the Saxon housewife, he had
found some ointment in an old broken pot concealed in a
corner; but scarcely had he rubbed the first boot with it,
when the boot flew out of his hand and straight up the
chimney. In the corporal’s presence the soldier now
proceeded to grease the second boot, which disappeared in
the same way as the first.
The corporal reported these circumstances to his officer,
“who had no difficulty in discerning the Saxon housewife to
be a dangerous and malignant witch, of whom there are but
too many in the land.”
The woman, called to account, consented to pay for new
boots for the soldier, but warned the officer against
prosecuting her, “else he should repent it.”
Another class of sorcerers, the wettermacher (weather-
makers), are those who have power to conjure up thunder
and hail storms at will or to disperse them.
My old village oracle told me many stories about a man she
had known, who used to go about the country with a small
black bag in which were a book, a little stick, and a bunch of
herbs. Whenever a storm was brewing he was to be seen
standing on some rising piece of ground, and repeating his
formulas against the gathering clouds. “People used to
abuse him,” she said, “and to say that he was in league with
the devil; but I never saw him do any harm, and now that he
is dead there are many who regret him, for since then we
have had heavier hail-storms than ever were known in his
time.”[56]
We are also told that many years ago, in the village of
Wermesch, there lived a peasant who, whenever a thunder-
storm was seen approaching, used to take his stand in front
of it armed with an axe, by which means he always turned
the storm aside. One day, when an unusually heavy storm
was seen approaching, the weather-maker, as usual, placed
himself in front of it, and hurled the axe up into the clouds.
The storm passed by, but the axe did not fall down to the
earth again. Many years later, the same peasant, taking a
journey farther into the land, entered the hut of a
Wallachian, and there to his astonishment found the axe he
had thrown into the thunder-clouds several years previously.
This Wallachian was a still greater sorcerer in weather-
making than the Wermesch peasant, and had therefore
succeeded in getting the axe down again from the sky.
There are many old formulas and incantations bearing on
this subject to be found in ancient chronicles, of which the
following one bears a date of the sixteenth century:
FORMULA.
And the Lord went forth down a long and ancient road, and
there was met by an exceeding large black cloud; and the
Lord spoke thus to it, “Where goest thou, thou large black
cloud? Where dost thou go?” Then spoke the cloud, “I am
sent to do an injury to the poor man—to wash away the
roots of his corn and to throw down the corn-ears; also to
wash away the roots of his vines, and to overthrow the
grapes.” But the Lord spoke, “Turn back, turn back, thou big
black cloud, and do not wander forth to do an injury to the
poor man, but go to the wild forest and wash away the roots
of the big oak-tree and overthrow its leaves. St. Peter, do
thou draw thy sharp sword and cut in twain the big black
cloud, that it may not go forth to do an injury to the poor
men.”
Underneath this incantation the writer has put the following
memorandum, “Probatum an sit me latet probet quicunque
vult.”
In many houses it is still customary to burn juniper-berries
during a thunder-storm, or to stick a knife in the ground
before the house. Like the Roumanian, the Saxon also
considers it unsafe to point at an approaching thunder-
storm; but this is a belief shared by many people, I
understand.
 CHAPTER XXIX.

SAXON SUPERSTITION—CONTINUED:
ANIMALS, PLANTS, DAYS.
THE cat, dedicated to Frouma, Frezja, or Holda, in old
German times, still plays a considerable part in Saxon
superstition. Thus, to render fruitful a tree which refuses to
bear, it will suffice to bury a cat among its roots.[57] Epileptic
people may be cured by cutting off the ears of a cat and
anointing them with the blood; and an eruption at the
mouth is healed by passing the cat’s tail between the lips.
When the cat washes its face visitors may be expected, and
as long as the cat is healthy and in good looks the cattle will
likewise prosper.
A runaway cat, when recovered, must be swung three times
round the hearth to attach it to the dwelling; and the same
is done to a stolen cat by the thief who would retain it. In
entering a new house, it is recommended to throw in a cat
(sometimes also a dog) before any member of the family
step over the threshold, else one of them will die.
The dog is of less importance than the cat, except for its
power of giving warning of approaching death by unnatural
howling.
Here are some other Saxon superstitions of mixed
character:
1. Who can blow back the flame into a candle will become
pastor.
2. New servants must be suffered to eat freely the first day
they enter service, else their hunger will never be stilled.
3. Who visits a neighbor’s house must sit down, even were it
but for a moment, or he will deprive the inhabitants of their
sleep. (Why, then, do Saxon peasants never offer one a
chair? or is a stranger too insignificant to have the power of
destroying sleep?)
4. It is dangerous to stare down long into a well, for the well-
dame who dwells at the bottom of each is easily offended.
But children are often curious, and, hoping to get a look at
her face, they bend over the edge, calling out mockingly,
“Brannefrà, Brannefrà, zieh mich än de Brännen” (Dame of
the well, pull me down into the well); but quickly they draw
back their heads, afraid of their own audacity, lest their wish
be in truth realized.
5. It is not good to count the beehives, or the loaves when
they are put in the oven.
6. Neither is it good to whitewash the house when the moon
is decreasing, for that produces bugs.
7. Who eats mouldy bread will live long.
8. Licking the platter clean at table brings fine weather.
9. On the occasion of each merrymaking, such as weddings,
christenings, etc., some piece of glass or crockery must be
broken to avert misfortune.[58]
10. Salt thrown on the back of a departing guest will prevent
him from carrying away the luck of the house. Neither salt
nor garlic should ever be given away, as with them the luck
goes.
11. A broom put upside down behind the door will keep off
the witches.
12. It is bad-luck to lay a loaf on the table upside down.
13. When foxes and wolves meet in the market-place, their
prices will rise (of course, as these animals could only be
thus bold during the severest cold, when prices of eggs,
butter, etc., are at their highest).
14. A piece of bread found lying in the field or road should
never be eaten by the finder; nor should he untie a knotted-
up cloth or a rag he chances to discover, for the knot
perhaps contains an illness.
15. Whoever has been robbed of anything, and wishes to
discover the thief, must select a black hen, and for nine
consecutive Fridays must, together with his hen, abstain
from all food. The thief will then either die or bring back the
stolen goods. This is called taking up the black fast against
a person.
On this last subject an anecdote is told of a peasant of the
village of Petersdorf, who returned one day from the town of
Bistritz, bearing two hundred florins, which he had received
as the price for a team of oxen. Reaching home in a
somewhat inebriated state, he wished to sleep off his
tipsiness, and laid himself down behind the stove, but took
the precaution of first hiding the money in a hole in the
kitchen wall. Next morning, on waking up, the peasant
searched for his money, but was unable to find it, having
completely forgotten where he had put it in his intoxication;
so, in the firm belief that some one had stolen the two
hundred florins, he went to consult an old Wallachian versed
in magic, and begged him to take up the black fast against
the man who had abstracted the money. Before long people
began to notice how the peasant himself grew daily weaker
and seemed to pine away. At last, by some chance, he hit
upon the place where the money was hidden, and joyfully
hurried to the Wallachian to counter-order the black fast.
But it was now too late, for the charm had already worked,
and before long the man was dead.
There is also a whole set of rhymes and formulas for
exorcising thieves, and forcing them to return whatever they
have taken; but these would be too lengthy to record here.
Of the plants which play a part in Saxon superstition, first
and foremost is the fulsome garlic—not only employed
against witches, but likewise regarded as a remedy in
manifold illnesses and as an antidote against poison. Garlic
put into the money-bag will prevent the witches from
getting at it, and in the stables will keep the milk from being
abstracted, while rubbed over the body it will defend a
person against the pest.
To the lime-tree are also attached magic qualities, and in
some villages it is usual to plant a lime-tree before the
house to keep witches from entering.
Much prized is the lilac-bush. Its blossoms, made into tea,
are good for the fever; and the bush itself is often reverently
saluted with bent knee and uncovered head. Many of the
formulas against sickness are directed to be recited while
walking thrice round a bush of lilac.
The first strawberry-blossom, if swallowed by whoever finds
it, will keep him free from sickness during that year.
The four-leaved shamrock here, as elsewhere, is considered
to confer particular luck on the finder, but only when he
carries it home without having to cross over water of any
sort. Laid in the prayer-book, a four-leaved shamrock will
enable its possessor to distinguish witches in church.
The common houseleek, here called donnerkraut (thunder-
herb), will protect from lightning the roof on which it grows.
Animals beaten with a switch of privet or dog-wood will die
or fall sick.
Larkspur hung over the stable door will keep witches from
entering.
The Atropa belladonna (called here buchert) renders mad
whoever tastes of it, and in his madness he will be
compelled blindly to obey the will of whoever has given him
of this herb to eat; therefore it is here said of a man who
behaves insanely that “he must have eaten buchert.”
Whoever kills an adder under a white-hazel bush, plants a
pea in the head of this adder, and then buries it in the earth
so that the pea can strike root, has only to gather the first
flower which grows from the pea and wear it in his cap in
order henceforward to have power over all witches in the
neighborhood. But let him beware of the witches, who,
knowing this, are ever on the lookout to catch him without
the pea-flower and to do him an injury.
A particular growth of vine-leaf, whose exact definition I
have not succeeded in rightly ascertaining, is eagerly
sought for by Saxon girls in some villages. Whoever finds it
sticks it in her hair, and thus decorated she has the right to
kiss the first man she meets on her homeward way. This will
insure her speedy marriage. A story is related of a girl who,
meeting a nobleman driving in a handsome four-in-hand
carriage, stopped the horses, and begged leave to kiss him,
to the gentleman’s no small astonishment. He resigned
himself, however, with a good grace when he had grasped
the situation, and gave the kiss as well as a golden piece to
the fair suppliant. The proper romantic dénouement of this
episode would have been for the gentleman to lead home
as bride the maiden thus cast in his path by fate, but we are
not told that he pushed his complacence quite so far.
A whole volume might be written on the subject of agrarian
superstition, of which let a few examples here suffice.
In many villages it is customary for the ploughman, going to
work for the first time that year in the field, to drive his
plough over a broomstick laid on the threshold of the court-
yard.
The first person who sows each year will have meagre
crops. During the whole sowing-time no one should give a
kindling out of the house. It is never allowable to sow in Holy
Week.
To insure the wheat against being eaten by birds, the sowing
should be done in silence before sunrise, and without
looking over the shoulder. Also earth taken from the church-
yard will keep birds off the field.
Whoever lies down to sleep in a new-ploughed furrow will
fall ill; nor must the women be allowed to sew or spin in the
cornfield, for that would occasion thunder-storms; while
washing the hands in the field will cause the house to burn.
In obstinate droughts it is customary in some places for
several girls, led by an old woman, and all of them
absolutely naked, to repair at midnight to the court-yard of
some neighboring peasant, whose harrow they must steal,
and with it proceed across the field to the nearest stream,
where the harrow is put afloat with a burning light on each
corner.
The harvest will be bad if the cuckoo comes into the village
and cries there.
In bringing in the corn a few heads of garlic bound up in the
first sheaf will keep off witches.

The most important days in Saxon superstition are Sunday,

Tuesday, and Friday.
Whoever wears a shirt sewed by his mother on a Sunday
will die. According to another version, however, a shirt
which has been spun, woven, and sewed entirely on
Sundays is a powerful talisman, which will render all
enemies powerless against the wearer, and bring him safely
through every battle.
Wood cut on a Sunday serves to heat the fire of hell. Sunday
children are lucky, and can discover hidden treasures.
In some districts no cow or swine herd would lead his
animals to pasture on any other day but a Tuesday.[59]
Thursday is in many places the luckiest day for marriages,
also for markets.
On Friday the weather is apt to change. It is a good day for
sowing and for making vinegar, but a bad one for baking, or
for starting on a journey. In some places it is considered
unsafe to comb the hair on a Friday—therefore the village
school on that day presents a somewhat rough and unkempt
appearance.
Rain upon Good Friday is a favorable omen.
On Easter Monday the lads run about the towns and villages
sprinkling with water all the girls and women they meet.
This is supposed to insure the flax growing well. On the
following day the girls return the attention by watering the
boys.[60]
On Easter Monday the cruel sport of cock-shooting is still
kept up in many Saxon villages. The cock is tied to a post
and shot at till it dies a horrible lingering death. Sometimes
the sport is diversified by blindfolding the actors, who strike
at their victim with wooden clubs.
Between Easter and Pentecost none should either marry or
change their domicile.
On Pentecost Monday it is sometimes customary to elect
three of the girls as queens, who, dressed up in their finest
clothes, preside at church and at the afternoon dance.
In one village it is usual on Pentecost Sunday at mid-day,
when the bells are ringing, to encircle each fruit-tree with a
rope made of twisted straw.
The fires on St. John’s Day, and the belief that hidden
treasures are to be found, are also prevalent among the
Saxons.
No one should bathe or wade into a river on the 29th of
June, Feast of SS. Peter and Paul, for fear of drowning, it
being supposed that this day requires the sacrifice of a
human victim.
Before the 24th of August no corn should be garnered,
because only after that date do the thunder-storms cease,
or as the people say, “the thunder-clouds go home.”
The night of St. Thomas (December 21st), popularly
considered to be the longest night in the year, is the date
consecrated by Saxon superstition to the celebration of the
games which elsewhere are usual on All-Halloween. Every
girl puts her fate to the test on that evening, and there are
various ways of so doing, with onions, flowers, shoes, etc.
One way of interrogating Fate is with a sharp knife to cut an
apple in two. If in doing so no seed has been split, then the
wish of your heart will be fulfilled.
Similar games are also practised on Sylvester night
(December 31st), which night is also otherwise prophetic of
what is to happen during the coming year. If it be clear, then
the fowls will lay many eggs that year, and bright moonlight
means full granaries. A red dawn on New-year’s Day means
war, and wind is significant of the pest or cholera.
 CHAPTER XXX.

SAXON CUSTOMS AND DRAMAS.

SOME of the Saxon customs are peculiarly interesting, as
being obviously remnants of paganism, and offer curious
proof of the force of verbal tradition, which in this case has
not only borne transmigration from a distant country, but
likewise weathered the storm of two successive changes of
religion.
It speaks strongly for the tenacity of pagan habits and trains
of thought, that although at the time these Saxon colonists
appeared in Transylvania they had already belonged to the
Christian Church for over three hundred years, yet many
points of the landscape in their new country received from
them pagan appellations. Thus we find the Götzenberg, or
mountain of the gods,[61] which rises above the village of
Heltau; and the Wodesch and Wolenk applied to woods and
plains, both evidently derived from Woden.
Another remnant of paganism is the feurix or feuriswolf,
which yet lingers in the minds of these people. According to
ancient German mythology, the feuriswolf is a monster
which on the last day is to open his mouth so wide that the
upper jaw will touch the sky and the lower one the earth;
and not long ago a Saxon woman bitterly complained in a
court of justice that her husband had cursed her over-
strongly in saying, “Der Wärlthangd saul dich frieszen!”—
literally, “May the world-dog swallow thee!”
Many old pagan ceremonies are likewise still clearly to be
distinguished through the flimsy shrouding of a later period
—their origin piercing unmistakably through the surface-
varnish of Christianity, thought necessary to adapt them to
newer circumstances, and, like a clumsily remodelled
garment, the original cut asserting itself despite the
fashionable trimmings now adorning it. Thus, for instance, in
many popular rhymes and dialogues it has been clearly
proved that those parts now assigned to the Saviour and St.
Peter originally belonged to the old gods Thor and Loki,
while the faithless apostle Judas has had thrust upon him
the personification of a whole horde of German demons. As
to St. Elias, who in some parts of Hungary, as well as in
Roumania, Serbia, and Croatia, is supposed to have the
working of the thunder-bolts, there can be little doubt that
he is verily no other than the old thunder-god Thor under a
Christian mask.
One of the most striking of the aforementioned Christianized
dramas is the Tod-Austragen, or throwing out the Death—a
custom still extant in several Transylvanian villages, and
which may likewise still be found existing in some remote
parts of Germany.
The Feast of the Ascension is the day on which this
ceremony takes place in a village near Hermanstadt, and it
is conducted in the following manner:
After forenoon church on that day all the school-girls repair
to the house of one of their companions, and there proceed
to dress up the “Death.” This is done by tying up a
thrashed-out corn-sheaf into the rough semblance of a head
and body, while the arms are simulated by a broomstick
stuck horizontally. This being done, the figure is dressed in
the Sunday clothes of a young village matron, and the head
adorned with the customary cap and veil, fastened by silver
pins. Two large black beads or black-headed pins represent
the eyes; and thus equipped the figure is displayed at the
open window, in order that all people may see it on their
way to afternoon church. The conclusion of the vespers is
the signal for the girls to seize on the figure and open the
procession round the village. Two of the eldest school-girls
hold the “Death” between them; the others follow in regular
order, two and two, singing a Church hymn. The boys are
excluded from the procession, and must content themselves
with admiring the Schöner Tod (beautiful Death) from a
distance. When the whole village has been traversed in this
manner from end to end, the girls repair to another house,
whose door is locked against the besieging troop of boys.
The figure of Death is here stripped of its gaudy attire, and
the naked straw bundle thrown out of the window,
whereupon it is seized by the boys and carried off in
triumph, to be thrown into the nearest stream or river.
This is the first part of the drama; while the second consists
in one of the girls being solemnly invested with the clothes
and ornaments previously worn by the figure, and, like it,
being led in procession round the village to the singing of
the same hymns as before. The ceremony terminates by a
feast at the house of the parents whose daughter has acted
the principal part, and from which, as before, the boys are
excluded.
According to popular belief, it is allowed to eat fruit only
after this day, as now the “Death”—that is, the
unwholesomeness—has been expelled from them. Also, the
river in which the Death has been drowned may now be
considered fit for public bathing.
If this ceremony be ever neglected in the village where it is
customary, such neglect is supposed to entail death to one
of the young people, or loss of virtue to a girl.
This same custom may, as I have said, be found still
lingering in various other parts, everywhere with slight
variations. Thus there are places where the figure is burned
instead of drowned; and Passion Sunday (often called the
Dead Sunday), or else the 25th of March, is the day
sometimes fixed for its accomplishment.

SAXON GIRL IN FULL DRESS.

In some places it was usual for the figure to be attired in the
shirt of the last person who had died, and with the veil of
the most recent bride on its head. Also, the figure is
occasionally pelted with stones by the youths of both sexes
—those who succeed in hitting it being secured against
death for the coming year.
At Nuremberg little girls dressed in white used to go in
procession through the town, carrying a small open coffin in
which a doll was laid out in state, or sometimes only a stick
dressed up, and with an apple to represent the head.
In most of these places the rhymes sung apply to the
departure of winter and the advent of summer, such as the
following:

“And now we have chased the Death away,

And brought in the summer so warm and gay—
The summer and the month of May.
We bring sweet flowers full many a one,
We bring the rays of the golden sun,
For the dreary Death at last is gone.”

Or else:

“Come all of you and do not tarry,

The evil Death away to carry;
Come, spring, once more, with us to dwell—
Welcome, O spring, in wood and dell!”

And there is no doubt that similar rhymes used also to be

sung in Transylvania, until they were replaced by Lutheran
hymns after the Reformation.
Some German archæologists have attempted to prove the
Death in these games to be of more recent introduction, and
to have replaced the winter of former times, so as to give
the ceremony a more Christian coloring by the allusion to
the triumph of Christ over death on his resurrection and
ascension into heaven. Without presuming to contradict the
many well-known authorities who have taken this view of
the question, I cannot help thinking that it hardly requires
such explanation to account for the presence of Death in
these dramas. Nowadays, when civilization and luxury have
done so much towards equalizing all seasons, so that we
can never be deprived of flowers in winter nor want for ice
in summer, it is difficult to realize the enormous gulf which
in olden times separated winter from summer. In winter not
only were all means of communication cut off for a large
proportion of people, but their very existence was, so to say,
frozen up; and when the granaries were scantily filled, or
the inclement season prolonged by some weeks, death was
literally standing at the door of millions of poor wretches. No
wonder, then, that winter and death became identical in
their minds, and that they hailed the advent of spring with
delirious joy, dancing round the first violet, and following
about the first cockchafer in solemn procession. It was the
feast of Nature which they celebrated then as now—Nature
mighty and eternal, always essentially the same, whether
decked out in pagan or in Christian garb.

Another drama of somewhat more precise form is the

Königslied, or Todtentanz (King’s Song, or Dance of Death),
a rhymed dialogue still often represented in Saxon villages
all over Transylvania.
Dramatic representations of the Dance of Death were first
introduced into Germany before the fifteenth century by the
Dominican order, but do not seem there to have taken any
very firm root, since we hear no more mention of such
performance existing after the middle of the fifteenth
century. It is therefore probable that this drama was
transmitted, as long as five hundred years ago at least, to
the Transylvanian Saxons, who thus have retained it intact
long after it had elsewhere fallen into disuse.
The personages consist of an Angel, robed in white, and
with a golden wand; the King, attired in purple or scarlet
cloak, crown, and sceptre, and followed by a train of
courtiers; then Death, who is sometimes clothed in black,
sometimes in a white sheet, and who either bears a scythe
or a bow and arrows in his hand. On either side of him, by
way of adjutants, stand two mute personages, a doctor and
an apothecary—the first with powdered head, hanging plait,
tricorn hat, and snuffbox in his hand; the latter bearing a
basket containing medicine phials. The whole is sung, and
the Angel opens the performance with these lines:

Angel. Good people all, come list to me—

New tidings to you will I sing;
’Tis of a mighty King
Who on the open market-place
With Death met face to face.

Death. All hail, thou rich and mighty King!

Great news to thee this day I bring;
Thy death-hour it has struck,
’Tis time for thee to join my band—
I wander thus from land to land.

King. Thou haughty man, who mayest be,

That I should have to follow thee?
What is thy land, thy name?
Art thou a lord? thy rank proclaim,
Else shaltst be put to shame.

Death. ’Twere well for thee my name to know;

Thy pride soon will I overthrow.
The people here they call me Death;
Of young or old I take no heed,
Alike they wither at my breath.

King. Of Death I oft have heard, indeed,

But cannot of thee now take heed.
Quick from my land begone!
Or shaltst be fettered foot and hand,
And in a dungeon thrown.

Angel. Then Death he shot a deadly dart,

And pierced the King unto the heart.

Death. O foolish mortal, proud and blind!

See now, where is thy vaunted power
In iron fetters Death to bind?

Angel. The King he turneth deadly pale,

And feels his strength about to fail.

King. Lord, mercif’ly my life prolong,

Thus wofully not let me die;
Hast plenty poor to choose among.

Death. More than I list of poor I have;

But rich men also do I crave
My ranks to ornament,
As bishops, princes, mighty kings—
These fill me with content.

King. Great is thy power—

Angel. The King did say,

Out-stretched as on his bed he lay—

King. O Death, unto thy power I bow;

But still one hope I cherish yet,
A favor last grant to me now.

Death. Then speak—

Angel. Said Death unto the King—

 Death. Let’s hear what is this mighty thing.

King. But twelve years longer let me live;

Twelve thousand pounds of heaviest gold
In payment to thee will I give.

Death. For all thy gold I little care;

Do thou at once for death prepare.
’Tis vain to pray, ’tis vain to grieve;
Come in my ranks, for thou art mine—
Thy gold behind to others leave.

King. But give to me—

Angel. The King did say—

King. But half a year and yet a day;

I fain would build a castle new
Of massive stone, with lofty tower,
From which my kingdom I may view.

Death. Leave those to build who list to build;

For thee thy span of life is filled.
Come in my ranks and tarry not,
We must to-day a measure tread;
’Twill cause thee small delight, I wot.

King. Yet will I yet for something pray;

This only wish do not gainsay:
If only thou wiltst let me live,
A beggar humble will I be;
My royal crown to thee I give.

Death. O King, why useless words thus waste?

Prepare to go, and make thee haste,
Nor seek me idly to detain;
Still many thousand men must I
To-day invite to join my train.

King. Oh, hurry not—

Angel. The King did say—

King. But grant me yet another day.

To make my will still let me bide;
My silver, gold, and jewels rare,
I fain would righteously divide.

Angel. But Death then spoke.

Death. It cannot be;

Conform must thou to my decree.
Prepare to start without reprieve;
Thy silver, gold, and jewels rare,
Must be content behind to leave.

King. Then is it all in vain I pray?

Death. Lament and prayer all useless be.

King. Shall I not see another day?

Death. Not one. To judgment come with me.

King. Oh, grant me but one little hour!

Death. To grant aught is not in my power.

King. Have patience but three words to hear.

Death. Patience ’s an herb[62] which grows not here.

Angel. The King upon his couch down sinks:

His haughty form all helpless shrinks;
To ashy white has turned his lip.
 Both rich and poor the strangler thus
With iron hand alike doth grip.
Thus stealthy Death will oft appear,
When no one deems that he is near,
With deadly aim to shoot his dart.
So live in God, his laws observe,
That mayst in peace depart.

[The KING sinks down lifeless, and DEATH disappears. The

soldiers raise up the dead body and lay it on a bier, singing
—

Soldiers. Why value crown or power,

Since neither can we own
But for a passing hour?
No sceptre and no throne
Grim Death away can scare,
Nor gold nor jewels rare.

Angel [reappearing]. By Providence as herald sent,

Touched by the sound of dire lament;
The monarch to his land restore
Will I, in pity for your grief.
King, for thy kingdom live once more.

[The ANGEL touches the KING’S breast, who, waking apparently

from a deep slumber, sits up and sings—

King. How is’t I feel? and can it be

That once again the earth I see?
What miracle of grace!
Who art thou, Lord? I knew thee not;
Deign to reveal thy face.

Angel. The Lord who sent me to this land,

He is a Lord of mighty hand.
He gives, he taketh life,
 As thou hast seen, O King, this day;
To do his will must strive alway.

[The KING, now standing up, takes the crown from his head,
and accompanied by the chorus, sings—

King. Lord of the world, the crown is thine,

Who rulest us with power divine.
Oh, what is man! He is but dust,
And fall a prey to death he must.
Let none be proud of lofty rank,
For ’tis indeed but idle prank.
Guide thou us, Lord, upon our way;
Our souls receive in grace some day.

Grimm is of opinion that this drama is also allegorical of the

triumph of spring over winter, which opinion he chiefly
supports by the incident of the King’s resurrection, and of
the allusion to the garden. This view has, however, been
strongly combated by other authorities, who remind us that
in many old pictures Death is often represented as a
gardener, and armed with bow and arrows.

“Herodes” is the name of a Christmas drama acted by the

Transylvanian Saxons; but as, though undoubtedly ancient,
it is totally wanting in humor and originality, I do not here
reproduce it. Most probably such qualities as this drama
may once have possessed have been pruned away by the
over-vigorous knife of some ruthless reformer.
The Song of the Three Kings, beginning,

“Through storm and wind, through weather wild,

We come to seek the new-born child,”
is sung by little boys, who at Christmas-time go about from
house to house with tinsel crowns on their heads, one of
them having his face blackened to represent the negro king,
and who expect a few coins and some victuals as reward for
their performance.
At Hermanstadt these three kings threatened to become
somewhat of a nuisance in Christmas-week, there being
several sets of them who were continually walking uninvited
into our rooms. At last one day when we had already
received the visit of several such royal parties, our footman
opened the door and inquired in a tone of mild
exasperation, “Please, madam, the holy three kings are
there again; had I not better kick them down-stairs?”
 CHAPTER XXXI.

BURIED TREASURES.
FEW things possess such powerful attraction as the thought
of buried treasures which may be lying unsuspected around
us. To think that the golden buttercups which dot a meadow
are, perchance, but the reflections of other golden pieces
lying beneath the surface; to suppose the crumbling gray
walls of some ancient tower to be the dingy casket
enshrouding priceless gems, there secreted by long-
vanished hands—is surely enough to set imagination on fire,
and engender the wild, delirious hope that to you alone,
favored among ten thousand other mortals who have
passed by the spot unknowing, may be destined the
triumph of finding that golden key.
Vain and futile as such researches mostly are, yet they have
in Transylvania a somewhat greater semblance of reason
than in most other countries, for nowhere else, perhaps,
have so many successive nations been forced to secrete
their riches in flying from an enemy, to say nothing of the
numerous, yet undiscovered, veins of gold and silver which
must be seaming the country in all directions. Not a year
passes without bringing to light some earthen jar containing
old Dacian coins, or golden ornaments of Roman origin—
which discoveries all serve to feed and keep up the national
superstitions connected with treasures and treasure-finders.
The night of St. George, the 24th of April (corresponding to
our 6th of May), is of all others the most favorable in the
year for such researches, and many Roumanian peasants
spend these hours in wandering about the hills, trying to
probe the earth for the gold it contains; for in this night (so
say the legends) all these treasures begin to burn, or, to
speak in technical, mystic language, “to bloom,” in the
bosom of the earth, and the light they give forth, described
as a bluish flame, resembling the color of burning spirits of
wine, serves to guide favored mortals to their place of
concealment.
The conditions to the successful raising of a treasure are
manifold and difficult of accomplishment. In the first place,
it is by no means easy for a common mortal who has not
been born on a Sunday, nor even at mid-day when the bells
are ringing, to hit upon a treasure at all. If he does,
however, chance to catch sight of a flame such as I have
described, he must quickly pierce through the swaddling
rags of his right foot with a knife, and then throw it in the
direction of the flame seen. If two people are together
during this discovery, they must on no account break
silence till the treasure is raised; neither is it allowed to fill
up the hole from which anything has been taken, for that
would entail the death of one of the finders. Another
important feature to be noted is that the lights seen before
midnight on St. George’s Day denote treasures kept by good
spirits, while those which appear at a later hour are
unquestionably of a pernicious nature.
For the comfort of less favored mortals who do not happen
to have been born either on a Sunday nor to the sound of
bells, I must here mention that these deficiencies may to
some extent be condoned for and the mental vision
sharpened by the consumption of mouldy bread; so that
whoever has, during the preceding year, been careful to
feed upon decayed loaves only, may (if he survive this
trying diet) become the fortunate discoverer of hidden
treasures.
Sometimes the power of finding a particular treasure is
supposed only to be possessed by members of some
particular family. A curious instance of this was lately
recorded in Roumania, relating to an old ruined convent,
where, according to a popular legend, a large sum of gold is
concealed. A deputation of peasants, at considerable
trouble and expense, found out the last surviving member of
the family supposed to possess the mystic power, and
offered him unconditionally a very handsome sum merely
for the benefit of his personal attendance on the spot. The
gentleman in question being old, and probably sceptical,
declined the offer, to the peasants’ great disappointment.
There is hardly a ruin, mountain, or forest in Transylvania
which has not got some legend of a hidden treasure
attached to it. These are often supposed to be guarded by
some animal, as a serpent, turkey, dog, or pig; or
sometimes the devil himself, in the shape of a black buffalo,
haunts the place at night and carries off those who attempt
to raise the treasure. Out of the many such tales there
afloat I shall here quote only a few, which have been
collected and written down from the words of old villagers in
different places:

THE TREASURE OF DARIUS

is one of the principal treasures supposed to be somewhere
concealed on Transylvanian ground. It is said to be of
immense value, and is believed to have been secreted when
the Persian king was compelled to fly before the Scythian
forces; but opinions are divided as to the exact locality
where it lies. One version, which places the treasure in a
forest in the neighborhood of Hamlesch, relates of it that
fifty years ago a poor German workman, sleeping in the
forest one night, discovered the treasure, and being versed
in the formalities to be observed on such occasions, laid
upon it some article of clothing marked with his name in
token of taking possession. Then, as he did not trust the
country people, he went off to Germany to fetch his
relations to assist him in raising the treasure. But, hardly
arrived at his house, he fell ill and died; and though on his
death-bed he exactly described the place where he had
seen the gold, and gave directions for finding it, his relations
were never able to hit upon the place.
Another story declares the treasure to have been hidden in
the Sacsorer Burg, an old ruined fortress, where some
centuries ago it was discovered by six Hungarian burghers,
who swore to keep the secret among themselves; and once
in each year they went and carried off a sack of gold and
silver pieces, which they divided. Only after five of them had
died did the last survivor in his testament leave directions
how to reach the place. To approach the treasure (so runs
the legend), one must pass through a strong iron door lying
towards the west. This door can be opened from the
outside, but whoever is not in possession of the secret is
sure to fall down through a trap-door into a terrible abyss,
where he will be cut to pieces by a thousand swords set in
motion by machinery; therefore it is necessary to bridge
over the trap-door with several stout planks before entering.
After this a second iron door is reached, in front of which are
lying two life-sized lions of massive silver. This second door
leads into a large hall, where round a long table are sitting
the figures of King Darius, and of twelve other kings whom
he had vanquished in battle. King Darius himself, who sits at
the head of the table, is formed of purest gold, while the
other monarchs, six on either side, are of silver. This hall
leads into a cellar, where are ranged twenty-four barrels
bound with hoops of silver; half of these barrels contain
gold, the other half silver pieces.
It is likewise asserted that towards the end of the last
century a Wallachian hermit was known to reside in those
same ruins, in whose possession were often seen gold and
silver coins stamped with the image of King Darius, but that
when questioned on the subject he would never reveal how
he had come by them.
Finally, it is said that within the memory of people still living
there came hither from Switzerland three men with an
ancient parchment document, out of which they professed
to have deciphered the directions for finding the treasure of
Darius, but after spending several days in digging about the
place they had to go empty-handed away.

After writing those lines I have unexpectedly come across a

new version of the treasure of Darius, as I read in a current
newspaper, dated November 24, 1886, that only a few
weeks ago an old Roumanian peasant woman formally
applied to the Government at Klausenburg for leave to dig
for the treasure of Darius, which, as a sorcerer had revealed
to her, lay buried at Hideg Szamos.
The directions she had received were to dig, at the spot
indicated, as deep as the height of the Klausenburg church
steeple, when stone steps and an iron door would be
disclosed. The latter can be opened by a blow from an axe
which had been dipped in holy-water. A large stone vault
with twelve more iron doors will then appear. Twelve golden
keys hang on the wall, and each door being opened will lead
to a chamber filled to overflowing with solid gold-pieces.
Three people only were permitted to dig simultaneously for
the treasure, the sorcerer himself disinterestedly disclaiming
any part in the matter, as he professes to have renounced
all earthly goods.
The prosaic Klausenburg officials could not, however, be
induced to share the woman’s enthusiasm, and tried to
convince her of the folly of such search; but all in vain, for,
dispensing with the permission she had failed to obtain, she
has now engaged three day-laborers, who since the 15th of
November, 1886, are said to be engaged on this stupendous
task.
Perhaps we shall some day hear the result of their labors.

THE TREASURE OF DECEBALUS

is also among those to which Transylvania lays claim. When
Trajan went forth for the second time against the Dacian
king, Decebalus, vanquished in the fight near his capital,
Zarmiszegthusa, retired to a stronghold in the mountains,
where he was again pursued by the conqueror, and, after a
second defeat, perished by his own hand, in order to escape
the ignominy of captivity. But before these reverses
Decebalus had taken care to secure his immense riches. For
this purpose he caused the river Sargetia,[63] which flowed
past his residence, to be diverted from its course at great
toil and expense; in the dry river-bed strong vaulted cellars
were constructed, in which all the gold, silver, and precious
stones were stowed away, the whole being then covered up
with earth and gravel, and the river brought back to its
original course.
The work had been executed by prisoners, who were all
either massacred or deprived of their eyesight to avoid
betrayal. But a confidant of the Dacian king, Bicilis, or
Biculus, who afterwards fell into Roman captivity, revealed
to the Emperor what he knew of it, and Trajan thus
succeeded in appropriating a considerable portion of the
secreted treasure, but not the whole, it is said.
In the year 1543 some Wallachian fishermen, when mooring
their boat on the banks of the river Strell, became aware of
something shining in the water at the place where a tree
had lately been uprooted. Pursuing the search, they brought
to light more than forty thousand gold-pieces, each of them
as heavy as three ducats, and stamped with the image of
King Decebalus on one side, and that of the Goddess of
Victory on the other. This treasure was delivered up to the
monk Martinuzzi, the counsellor of Queen Isabella, and the
most powerful man in Transylvania of that time. Part of the
money was sent to the Roman emperor, Ferdinand I.; but
many people declare the treasure of Decebalus not to be
exhausted even now, and prophesy that we have not yet
heard the last of it.

THE TREASURE ON THE KOND.

The Kond is a gloomy wooded plain near to the town of
Regen. Great riches are said to be here concealed, but they
are difficult to obtain, for the place is haunted by coal-black
buffaloes, which may be seen running backward and
forward at night, especially about the time of St. George and
St. Thomas. A citizen named Simon Hill, who once caught
sight of the subterraneous fire, marked the place, resolving
to raise the treasure the following night. But distrusting his
own strength and courage, he confided his purpose to a
neighbor called Martin Rosenau, asking him to come to the
place that night at twelve o’clock.
This neighbor, however, was faithless, being one of those
who pray against the Catechism; so he resolved to cheat his
friend. Instead, therefore, of waking his neighbor, as had
been agreed, at ten o’clock, he repaired alone to the spot,
where, digging, he found nothing but a horse’s skull filled
with dead frogs. Full of anger at his bad-luck, he took the
skull and flung it along with the frogs in at the open window
of his sleeping friend. But what was the surprise of this
latter when, waking in the morning, he found the whole
room strewn with golden ducats, and in the midst the
horse’s skull, likewise half full of gold. Happy beyond
measure, Simon Hill ran to his neighbor to tell him the joyful
news how God had sent him the gold in his sleep; but the
faithless Martin, on hearing the tale, was so seized with grief
and anger that a stroke of apoplexy put an end to his life.
 GOLD-DUST.
An old man at Nadesch relates how in his youth he missed a
chance of becoming a rich man for life. Going once to the
forest, he saw on the steep bank near a stream the handle
of some sort of earthen-ware jar peeping out of the soil.
Curious to investigate it, he climbed up the steep bank; but
hardly had he seized the handle and drawn the heavy jar
out of the earth, when, the ground giving way under his
feet, he rolled to the bottom of the incline still holding the
jar in his hand. But finding that it contained nothing but a
dull yellow dust, which had partly been spilled in falling, he
threw it as worthless into the stream. Often in later days did
he regret this rash act, for, as he was told by others, this
yellow powder could have been nothing else but gold-dust.
Other ancient vessels which have been sometimes
discovered filled with ashes[64] are believed by the people to
have contained golden treasures, thus changed by the devil
to ashes.
There is a plant which is believed by both Saxons and
Roumanians to possess the virtue of opening every lock and
breaking iron fetters, as well as helping to the discovery of
hidden treasures. The Roumanians call it jarbe cherului (iron
grass or herb), and it is only efficacious when it has
sprouted at the spot where a rainbow has touched the
earth. The rainbow is the bridge on which the angels go
backward and forward between earth and heaven, and the
flower grows there where an angel has dropped his golden
key of Paradise on to the earth. The Germans call the flower
schlüssel blume (key-flower), and it may be recognized by
having a heart-shaped leaf on which is a spot like a drop of
gold or blood. There are several places in Transylvania
where the plant is supposed to grow, but he who walks over
it unheeding will be sure to lose his way. In order to find it, it
is recommended to go out at daybreak and creep on all
fours over the grass. Who finds it should cut open the ball of
his left hand and let the leaf grow into the wound; he will
then have power to break fetters and open locks. The
celebrated robber F—— is said to have been in possession
of such a leaf, till the police destroyed his powers by cutting
it out of his hand. Horses whose fore-legs are tethered
together by chains are sometimes set free when they
happen to tread on the jarbe cherului; and in the village of
Heltau a Saxon peasant once hit upon the device of putting
his wife in chains and thus driving her over the fields,
expecting to find the flower where the fetters should fall off.
Whoever sells land in certain parts of the country where
gold is supposed to be buried is always careful to indorse
the reservation of eventual treasures to be found on the
spot.
But the people say that it is rarely good to seek for hidden
treasures, for much of the gold buried in the country has
been secured by a heavy curse, so that he who raises it will
be pursued by illness or misfortune to himself and his
family, unless he is descended in direct line from the man
who buried the treasure. Only such treasures as lie above-
ground exposed to the light of day may be appropriated
without misgiving. Many men have lost their reason, or have
become crippled or blind, but few indeed were ever made
happy by gold dug out of the earth.
 CHAPTER XXXII.

THE TZIGANES: LISZT AND LENAU.

AMONG the many writers who have made of this singular race
their special study, none, to my thinking, has succeeded in
understanding them so perfectly as Liszt. Other authors
have analyzed and described the gypsies with scientific
accuracy, but their opinions are mostly tinged by prejudice
or enthusiasm; for while Grellman approaches the subject
with evident repugnance, like a naturalist dissecting some
nauseous reptile in the interest of science, Borrow, on the
contrary, idealizes his figures almost beyond recognition.
Perhaps it needed a Hungarian to do justice to this subject,
for the Hungarian is the only man who, to some extent, is
united by sympathetic bonds to the Tzigane; he alone has
succeeded in identifying himself with the gypsy mind, and
comprehending all the strange contradictions of this living
paradox.
I cannot, therefore, do better than quote (in somewhat free
translation) some passages from Liszt’s valuable work on
gypsy music, which, far more vividly than any words of
mine, will serve to sketch the portrait of the Hungarian
Tzigane.
“There started up one day betwixt the European nations an
unknown tribe, a strange people of whom none was able to
say who they were nor whence they had come. They spread
themselves over our continent, manifesting, however,
neither desire of conquest nor ambition to acquire the right
of a fixed domicile; not attempting to lay claim to so much
as an inch of land, but not suffering themselves to be
deprived of a single hour of their time: not caring to
command, they neither chose to obey. They had nothing to
give of their own, and were content to owe nothing to
others. They never spoke of their native land, and gave no
clew as to from which Asiatic or African plains they had
wandered, nor what troubles or persecutions had
necessitated their expatriation. Strangers alike to memory
as to hope, they kept aloof from the benefits of colonization;
and too proud of their melancholy race to suffer admixture
with other nations, they lived on, satisfied with the rejection
of every foreign element. Deriving no advantage from the
Christian civilization around them, they regarded with equal
repugnance every other form of religion.
“This singular race, so strange as to resemble no other—
possessing neither country, history, religion, nor any sort of
codex—seems only to continue to exist because it does not
choose to cease to be, and only cares to exist such as it has
always been.

GYPSY TYPE.
“Instruction, authority, persuasion, and persecution have
alike been powerless to reform, modify, or exterminate the
gypsies. Broken up into wandering tribes and hordes, roving
hither and thither as chance or fancy directs, without means
of communication, and mostly ignoring one another’s
existence, they nevertheless betray their common
relationship by unmistakable signs—the self-same type of
feature, the same language, the identical habits and
customs.
“With a senseless or sublime contempt for whatever binds
or hampers, the Tziganes ask nothing from the earth but
life, and preserve their individuality from constant
intercourse with nature, as well as by absolute indifference
to all those not belonging to their race, with whom they
commune only as far as requisite for obtaining the common
necessities of life.
“Like the Jews they have natural taste and ability for fraud;
but, unlike them, it is without systematic hatred or malice.
Hatred and revenge are with them only personal and
accidental feelings, never premeditated ones. Harmless
when their immediate wants are satisfied, they are
incapable of preconceived intention of injuring, only wishing
to preserve a freedom akin to that of the wild horse of the
plains, and not comprehending how any one can prefer a
roof, be it ever so fine, to the shelter of the forest canopy.
“Authority, rules, laws, principles, duties, and obligations are
alike incomprehensible ideas to this singular race—partly
from indolence of spirit, partly from indifference to the evils
engendered by their irregular mode of life.
“Such only as it is, the Tzigane loves his life, and would
exchange it for no other. He loves his life when slumbering
in a copse of young birch-trees: he fancies himself
surrounded by a group of slender maidens, their long
floating hair bestrewed with shining sapphire stones, their
graceful figures swayed by the breeze into voluptuous and
coquettish gestures, as though each were trembling and
thrilling under the kiss of an invisible lover. The Tzigane
loves his life when for hours together his eyes idly follow the
geometrical figures described in the sky overhead by the
strategical evolutions of a flight of rooks; when he gauges
his cunning against that of the wary bustard, or overcomes
the silvery trout in a trial of lightning-like agility. He loves his
life when, shaking the wild crab-apple-tree, he causes a hail-
storm of ruddy fruit to come pouring down upon him; when
he picks the unripe berries from off a thorny branch, leaving
the sandy earth flecked with drops of gory red, like a
deserted battle-field; when bending over a murmuring
woodland spring, whose grateful coolness refreshes his
parched throat as its gurgling music delights his ear; when
he hears the woodpecker tapping a hollow stem, or can
distinguish the faint sound of a distant mill-wheel. He loves
his life when, gazing on the gray-green waters of some
lonely mountain lake, its surface spellbound in the dawning
presentiment of approaching frost, he lets his vagrant fancy
float hither and thither unchecked; when reclining high up
on the branch of some lofty forest-tree, hammock-like he is
rocked to and fro, while each leaf around him seems
quivering with ecstasy at the song of the nightingale. He
loves his life when, out of the myriads of ever-twinkling stars
in the illimitable space overhead, he chooses out one to be
his own particular sweetheart; when he falls in love, to-day
with a gorgeous lilac-bush of overwhelming perfume, to-
morrow with a slender hawthorn or graceful eglantine, to be
as quickly forgotten at sight of a brilliant peacock-feather,
with which, as with a victorious war-trophy, he adorns his
cap; when he sits by the smouldering camp-fire under
ancient oaks or massive beeches; when, lying awake at
night, he hears the call of the stag and the lowing of the
respondent doe; when he has no other society but the forest
animals, with whom he forms friendships and enmities—
caressing or tormenting them, depriving them of liberty or
setting them free, revelling in the treasures of Nature like a
wanton child despoiling his parent’s riches, but well knowing
their wealth to be inexhaustible.
“What he calls life is to inhale the breath of Nature with
every pore of his body; to surfeit his eye with all her forms
and colors; with his ear greedily to absorb all her chords and
harmonics. Life for him is to multiply the possession of all
these things by the kaleidoscopic and phantasmagorial
effects of alcohol, then to sing and play, shout, laugh, and
dance, till utter exhaustion.
“Having neither Bible nor Gospels to go by, the Tziganes do
not see the necessity of fatiguing their brain by the
contemplation of abstract ideas; and obeying their instincts
only, their intelligence naturally grows rusty. Conscious of
their harmlessness they bask in the rays of the sun, content
in the satisfaction of a few primitive and elementary
passions—the sans-gêne of their soul fettered by no
conventional virtues.
“What strength of indolence! what utter want of all social
instinct must these people possess in order to live as they
have done for centuries, like that strange plant, native of
the sandy desert, so aptly termed the wind’s bride, which,
by nature devoid of root, and blown from side to side by
every breeze, yet bears flower and fruit wherever it goes,
continuing to put out shoots under the most unlikely
conditions!
“And whenever the Tziganes have endeavored to bring
themselves to a settled mode of life and to adopt domestic
habits, have they not invariably sooner or later returned to
their hard couch on the cold ground, to their miserable rags,
to their rough comrades, and the brown beauty of their
women?—to the sombre shades of the virgin forests, to the
murmur of unknown fountains, to their glowing camp-fires
and their improvised concerts under a starlit sky?—to their
intoxicating dances in the lighting of a forest glade, to the
merry knavery of their thievish pranks—in a word, to the
hundred excitements they cannot do without?
“Nature, when once indulged in to the extent of becoming a
necessity, becomes tyrannical like any other passion; and
the charms of such an existence can neither be explained
nor coldly analyzed—only he who has tasted of them can
value their power aright. He must needs have slumbered
often beneath the canopy of the starry heavens; have been
oft awakened by the darts of the rising sun shooting like
fiery arrows between his eyelids; have felt, without horror,
the glossy serpent coil itself caressingly round a naked limb;
must have spent full many a long summer day reclining
immovable on the sward, overlapped by billowy waves of
flowery grasses which have never felt the mower’s scythe;
he must often have listened to the rich orchestral effects
and tempestuous melodies which the hurricane loves to
draw from vibrating pine-stems, or slender quaking reeds;
he must be able to recognize each tree by its perfume, be
initiated into all the varied languages of the feathered
tribes, of merry finches, and of chattering grasshoppers; full
often must he have ridden at close of day over the barren
wold, when the rays of the setting sun cast a golden
glamour over the atmosphere, and all around is plunged in a
bath of living fire; he must have watched the red-hot moon
rise out of the sable night over lonely plains whence all life
seems to have fled away; he must, in short, have lived like
the Tzigane in order to comprehend that it is impossible to
exist without the balmy perfumes exhaled by the forests;
that one cannot find rest within stone-built prisons; that a
breast accustomed to draw full draughts of the purest ozone
feels weighed down and crushed beneath a sheltering roof;
that the eye which has daily looked on the rising sun
breaking out through pearly clouds must weep, forsooth,
when met on all sides by dull, opaque walls; that the ear
hungers when deprived of the loud modulations, of the
exquisite harmonies, of which the mountain breeze alone
has the secret.
“What have our cities to offer to senses surfeited with such
ever-varied effects and emotions? What in such eyes can
ever equal the bloody drama of a dying sun? What can rival
in voluptuous sweetness the rosy halo of early dawn? What
other voice can equal in majesty the thunder-roll of a
midsummer storm, to which the woodland echoes respond
as the voice of a mighty chorus? What elegy so exquisite as
the autumn wind stripping the foliage from the blighted
forest? What power can equal the frigid majesty of the cruel
frost, like an implacable tyrant bidding the sap of trees to
stand still, and rendering silent the voices of singing birds
and babbling streams? To those accustomed to quaff of this
bottomless tankard, must not all other pleasures by
comparison appear empty and meaningless?
“Indifferent to the minute and complicated passions by
which educated mankind is swayed, callous to the panting,
gasping effects of such microscopic and supercultured vices
as vanity, ambition, intrigue, and avarice, the Tzigane only
comprehends the simplest requirements of a primitive
nature. Music, dancing, drinking, and love, diversified by a
childish and humorous delight in petty thieving and
cheating, constitute his whole répertoire of passions,
beyond whose limited horizon he does not care to look.”

Having begun this chapter with the words of Liszt, let me

finish it with those of the German poet Lenau, who, in his
short poem, “Die Drei Zigeuner” (“The Three Gypsies”),
traces a perfect picture of the indolent enjoyment of the
gypsy’s existence:
“One day, in the shade of a willow-tree laid,
I came upon gypsies three,
As through the sand of wild moorland
My cart toiled wearily.

“Giving to naught but himself a thought,

His fiddle the first did hold,
While ’mid the blaze of the evening rays
A fiery lay he trolled.

“His pipe with the lip the second did grip,

A-watching the smoke that curled,
As void of care as nothing there were
Could better him in the world.

“The third in sleep lay slumbering deep,

On a branch swung his guitar;
Through its strings did stray the winds at play,
His soul was ’mid dreams afar.

“With a patch or two of rainbow hue,

Tattered their garb and torn;
But little recked they what the world might say,
Repaying its scorn with scorn.

“And they taught to me, these gypsies three,

When life is saddened and cold,
How to dream or play or puff it away,
Despising it threefold!

“And oft on my track I would fain cast back

A glance behind me there—
A glance at that crew of tawny hue,
With their swarthy shocks of hair.”
 CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE TZIGANES: THEIR LIFE AND

OCCUPATIONS.
IN every other country where the gypsies made their
appearance they were oppressed and persecuted—treated
as slaves or hunted down like wild beasts. So in Prussia in
1725 an edict was issued ordering that each gypsy found
within the confines of the country should be forthwith
executed; and in Wallachia, until quite lately, they were
regarded as slaves or beasts of burden, and bought and sold
like any other marketable animal. Thus a Bucharest
newspaper of 1845 advertises for sale two hundred gypsy
families, to be disposed of in batches of five families—a
handsome deduction being offered to wholesale purchasers.
In Moldavia, up to 1825, a master who killed one of his own
gypsies was never punished by law, but only if he killed one
which was the property of another man—the crime in that
case not being considered to be murder, but merely injury
to another man’s property.
In Hungary alone these wanderers found themselves neither
oppressed nor repulsed, and if the gypsy can be said to feel
at home anywhere on the face of the globe it is surely here;
and although Hungarians are apt to resent the designation,
Tissot was not far wrong when he named their country “Le
pays des Tziganes,” for the Tziganes are in Hungary a
picturesque feature—a decorative adjunct inseparable alike
from the solitude of its plains as from the dissipation of its
cities. Like a gleam of dusky gems they serve to set off
every picture of Hungarian life, and to play to it a running
accompaniment in plaintive minor chords. No one can travel
many days in Hungary without becoming familiar with the
strains of the gypsy bands. And who has journeyed by night
without noting the ruddy light of their myriad camp-fires,
which, like so many gigantic glowworms, dot the country in
all directions?
At the present time there are in Hungary above one hundred
and fifty thousand Tziganes, of which about eighty thousand
fall to the share of Transylvania, which therefore in still more
special degree may be termed the land of gypsies.
The Transylvanian gypsies used to stand under the nominal
authority of a nobleman bearing the title of a Gypsy Count,
chosen by the reigning prince; as also in Hungary proper the
Palatine had the right of naming four gypsy Woywods. To
this Gypsy Count the chieftains of the separate hordes or
bands were bound to submit, besides paying to him a yearly
tribute of one florin per head of each member of the band;
and every seventh year they assembled round him to
receive his orders. The minor chieftains were elected by the
votes of the separate communities; and to this day every
wandering troop has its own self-elected leader, although
these have no longer any recognized position in the eyes of
the law.
The election usually takes place in the open field, often on
the occasion of some public fair; and the successful
candidate is thrice raised in the air on the shoulders of the
people, presented with gifts, and invested with a silver-
headed staff as badge of his dignity. Also, his wife or partner
receives similar honors, and the festivities conclude with
much heavy drinking.
Strictly speaking, only such Tziganes are supposed to be
eligible as are descended from a Woywod family; but in
point of fact the gypsies mostly choose whoever happens to
be best dressed on the occasion. Being of handsome build,
and not over-young, are likewise points in a candidate’s
favor; but such superfluous qualities as goodness or wisdom
are not taken into account.
This leader—who is sometimes called the Captain,
sometimes the Vagda, or else the Gako, or uncle—governs
his band, confirms marriages and divorces, dictates
punishments, and settles disputes; and as the gypsies are a
very quarrelsome race the chief of a large band has got his
hands pretty full. He has likewise the power to
excommunicate a member of the band, as well as to
reinstate him in honor and confidence by letting him drink
out of his own tankard.
Certain taxes are paid to the Gako; also, he is entitled to
percentages on all booty and theft. In return it is his duty to
protect and defend his people to the best of his ability,
whenever their irregularities have brought them within
reach of the law.
Whether, besides the chieftains of the separate hordes,
there yet exists in Hungary a chief judge or monarch of the
Tziganes, cannot be positively asserted; but many people
aver such to be the case, and designate either Mikolcz or
Schemnitz as the seat of his residence. In his hands are said
to be deposited large sums of money for secret purposes,
and he alone has the right to condemn to death, and with
his own hands to put his sentence into execution.
No Tzigane durst ever accept the position of a gendarme or
policeman, for fear of being obliged to punish his own folk;
and only very rarely is it allowed for one of them to become
a game-keeper or wood-ranger.
Only the necessity of obtaining a piece of bread to still his
hunger, or of providing himself with a rag to cover his
nakedness, occasionally obliges the Tzigane to turn his hand
to labor of some kind. Most sorts of work are distasteful to
him—more especially all work of a calm, monotonous
character. For that reason the idyllic calm of a shepherd’s
existence, which the Roumanian so dearly loves, could
never satisfy the Tzigane; and equally unpalatable he finds
the sweating toils of the agriculturist. He requires some
occupation which gives scope to the imagination and
amuses the fancy while his hands are employed—conditions
he finds united in the trade of a blacksmith, which he
oftenest plies on the banks of a stream or river outside the
village, where he has been driven by necessity. The snorting
bellows seem to him like a companionable monster; the
equal cadence of the hammer against the anvil falls in with
melodies floating in his brain; the myriads of flying sparks,
in which he loves to discern all sorts of fantastic figures, fill
him with delight; horses and oxen coming to be shod, and
the varied incidents to which these operations give rise, are
never-tiring sources of interest and amusement.
Instinctively expert at some sorts of work, the Tzigane will
be found to be as curiously awkward and incapable with
others. Thus he is always handy at throwing up earthworks,
which he seems to do as naturally as a mole or rabbit digs
its burrow; but as carpenter or locksmith he is
comparatively useless, and though an apt reaper with the
sickle he is incapable of using the scythe.
 GYPSY TINKER.
All brickmaking in Hungary and Transylvania is in the hands
of the Tziganes, and formerly they were charged with the
gold-washing in the Transylvanian rivers, and were in return
exempted from military service. They are also flayers,
broom-binders, rat-catchers, basket-makers, tinkers, and
occasionally tooth-pullers—dentist is too ambitious a
denomination.
 BASKET-MAKER.
Up to the end of the sixteenth century in Transylvania the
part of hangman was always enacted by a gypsy, usually
taken on the spot. On one occasion the individual to be
hanged happening to be himself a gypsy, there was some
difficulty in finding an executioner, and the only one
produced was a feeble old man, quite unequal to the job. A
table placed under a tree was to serve as scaffold, and with
trembling fingers the old man proceeded to attach the rope
round the neck of his victim. All his efforts were, however,
vain to fix this rope to the branch above, and the doomed
man, at last losing patience at the protracted delay, gave a
vigorous box on the ear to his would-be hangman, which
knocked him off the table. Instantly all the spectators,
terrified, took to their heels; whereon the culprit, securely
fastening the rope to the branch above, proceeded unaided
to hang himself in the most correct fashion.
When obliged to work under supervision, the Tzigane groans
and moans piteously, as though he were enduring the most
acute tortures; and a single Tzigane locked up in jail will
howl so despairingly as to deprive a whole village of sleep.
The Tzigane makes a bad soldier but a good spy; his
cowardice has passed into a proverb, which says that “with
a wet rag you can put to flight a whole village of gypsies.”
The Tziganes are by no means dainty with regard to food,
and have a decided leaning towards carrion,
indiscriminately eating of the flesh of all fallen animals, or,
as they term it, whatever has been killed by “God,” and
consider themselves much aggrieved when forced at the
point of the bayonet to abandon the rotting carcass of a
sheep or cow, over which they had been holding a harmless
revelry.
A hedgehog divested of its spikes is considered a prime
delicacy; likewise a fox baked under the ashes, after having
been laid in running water for two days to reduce the flavor.
Horse-flesh alone they do not touch.
The only animals whose training the gypsy cares to
undertake are the horse and bear. For the first he entertains
a sort of respectful veneration, while the second he regards
as an amusing bajazzo. He teaches a young bear to dance
by placing it on a sheet of heated iron, playing the while on
his fiddle a strongly accentuated piece of dance music. The
bear, lifting up its legs alternately to escape the heat,
unconsciously observes the time marked by the music. Later
on, the heated iron is suppressed when the animal has
learned its lesson, and whenever the Tzigane begins to play
on the fiddle the young bear lifts its legs in regular time to
the music.
Of the tricks practised upon horses, in order to sell them at
fairs, many stories are told of the gypsies. Sometimes, it is
said, they will make an incision in the animal’s skin, and
blow in air with the bellows in order to make it appear fat; or
else they introduce a living eel into its body under the tail,
which serves to give an appearance of liveliness to the hind-
quarters. For the same reason live toads are forced down a
donkey’s throat, which, moving about in the stomach,
produce a sort of fever which keeps it lively for several days.
The gypsies are attached to their children, but in a
senseless animal fashion, alternately devouring them with
caresses and violently ill-treating them. I have seen a father
throw large, heavy stones at his ten-year-old daughter for
some trifling misdemeanor—stones as large as good-sized
turnips, any one of which would have been sufficient to kill
her if it had happened to hit; and only her agility in dodging
these missiles—which she did, grinning and chuckling as
though it were the best joke in the world—saved her from
serious injury.
They are a singularly quarrelsome people, and the gypsy
camp is the scene of many a pitched battle, in which men,
women, children, and dogs indiscriminately take part with
turbulent enjoyment. When in a passion all weapons are
good that come to the gypsy’s hand, and, faute de mieux,
unfortunate infants are sometimes bandied backward and
forward as improvisé cannon-balls. A German traveller
mentions having been eye-witness to a quarrel between a
Tzigane man and woman, the latter having a baby on the
breast. Passing from words to blows, and seeing neither
stick nor stone within handy reach, the man seized the baby
by the feet, and with it belabored the woman so violently
that when the by-standers were able to interpose the
wretched infant had already given up the ghost.
 BEAR DRIVER.
The old-fashioned belief that gypsies are in the habit of
stealing children has long since been proved to be utterly
without foundation. Why, indeed, should gypsies, already
endowed with a numerous progeny, seek to burden
themselves with foreign elements which can bring them no
sort of profit? That they frequently have beguiled children
out of reach in order to strip them of their clothes and
ornaments has probably given rise to this mistake; and
when, as occasionally, we come across a light-complexioned
child in a gypsy camp, it is more natural to suppose its
mother to have been the passing fancy of some fair-haired
stranger than itself to have been abstracted from wealthy
parents.
Tzigane babies are at once inured to the utmost extremes of
heat and cold. If they are born in winter they are rubbed
with snow; if in summer, anointed with grease and laid in
the burning sun. Though trained to resist all weathers, the
Tzigane has a marked antipathy for wind, which seems for
the time to weaken his physical and mental powers, and
deprive him of all life and energy. Cold he patiently endures;
but only in summer can he really be said to live and enjoy
his life. There is a legend which tells how the gypsies, pining
under the heavy frosts and snows with which the earth was
visited, appealed to God to have pity on them, and to grant
them always twice as many summers as winters. The
Almighty, in answer to this request, spoke as follows: “Two
summers shall you have to every winter; but as it would
disturb the order of nature if both summers came one on
the back of the other, I shall always give you two summers
with a winter between to divide them.” The gypsies humbly
thanked the Almighty for the granted favor, and never again
complained of the cold, for, as they say, they have now
always two summers to every winter.
Another legend relates how the Tziganes once used to have
cornfields of their own, and how, when the green corn had
grown high for the first time, the wind caused it to wave and
shake like ripples on the water, which seeing, a gypsy boy
came running in alarm to his parents, crying, “Father,
father! quick, make haste! the corn is running away!” On
hearing this the gypsies all hastened forth with knives and
sickles to cut down the fugitive corn, which of course never
ripened, and discouraged by their first agricultural essay the
gypsies never attempted to sow or reap again.
Both Maria Theresa and her son Joseph II. did much to
induce the Transylvanian gypsies to renounce their vagrant
habits and settle down as respectable citizens, but their
efforts did not meet with the success they deserved. The
system of Maria Theresa was no less than to recast the
whole gypsy nature in a new mould, and by fusion with
other races to cause them by degrees to lose their own
identity; the very name of gypsy was to be forgotten, and
the Empress had ordained that henceforward they were to
be known by the appellation of Neubauer (new peasants).
With a view to this all marriages between gypsies were
forbidden, and the Empress undertook to dot every young
gypsy girl who married a person of another race. The
Tziganes, however, too often accepted these favors, and
took the earliest opportunity of deserting the partners thus
forced upon them; while the houses built expressly for their
use were frequently used for the pigs or cattle, the gypsies
themselves preferring to sleep outside in the open air.
A gypsy girl, who had married a young Slovack peasant
some years ago, used to run away and sleep in the woods
whenever her husband was absent from home; while in
another village, where the Saxon pastor had with difficulty
induced a wandering Tzigane family to take up their
residence in a vacant peasant house, he found them oddly
enough established in their old ragged tent, which had been
set up inside the empty dwelling-room. A story is also told of
a gypsy man who, having attained a high military rank in
the Austrian army, disappeared one day, and was later
recognized with a strolling band.
There is, I am told, a certain method in the seemingly
aimless roamings of each nomadic gypsy tribe, which
always pursues its wanderings in a given circle, keeping to
the self-same paths and the identical places of bivouac in
plain or forest; so that it can mostly be calculated with
tolerable accuracy in precisely how many years such and
such a band will come round again to any particular
neighborhood.
Nowadays the proportion of resident gypsies in towns and
villages is, of course, considerably larger than it used to be,
and nearly each Saxon or Hungarian town and village has a
faubourg of miserable earth-hovels tacked on to it at one
end. It is not uncommon, in these gypsy hovels, to find
touches of luxury strangely out of keeping with the rest of
the surroundings: pieces of rare old china, embroidered
pillow-cases, sometimes even a silver goblet or platter of
distinct value—to which things they often cling with a sort of
blind superstition, always contriving to reclaim from the
pawnbroker whatever of these articles they have been
compelled to deposit there in a season of necessity. In the
same way it is alleged that many of the wandering gypsy
hordes in Hungary and Transylvania have in their possession
valuable gold and silver vessels (some of these engraved in
ancient Indian characters), which they carry about wherever
they go, and bury in the earth wherever they pitch their
temporary camp.
In order to count the treasures of one of the resident
gypsies, it suffices to watch him when there is a fire in the
village; ten to one it will be his fiddle which he first takes
care to save, and next his bed and pillows—a soft swelling
bed and numerous downy pillows being among the principal
luxuries to which he is addicted.
Characteristic of the Tzigane’s utter incomprehension of all
social organization and privileges is an anecdote related by
a Transylvanian proprietor. “In 1848,” he told me, “when
serfdom was abolished in Austria, and the gypsies residing
in my village became aware that henceforward they were
free, they were at first highly delighted at the news, and
spent three days and nights in joyful carousing. On the
fourth day, however, when the novelty of being free had
worn off, they were at a loss what use to make of their novel
dignity, and numbers of them came trooping to me begging
to be taken back. They did not care to be free after all, they
said, and would rather be serfs again.”
Of their past history the only memory the Tziganes have
preserved is that of the disastrous day of Nagy Ida, when a
thousand of their people were slain. This was in 1557, when
Perenyi, in want of soldiers, had intrusted to a thousand
gypsies the fortress of Nagy Ida, which they defended so
valiantly that the imperial troops beat a retreat. But,
intoxicated with their triumph, the Tziganes called after the
retreating enemy, that but for the lack of gunpowder they
would have served them still worse. On hearing this the
army turned round again, and easily forcing an entrance
into the castle cut down the gypsies to the last man.
All Hungarian gypsies keep the anniversary of this day as a
day of mourning, and have a particular melody in which
they bewail the loss of their heroes. This tune, or nota, they
never play before a stranger, and the mere mention of it is
sufficient to sadden them.
Only the higher class of Tzigane musicians (of which
hereafter) are fond of calling themselves Hungarians, and of
wearing the Hungarian national costume. This reminds me
of a story I heard of a gypsy player who, brought to justice
for a murder he had committed, obstinately persisted in
denying his crime.
“Come, be a good fellow,” said the judge at last, fixing on
the weak side of the culprit; “show what a good Hungarian
you are by speaking the truth. A true Hungarian never tells
a lie.”
The poor gypsy was so much flattered at being called a
Hungarian that he instantly confessed the murder, and was,
of course, hanged as the reward of his veracity.
Though without any regular social organization, the
Hungarian gypsies may yet be loosely divided into five
classes, which range as follows:
1. The musicians.
2. The gold-washers, who also make bricks and spoons.
3. The smiths.
4. The daily laborers, such as whitewashers, masons, etc.
5. The nomadic tent gypsies.
If, however, we reverse the order of things, and turn the
social ladder upside down, these latter may well be ranked
as the first, and so they deem themselves to be, for do they
not enjoy privileges unknown to most respectable citizens?
—free as the birds of the air, paying no taxes,
acknowledging no laws, and making the whole world their
own!
 CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE TZIGANES: HUMOR, PROVERBS,

RELIGION, AND MORALITY.
THE word Tzigane is used throughout Hungary and
Transylvania as an opprobrious term by the other
inhabitants whenever they want to designate anything as
false, worthless, dirty, adulterated, etc.
“False as a Tzigane,” “Dirty as a Tzigane,” are common
figures of speech. Likewise to describe a quarrelsome
couple, “They live like the gypsies.” And if some one is
given to useless lamentation, it is said of him, “He moans
like a guilty Tzigane.”
Of a liar it is said that “he knows how to plough with the
Tzigane,” or that “he understands how to ride the Tzigane
horse.”
To call any one’s behavior “gypsified” is to stamp it as
dishonest. “He knows the Tzigane trade” is “he knows how
to steal.”
A showery April day is called “Tzigane weather;” adulterated
honey, “Tzigane honey;” coriander-leaves, “Tzigane
parsley;” a poor sort of wild-duck is the “Tzigane duck;” the
bromus scalinus is the “Tzigane corn;” but why the little
green burrs are called “Tzigane lice” is not very evident, for
surely in this case the imitation has decidedly the
advantage of the genuine article.
These phrases must not, however, be taken to express
hatred, but rather a good-natured sort of contempt and
indulgence for the Tzigane as a large, importunate, and
troublesome child, who frequently requires to be chastised
and pushed back, but whose vagaries cannot be taken
seriously, or provoke anger.
The Tziganes are rarely wanting in a certain sense of humor
and power of repartee, which often disarms the anger they
have justly provoked. In a travelling menagerie the keeper,
showing off his animals to a large audience, pointed to the
cage where a furious lion was pawing the ground, and
pompously announced that he was ready to give a thousand
florins to whoever would enter that cage.
“I will,” said a starved-looking gypsy, stepping forward.
“You will!” said the keeper, looking contemptuously at the
small, puny figure. “Very well; please yourself, and walk in,”
and he made a feint of opening the door. “Step in; why are
you not coming?”
“Certainly,” said the Tzigane; “I have not the slightest
objection, and am only waiting till you remove that very
unpleasant-looking animal which occupies the cage at
present.”
Of course the laugh was turned against the showman, who,
in his speech, had only spoken of the cage without
mentioning the lion.
A peasant, accusing a Tzigane of having stolen his horse,
declared that he could produce half a dozen witnesses who
had seen him in the act.
“What are half a dozen witnesses?” said the gypsy. “I can
produce a whole dozen who have not seen it!”
A starving and shivering Tzigane once, craving hospitality,
was told to choose between food and warmth. Would he
have something to eat; or did he prefer to warm himself at
the hearth? “If you please,” he answered, “I would like best
to toast myself a piece of bacon at the fire.”
When asked which was his favorite bird a Tzigane made
reply, “The pig, if it had only wings.”
Another gypsy, asked whether, for the remuneration of five
florins, he would undertake the office of hangman on a
single victim, answered, joyfully, “Oh, that is far too high a
price! For five florins I would undertake to hang all the
officials into the bargain!”
Some Tzigane proverbs are as follows:
“Better a donkey which lets you ride than a fine horse which
throws you off.”
“Those are the fattest fishes which fall back from the line
into the water.”
“It is not good to choose women or cloth by candlelight.”
“What is the use of a kiss unless there be two to share it?”
“Who would steal potatoes must not forget the sack.”
“Two hard stones do not grind smooth.”
“Polite words cost little and do much.”
“Who flatters you has either cheated you or hopes to do so.”
“Who waits till another calls him to supper often remains
hungry.”
“If you have lost your horse, you had better throw away
saddle and bridle as well.”
“The best smith cannot make more than one ring at a time.”
“A pleasant smile smooths away wrinkles.”
“Nothing is so bad but it is good enough for some one.”
“Do we keep the fast-days? Yes, when there is neither bread
nor bacon in the cupboard.”
“It is of no use to teach science to children, unless we
explain it by means of the broomstick.”
“Let nothing on earth sadden you as long as you still can
love.”
“It is easier to inherit than to earn.”
“As long as there are poorer people than yourself in the
world, thank God even if you go about with bare feet.”
“When the bridge is gone, then even the narrowest plank
becomes precious.”
“Only the deaf and the blind are obliged to believe.”
“Bacon makes bold.”
“After misfortune comes fortune.”
“Who has got luck need only sit at home with his mouth
open.”
“Never despair of your luck, for it needs only a moment to
bring it.”

There is no such thing as a gypsy church, and a legend

current in Transylvania explains the reason of this:
“Once upon a time,” so it runs, “the Tziganes had a right
good church, solidly built of brick and stone like other
churches. The Wallachs, who had neither stones nor bricks,
had at that same time built themselves a church out of
cheese and bacon, with sausage rafters and pancake roof.
“This building filled the greedy Tziganes with envy, causing
them to lick their lips whenever they passed that way, and
at last they proposed an exchange of churches to the
Wallachs, who gladly accepted the bargain. But when the
winter came the hungry Tziganes began to nibble at the
pancake roof of their church; next they attacked the rafters,
and there soon remained nothing more of the whole
building. That is why since that time there has never been a
Tzigane church, and why the gypsies, whenever they go to
any place of worship at all, prefer to go to the Roumanian
church, because, as they say, they like to remember that it
once belonged to them.”
This story has passed into a proverb, used to describe a
man without religion, by saying, “He eats his faith, as the
gypsies ate their church.”
Their religion is of the vaguest description. They generally
agree as to the existence of a God, but it is a God whom
they fear without loving. “God cannot be good,” they say,
“or else he would not make us die.” The devil they also
believe in to a certain extent, but consider him to be a
weak, silly fellow, incapable of doing much harm.
A Tzigane, questioned as to whether he believed in the
immortality of the soul and the resurrection of the body,
scoffed at the idea. “How could I be so foolish as to believe
this?” he said, with unconscious philosophy. “We have been
quite wretched enough and wicked enough in this world
already. Why should we begin again in another?”
Sometimes their confused notions of Christianity take the
form of believing in a God, and in his Son the young God;
but while many are of opinion that the old God is dead, and
that his Son now reigns in his place, others declare the old
God to be not really dead, but merely to have abdicated in
favor of his Son. Others, again, suppose this latter to be not
really the Son of the old God, but only that of a poor
carpenter, and are wont to say contemptuously that “the
carpenter’s son has usurped the throne.”
The resident Tziganes often nominally adopt the religion of
the landed proprietor—principally, it seems, because in
former days they thus secured the privilege of being buried
at his expense. Whenever they happen to have a quarrel
with their landlord, they are fond of abruptly changing their
religion, ostentatiously going to some other place of worship
in order to mark their displeasure.
Two clergymen, the one Catholic, the other Protestant,
visiting a Tzigane confined in prison, were each endeavoring
with much eloquence to convert him to their respective
religions. The gypsy appeared to be listening to their
arguments with great attention, and when both had finished
speaking he eagerly inquired, “Which of the two gentlemen
can give me a cigar?” One of these being in the
advantageous position of gratifying this modest request, the
scale was thereby turned in favor of the Church he
recommended, and the other clergyman was sent away,
doubtless with the bitter reflection that for lack of a
pennyworth of tobacco he had failed to secure an immortal
soul!
Another gypsy, in prison for having sworn falsely, was
visited by a priest, who tried to convince him of the
sinfulness of his conduct in swearing to what he had not
seen.
“You are loading a heavy sin on your soul,” said the priest.
“Have I got a soul?” asked the Tzigane, innocently.
“Of course you have got a soul; every man has one.”
“Can your reverence swear that I have got a soul?”
“To be sure I can.”
“Yet your reverence cannot see my soul, so why should it be
wrong to swear to what one has not seen?”
A gypsy condemned to be hung bethought himself at the
last moment of asking to be baptized. He wished to die a
Christian, he said, having professed no religion all his life.
His plan was successful, for the execution was suspended,
and all sympathies enlisted in his favor. When, however, all
was ready for the baptism, the gypsy occasioned much
surprise by asking to be received into the Calvinistic faith.
Why not choose the Catholic religion, which was that of the
place, he was asked, since there was no apparent reason to
the contrary. “No, no,” returned the cautious Tzigane; “I will
keep the Catholic religion for another time.”
Though rarely believing in the immortality of the soul, the
Tzigane usually holds with the doctrine of transmigration,
and often supposes the spirit of some particular gypsy to
have passed into a bat or a bird; further believing that when
that animal is killed, the spirit passes back to another new-
born gypsy.
However miserable their lives, the Tziganes never commit
suicide; only one solitary instance is recorded by some
traveller, whose name I forget, of an old gypsy woman, who,
to escape her persecutors, begged a shepherd to bury her
alive.
When a Tzigane dies, men and women assemble with loud
howling, and the corpse, after having been prepared for
burial, is carried on horseback to the grave, which is made
in some lonely spot, often deep in the forest. A chieftain is
buried with much pomp, his people tearing their hair and
scratching their faces in sign of mourning.
The abrupt transitions of joy to grief, and vice versâ, so
characteristic of the Tzigane nature, are nowhere more
apparent than in their rejoicings and their mournings. Thus
each funeral ends with dancing and joyful songs, while
every wedding terminates in howling and moaning.
The relations between the sexes are mostly free, and
unrestrained by any attempt at morality. Unions oftenest
take place without any attendant formalities, but in some
hordes a sort of barbaric ceremony is kept up. The man, or
rather boy—for he is often not more than fourteen or fifteen
years of age—selects the girl happening to please him best,
without any particular regard for relationship, and leads her
before the Gako, where she breaks an earthen-ware jar or
dish at the feet of the man to whom she gives herself. Each
party collects a portion of the broken pieces and keeps them
carefully. If these pieces are lost, either by accident or
voluntarily, then both parties are free, and the union thus
dissolved can only be renewed by the breaking of another
vessel in the same manner.

GYPSY GIRL.
The number of pieces into which the earthen-ware has been
shattered is supposed to denote the number of years the
couple will live together; and when the girl is anxious to pay
a compliment to her bridegroom she stamps upon the
fragments, in order to increase their number.
Sometimes, but rarely, the Tzigane is capable of violent and
enduring love; and cases where lovers have killed their
sweethearts out of jealousy are not unknown.
The Tziganes assimilate more easily with the Roumanians
than with any of the neighboring races; and marriages
between them, although not frequent, yet sometimes take
place.
Some twelve or fifteen years ago, an Austrian officer,
garrisoned in a small Transylvanian town, fell violently in
love with a beautiful gypsy girl belonging to a wandering
tribe. He carried his infatuation so far as to offer to marry
her. The beautiful bohemian, however, refused to abandon
her roving comrades; and at last the lover, seeing that he
could not win her in any other way, and being convinced
that he could not possibly exist without her, gave up his
military rank, and for her sake became a gypsy himself,
wandering about with the band, and sharing all their
hardships and privations. How this peculiar union turned out
in the end, and whether à la longue the gentleman
remained of opinion that the world was well lost for love, is
unknown; but several years later the cidevant officer was
recognized as a member of a roving band of gypsies
somewhere in northern Greece.
A touching instance of a young girl’s devotion was related to
me on good authority. Her lover had been confined in the
village lockup, presumably for some flagrant offence; and
looking out of the small grated window, on a burning
summer’s day, he was bewailing his unhappy fate and the
parching thirst which devoured him. Presently his dark
slender sweetheart, attracted by the sound of his voice,
drew near, and standing at the other side of a dried-up
moat, she could see her lover at the grated window. She
held in her hand a ripe juicy apple; but the only way to
reach him lay through the moat. The girl was naked, not
having the smallest rag to cover her brown and shining skin,
and the moat was full of prickly thistles and tall stinging
nettles. She hesitated for a moment, but only for one; then
plunging bravely into the sea of fire, she handed up the
precious apple through the close grating.
When she regained the opposite bank, the gypsy girl’s skin
was all blistered, and bleeding at places; but she did not
seem to feel any pain, in the delight with which she watched
her captive lover devour the apple.
 CHAPTER XXXV.

THE GYPSY FORTUNE-TELLER.

THE ever-recurring excitements and excesses of which these
people’s life is made up cannot fail to have a deteriorating
effect on mind and body—early undermined constitutions
and premature death or dotage being the penalty paid by
many for the unbridled and senseless gratification of their
passions. This life, however, while it destroys many,
sharpens the faculties of those whose stronger natures have
enabled them to defy these ravages, bestowing a singular
power of penetration in all matters relating to the senses
and passions.
More especially is this the case with regard to the women,
who, already gifted by nature with keener perceptions, and
prematurely ripened in what may be termed a tropical
atmosphere of passion, develop an almost supernatural
power of clairvoyance, which enables them with incredible
celerity to unravel hitherto undisclosed secrets by means
only of intuitive deductions.
“The astounding vividness of their impressions” (again to
quote Liszt on the subject) “rarely fails to communicate
itself like wildfire to the hearers. As by the contagion of a
deadly poison, the mere touch of the gypsy fortune-teller is
often sufficient to affect them with the sensation of an
electric shock or vibration.
“A few apt reflections strewed about in conversation, casual
exclamations of apparent simplicity, some primitive rhymes
and verses accentuated by passion, so to say hammered
into relief like the raised figures on a medal—such are the
means which suffice to stir up in an audience whatever
elements may be there existing of secret wrath, of latent
rebellion, of characters bent but not broken, of affections
discouraged but not despairing.

GYPSY MOTHER AND CHILD.

“The gypsy woman, herself well acquainted with all the
signs and workings of passion, distinguishes à coup d’œil
the cause of the sallow cheek and the fevered eye of such
another woman; she can feel instinctively whether the hand
from which she is expected to decipher a fate be stretched
towards her with the hasty gesture of hope or with the
hesitation of fear. Without difficulty she reads in disdainfully
curled lips or ominously drawn brows whether the youth
before her be chafing under a yoke or planning revenge;
whether he craves love or has already lost it. She can
further distinguish at a glance the delusive presumption of
youth and beauty—the false security of possession which
thinks to defy misfortune. She knows the annihilating blows
of fate and the vulnerability of the human heart too well not
to mistrust the smile of over-conscious happiness, and
prophesy misfortune to those who refuse to believe in the
instability of the future.
“She cannot be called a hypocrite, for she herself has faith
in her own diagnosis; believing that each man carries within
him the germ of his own fate, she is convinced that sooner
or later her prognostics must be fulfilled. Her only care is
therefore to clothe her predictions in a form which, easily
captivating the imagination, and thereby impressed on the
memory, will spring again to life, along with the image of
the prophetess, whenever the latent emotions she has
detected, having reached their culminating point, bring
about the success or the catastrophe foreseen from the
investigation of a hand and a heart.
“After all, why should we wonder that the secrets of the
future can be deciphered by one so intimately acquainted
with the inmost folds of the human soul, and the workings of
different passions confined in the human breast like so
many caged lions or torpid slumbering reptiles?
“Passion always accompanied by a powerful sympathetic
instinct quickly divines the presence of a kindred passion.
Apt to decipher the symptoms inevitably betrayed in voice
and gesture, and skilled to read in that mystic book whose
characters are so plainly impressed on the leaves of a
physiognomy which, betraying where it would fain conceal,
becomes the more impressive in proportion as the heart
within is agitated by tumultuous throbbings, the gypsy
fortune-teller knows full well with whom she has to deal, and
can justly estimate what sort of characters are those who
seek her counsel.”
It is, I think, Balzac who has said, “Si le passé a laissé des
traces, il est à croire que l’avenir possède des racines;” and
on the principle that every man is master of his own fate,
there is, after all, no reason why these roots, invisible to the
rest of the world, should not be perceptible to such as have
made of this subject the study of a lifetime. Why should not
the seer be able to proclaim the fruits to be reaped from the
recognition of germs which already exist?
The enlightened folk who sweepingly condemn the fortune-
teller as a liar and cheat are probably no less mistaken than
witless rustics, who blindly believe in her as an infallible
oracle. Should not precisely the superior enlightenment of
which we boast be argument for, rather than against, the
fortune-teller? Why, if phrenology and graphology are
permitted to take rank as acknowledged sciences, should
not the gypsy woman’s power of divination be equally
allowed to count as a shrewd deciphering of character,
coupled with logical deductions as to the events likely to be
evoked by the passions she has recognized, when brought
into combination with a given set of circumstances?
Ignorant people, surprised at the detection of secrets which
they had believed to be securely locked up in their own
breasts, and not understanding the process by which such
conclusions were reached, are ready to attribute the
fortune-teller’s power of divination to supernatural agency,
which opinion is strengthened and confirmed by the
romantic conditions of the gypsy’s existence, and the
cabalistic glamour with which she contrives to invest herself.
But is not, in truth, this delicate and subtle perception in
itself a secret and undeniable power—a sudden inspiration,
a positive intuition of what will be from the rapid unveiling
of what already is? And here, again, Liszt is probably right in
asserting this gift of prophecy, so universally ascribed to the
gypsies in all countries, to be a too deeply rooted belief in
the minds of the people not to have some rational ground
for its existence.
There is no doubt that the gypsy fortune-tellers in
Transylvania exercise considerable influence on their Saxon
and Roumanian neighbors, and it is a paradoxical fact that
the self-same people who regard the Tziganes as undoubted
thieves, liars, and cheats in all the common transactions of
daily life, do not hesitate to confide in them blindly for
charmed medicines and love-potions, and are ready to
attribute to them unerring power in deciphering the
mysteries of the future.
The Saxon peasant will, it is true, often drive away the
fortune-teller with blows and curses from his door, but his
wife will as often secretly beckon her in again by the back
entrance, in order to be consulted as to the illness of the
cows, or beg from her a remedy against the fever.
Wonderful potions and salves, composed of the fat of bears,
dogs, snakes, and snails, along with the oil of rain-worms,
the bodies of spiders and midges, rubbed into a paste, are
concocted by these cunning bohemians, who thus
sometimes contrive to make thrice as much money out of
the carcass of a dead dog as another can realize from the
sale of a healthy pig or calf. There is not a village in
Transylvania which cannot boast of one or more such
fortune-tellers, and living in the suburbs of each town are
many old women who make an easy and comfortable
livelihood out of the credulity of their fellow-creatures.
It has also been asserted that both Roumanian and Saxon
mothers whose sickly infants are believed to be suffering
from the effects of the evil eye, are often in the habit of
giving the child to be nursed for a period of nine days to
some Tzigane woman supposed to have power to undo the
spell.
For my own part, I have seldom had inclination to confide
the deciphering of my fate to one of these wandering sibyls,
and can therefore only affirm that on the solitary occasion
when, half in jest, I chose to interrogate the future, I was
favored with a piece of intelligence so startling and
improbable as could only be received with a laugh of
derision; yet before many days had elapsed this startling
and improbable event had actually come to pass, and the
gypsy’s prophecy was accomplished in the most unlooked-
for manner.
Chance, probably, or coincidence, most people will say; and
indeed I do not myself see how it could have been anything
but the veriest coincidence. I merely state this fact as it
occurred, and without attempting to draw any general
conclusions from the isolated instance within my own
personal range of observation.
 CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE TZIGANE MUSICIAN.

THERE is a Transylvanian legend telling how a mother once
pronounced on her son a curse, the effect of which should
continue until he succeeded in giving a voice to a dry piece
of wood.
The son left his mother, and went sorrowing into the pine
forest, where he cut down a tree, and made a fiddle on
which he played; and his mother, hearing the sound, came
running by and took the curse from off his head.
This story must surely have been written of a gypsy boy, for
of none other could it have been equally appropriate; and if
to the gypsy woman is given a certain power over the minds
of her fellow-creatures, the male Tzigane—at least in
Hungary—is not without his sceptre, and this sceptre is the
bow with which he plies his fiddle.
Hungarian music and the Tzigane player are indispensable
conditions of each other’s existence. Hungarian music can
only be rightly interpreted by the Tzigane musician, who for
his part can play none other so well as the Hungarian music,
into whose execution he throws all his heart and his soul, all
his latent passion and unconscious poetry—the melancholy
and dissatisfied yearnings of an outcast, the deep
despondency of an exile who has never known a home, and
the wild freedom of a savage who never owned a master.
Did the Tziganes bring their music ready-made into
Hungary, or did they find it there and merely adopt it? is a
question which has occasioned much learned controversy.
Liszt inclines to the former opinion, which would mean that
no Hungarian music existed previous to the Tziganes’ arrival
in the country in the fifteenth century. That this music is
essentially of an Asiatic character is, however, no positive
proof in favor of this theory, for are not the Hungarians
themselves an out-wandered Asiatic race? and what more
natural than the supposition that one Asiatic race should be
the best interpreter of the music of a kindred people? More
likely, however, this music is an unconscious joint
production of the two, the Tzigane being the artist who has
sounded the depths of the Hungarian nature and given
expression to it.
I remember once asking a distinguished Polish lady—
Princess C——, herself a notable musician and pupil of the
great Chopin—whether she ever played Hungarian music.
“No,” she answered, “I cannot play it; there is something in
that music which I have not got—something wanting in me.”
What was here wanting I came to understand later, when I
became familiar with Hungarian music as rendered by the
Tzigane players. It was the training of several generations of
gypsy life which was here wanting—a training which alone
teaches the secret of deciphering those wild strains which
seem borrowed from the voice of the tempest, or stolen
from whispering reeds. In order to have played Hungarian
music aright she would have required to have slept on
mountain-tops during a score of years, to have been bathed
over and over again in falling dews, to have shared the food
of eagles and squirrels, and have been on equally intimate
terms with stags and snakes—conditions which,
unfortunately, lie quite out of the reach of delicate Polish
ladies!
Music was the only art within the Tzigane’s reach, for
despite his vividness of imagination and the continual state
of inspiration in which he may be said to live, he could never
have been a poet, painter, or sculptor to any eminent
degree, because of the fitfulness of his nature, and of his
incapacity to clothe his inspirations in a precise image, or
reduce them to a given form. Every man has the impulse to
manifest his feelings in some way or other, and music was
the only way open to the Tzigane, as being the one solitary
art which, à la rigueur, can dispense with a scientific
training and be taught by instinct alone.
Devoid of printed notes the Tzigane is not forced to divide
his attention between a sheet of paper and his instrument,
and there is consequently nothing to detract from the utter
abandonment with which he absorbs himself in his playing.
He seems to be sunk in an inner world of his own; the
instrument sobs and moans in his hands, and is pressed
tight against his heart as though it had grown and taken
root there. This is the true moment of inspiration, to which
he rarely gives way, and then only in the privacy of an
intimate circle, never before a numerous and unsympathetic
audience. Himself spellbound by the power of the tones he
evokes, his head gradually sinking lower and lower over the
instrument, the body bent forward in an attitude of rapt
attention, and his ear seeming to hearken to far-off ghostly
strains audible to himself alone, the untaught Tzigane
achieves a perfection of expression unattainable by mere
professional training.
This power of identification with his music is the real secret
of the Tzigane’s influence over his audience. Inspired and
carried away by his own strains, he must perforce carry his
hearers with him as well; and the Hungarian listener throws
himself heart and soul into this species of musical
intoxication, which to him is the greatest delight on earth.
There is a proverb which says, “The Hungarian only requires
a gypsy fiddler and a glass of water in order to make him
quite drunk;” and indeed intoxication is the only word
fittingly to describe the state of exaltation into which I have
seen a Hungarian audience thrown by a gypsy band.
Sometimes, under the combined influence of music and
wine, the Tziganes become like creatures possessed; the
wild cries and stamps of an equally excited audience only
stimulate them to greater exertions. The whole atmosphere
seems tossed by billows of passionate harmony; we seem to
catch sight of the electric sparks of inspiration flying
through the air. It is then that the Tzigane player gives forth
everything that is secretly lurking within him—fierce anger,
childish wailings, presumptuous exaltation, brooding
melancholy, and passionate despair; and at such moments,
as a Hungarian writer has said, one could readily believe in
his power of drawing down the angels from heaven into hell!
Listen how another Hungarian has here described the effect
of their music:
“How it rushes through the veins like electric fire! How it
penetrates straight to the soul! In soft, plaintive minor tones
the adagio opens with a slow, rhythmical movement: it is a
sighing and longing of unsatisfied aspirations; a craving for
undiscovered happiness; the lover’s yearning for the object
of his affection; the expression of mourning for lost joys, for
happy days gone forever: then abruptly changing to a major
key the tones get faster and more agitated; and from the
whirlpool of harmony the melody gradually detaches itself,
alternately drowned in the foam of over-breaking waves, to
reappear floating on the surface with undulating motion—
collecting as it were fresh power for a renewed burst of fury.
But quickly as the storm came it is gone again, and the
music relapses into the melancholy yearnings of
heretofore.”
These two extremes of fiercest passion and plaintive wailing
characterize the nature of the Hungarian, of whom it is said
that, “weeping, the Hungarian makes merry.”
Under the influence of Tzigane music a Hungarian is capable
of flinging about his money with the most reckless
extravagance—fifty, a hundred, a thousand florins and more
being often given for the performance of a single melody.
Sometimes a gentleman will stick a large bank-note behind
his ear, while the Tzigane proceeds to play his favorite tune,
drawing nearer and nearer till he is almost touching; pouring
the melody straight into the upturned ear of the enraptured
auditor; dropping out the notes as though the music were
some exquisitely flavored liquid flattering the palate of this
superrefined gourmet, who, with half-closed eyes expressive
of perfect beatitude, entirely abandons himself to the
delirious ecstasy.
Not only do the people at rustic gatherings dance to the
strains of these brown bohemians, but in no real Hungarian
ball-room would other music be tolerated, and the Austrian
military bands, so much prized elsewhere, are here at a
discount and little appreciated.

GYPSY MUSICIANS.
Of course the gypsy bands in large towns are not composed
of the ragged, unkempt individuals who haunt the village
pothouses or the lonely csardas[65] on the puszta. Their
constant intercourse with higher circles has given them a
certain degree of polish, and they mostly appear in
Hungarian costume; but intrinsically they are ever the same
as their more vagabond brethren, and their eye never loses
the semi-savage glitter reminding one of a half-tamed
animal.
The calling of musician has often become hereditary in
certain families, who thus feel themselves to be interwoven
with the fates of the nobility for whom they play; and vice
versa, for the youth of both sexes in Hungary the
recollection of every pleasure they have enjoyed, the dawn
of first love, and every alternation of hope, triumph,
jealousy, or despair, is inextricably interwoven with the
image of the Tzigane player. As Mr. Patterson says, “The
Tzigane is a sort of retainer of the Magyar, who cannot well
live without him—the insolent good-nature of the one just
fitting in with the simple-hearted servility of the other;
hence the Tzigane is most commonly found in those parts of
the country where Hungarians and Roumanians are in the
majority. He does not find the neighborhood of the hard-
working, money-loving Suabians profitable to him.” Those
who are successful musicians gain a sort of abnormal social
status far above their fellows. The proverb, “No
entertainment without the gypsies,” is acted upon by
peasant and prince alike. Those nobles who have
squandered their fortunes would, if they took the trouble to
analyze the causes of their ruin, find the Tzigane player to
form one of the heaviest items. As to the peasant there is a
popular rhyme which says that if the Tzigane plays badly he
gets his head broken with his own fiddle; but should he
succeed in touching the feelings of the excitable peasant,
the latter will give him the shirt off his own back.
English people are apt to misunderstand the position of
these Tzigane musicians, which is in every way a peculiar
one—the intimacy with the upper classes thus brought
about by their calling implying, however, no sort of equality.
The Tzigane remains the gypsy fiddler, while the Magyar
never forgets that he is a nobleman; and the barrier
between the two classes is as absolute as that between Jew
and gentleman in Poland. Although it is no uncommon sight
in the streets of any Hungarian town, towards the small
hours of the morning, to see distinguished members of the
jeunesse dorée (their spirits, no doubt, slightly raised by
wine) going home affectionately linked arm-in arm with
these brown fiddlers, yet no Hungarian could fall into the
amusing mistake of an English nobleman, who, making a
point of lionizing all celebrities within reach, invited to
dinner the first violin of a gypsy band starring in London
some years ago. The flattering invitation occasioned the
most intense surprise to the distinguished artist himself,
who, though well used to many forms of enthusiasm called
forth by his genius, was certainly not accustomed to be
seriously taken in the sense of a civilized human being. It is
said, however, that the gypsy’s quickness of perception,
doing duty for education on this occasion, enabled him to
pass through the formidable ordeal of a London dinner-party
without further breaches of our rigid etiquette than are quite
permissible on the part of a barbarous grandee.
It is said that the Tziganes often perform the office of
postillon d’amour in taking letters backward and forward
between young people who have no other means of
communication, their peculiar code of honor forbidding
them to take any pecuniary remuneration in return. Thus
many of them are able to show dainty pieces of handiwork
and presents of valuable jewelled studs or amber mouth-
pieces, received from their high-born patrons in token of
gratitude for delicate services rendered.
The words “Tzigane” and “musician” have become almost
synonymous in Hungary, and to say “I shall call in the
Tziganes” is equivalent to saying “I shall send for the
musicians.”
When the dancers are limp and indolent the Tzigane
musician loses interest as well, and plays carelessly and
without spirit; but when he sees dancing con amore, and
more especially if his playing be praised, then he knows
neither hunger nor fatigue. He executes every sort of dance
music with spirit, and his power of identifying himself with
the dancers renders the gypsy’s playing far superior to that
of other professional musicians; but his real triumph is the
csardas.
The band-master is fond of secretly selecting a couple from
among the dancers, and at these directing his music—
aiming it at them, if one may thus express it—following their
every movement, and identifying himself with their every
gesture. To watch a pair of lovers dancing is the gypsy
player’s greatest delight, and for them he exerts himself to
the utmost, throwing his whole soul into the music,
breathing the softest sighs and the most passionate
rhapsodies of which his instrument is capable.
The Tzigane band-master—or, rather, the first violin, for the
gypsies require no one to beat time for them—when playing
in the ball-room, is wont to change the melody as fancy
prompts, merely giving warning to his colleagues by two
sharp raps of the bow that a change is impending. The other
musicians do not know beforehand what tune is coming, but
a note or two suffices to put them on the scent, and they fall
in so smoothly that the transition is scarcely detected.
Almost every one of the dancers has his or her favorite air—
their nota, as it is here called—and it is meant as a delicate
attention when the Tzigane band-master, smiling or winking
at a passing dancer, strikes into his air of predilection. The
gypsy’s memory in thus retaining (and never confounding)
the favorite airs of each separate person in a large society is
marvellous; and not only this, but he will likewise remember
to a nicety which air was your favorite one three or four
years ago, and all the attendant circumstances to which the
former melody played accompaniment.
Thus, whirling past in the mazes of your favorite valse, with
the girl you adore on your arm, you may catch the dark eye
of the Tzigane player fixed expressively upon you, and in
the next moment the music has changed; it is a long-
forgotten melody they are playing now—a melody once
familiar to your ears at a by-gone time, when you had other
thoughts, other hopes, another partner on your arm; when
wood-violet, not patchouly, was perchance the scent you
loved best, and fair ringlets had more charm than raven
tresses.
For a moment the present scene has faded from your eyes,
and in its place you see a vanished face and hear a voice
grown strange to your ears. That valse, once to you the
most entrancing music on earth, now sounds like the gibings
of some tormenting spirit, and you breathe an involuntary
sigh for a time that is no more!
Thus the Tzigane player, unlike the hired musicians in other
countries, has an intimate and artistic connection with his
dancers. In England or Germany the musician is simply the
machine which plays, no more to be regarded than a barrel-
organ or a musical-box; in Hungary alone he is something
more, his power of directing being here not limited to the
feet, but may almost be said to extend to the fancies and
feelings of his audience—feelings which it is his delight to
share and sway, with actual power to stimulate love or
jealousy, and reawaken grief and remorse, at the touch of
his magic wand.
 CHAPTER XXXVII.

GYPSY POETRY.
VERY little genuine Tzigane poetry has penetrated to the
outer world, and many songs erroneously attributed to the
gypsies (by Borrow among others) are proved to be
adaptations of Spanish or Italian canzonets picked up in the
course of their wanderings, while of those few which are
undoubtedly their own productions hardly any exceed the
length of six or eight lines.
“We sing only when we are drunk,” was the answer given by
an old gypsy to a collector of folk-songs, which pithy and
concise definition of gypsy literature would seem to be a
tolerably correct one—though, on the other hand, it might
be urged with some show of reason that the gypsy, being
often drunk, we might naturally expect his poetical effusions
to be proportionately numerous.
And perhaps they are in fact more numerous than is
generally supposed, only that for lack of a recording pen to
take note of them as they arise their momentary
inspirations pass by unheeded, leaving no more mark
behind than does the song of some wild forest-bird when it
has ceased to wake the woodland echoes. The conditions of
the gypsy’s life render all but impossible the task of a
scribe, who has little chance of picking up anything of
interest unless prepared for the time being to become
almost a gypsy himself.
Nor have there been wanting ardent folk-lorists (if I may
coin a word) who have gone this length; so, for instance, Dr.
Heinrich von Wlislocki, who, in the summer of 1883, spent
several months as member of a wandering troop of tent
gypsies in Transylvania and Southern Hungary, and has
lately published a volume of gypsy fairy tales, the fruit of his
laborious expedition. Yet on the whole the harvest is a
meagre one, if we take account of the time and trouble
spent on its realization; and even this energetic collector
has declared that he would hardly have the courage a
second time to face the deceptions and fatigues of such an
undertaking.
To his pen it is that we owe the first poem contained in this
chapter; the second one, entitled, “The Black Voda,”
interesting as being an almost solitary instance of a
consecutive gypsy ballad, was communicated to me by the
courtesy of Professor Hugo von Meltzl, of Klausenburg,
another Transylvanian authority in the matter of folk-lore,
who, in his “Acta Comparationis Literarum Universum,” has
given many interesting details bearing on these subjects.
The other sixteen specimens of the Tzigane muse are so
simple as to call for no explanation, though in one or two
cases not wholly devoid of poetical merit.

GYPSY BALLAD.
(From a German translation by Dr. H. von Wlislocki.)

O’er the meadow, o’er the wold,

Tracks a boy the wand’rer old,
Who a scarf wears by his side—
Follows him with stealthy stride.
Bleeding fells the wand’rer prone
In the forest dark and lone;
And the boy has ta’en the life
Of the man with murd’rous knife.
Throws the corse all stained with blood
In the river’s rushing flood;
But, alas! not guessing he
Who this ancient wand’rer be.
Lightly running home then went,
Till he reached his mother’s tent,
Held the scarf before her eyes;
She, long silent with surprise,
Cried at last with passion wild,
“Cursed be thou, my only child!
May the slayer of his sire
Branded be by Heaven’s ire;
Hast thy father killed to-day,
And his scarf hast stolen away!”

THE BLACK VODA.[66]

“Rise, arise, my Velvet Georgie,[67]

Waken, set you to the bellows;
Forge and hammer nails of iron.”
Said the husband, “I am coming;
Take the broom the dust out-sweeping.”
And then Velvet Georgie rises,
Straightway on his feet is standing.
At the bellows quick down-sitting,
Nails of iron he is forging.
Then into the market going,
Roast-meat fresh and juicy bought he,
Roasted meat and white bread also.
And he walked into the tavern,
And he sat there eating, drinking,
Never thinking of his consort,
Nothing caring for her wishes—
No new dress for her is buying.
She to Voda ran complaining.
Voda thus his love did answer,
“To the merchant quickly hie thee,
Ask him what a dress will cost thee.”
To the town she ran off smiling,
Chose a dress there for her wearing.
Quoth the merchant, “Not on credit;
Bring me cash before I sell it.”
Voda paid him down the money;
Paid and went— But Velvet Georgie,
From the tavern soon returning,
Found his wife, and in his anger
Threw her in the glowing furnace,
Whence she, loud with cries of anguish,
Called upon her absent lover:

“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,

See how both my feet are burning!”

“Let them burn, O faithless lassie,

Many pair of boots hast cost me.”

“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,

See now how my waist is burning!”

“Let it burn, thou brazen hussy,

Worn out hast thou many dresses.”

“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,

How my bosom burns and scorches!”

“Let it burn, O shameless harlot,

Many hands have oft caressed it.”

“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,

Both my hands are burning sorely!”

“Let them burn, O wanton lassie,

Many pair of gloves they cost me.”

“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,

Now my neck is burning also!”

“Let it burn, thou brazen hussy,

Many beads hast worn around it.”

“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,

Now my lips the fire is catching!”

“Let them burn, O shameless harlot,

Many kisses hast thou given.”

“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,

Now my head itself is burning!”

“Let it burn, thou worthless baggage,

Let the fire destroy thee wholly.”

GYPSY RHYMES.
I.

The donkey is a lazy brute,

That fact there is no hiding;
Yet those, methinks, the brute doth suit
Who slow are fond of riding.

II.

Autumn glads the peasant’s breast,

Sends the hunter on the quest;
Pines the gypsy’s heart alone
For the sunshine that is gone!

III.

Since holds the tomb my mother dear,

My life is cheerless, bleak, and drear;
No sweetheart have on earth’s wide face,
So is the grave my better place.

IV.

I my father never knew,

Friend to me was never true,
Dead the mother that I loved,
Faithless has my sweetheart proved,
Still alone with me you fare,
Faithful fiddle, everywhere!

V.

Of coin my purse is bare,

My heart is full of care;
Come here, my fiddle, ’tis for thee
To banish care and poverty.

VI.

Heaven grant the boon, I pray;

All I ask is but a gown—
But a gown with buttons gay,
Buttons jingling joyously,
Jingling to be heard in town!

VII.

God of vengeance! give to me

That of wives the best;
Give me boot and give me spur,
Give me scarlet vest.
Then though spite their visage darken
In the market-place,
Fain must look and needs must hearken
All my foemen’s race.
 VIII.

Where soft the wee burn babbles down over there,

Full oft have I pressed these lips to my fair.
The burn it still babbles, will babble amain,
Shall lips to my fair be pressed never again!
The waves of the brook to the valley are flowing,
Where on grave of my fairest the blossoms are blowing.

IX.

Down there in the meadow they’re mowing,

And looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing;
Such looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing,
That mad is this heart of mine going!

X.

Yonder strapping lass did bake,

Put no salt into the cake;
Lo! it sticks upon the pan—
Eat it, child, as best you can.

XI.

“Plainly, maiden, lov’st thou me?

Which thy true-love—I or he?”
“Thou, O thou, when thou art nigh;
But for love of him I die!”

XII.

Boots and shoes were never mine,

Seldom have I tasted wine;
But I once possessed a wife,
And she poisoned all my life!
 XIII.

Hammer the iron! Deal thy blows

Heavy and hard, as a gypsy knows.
Poor, yet ever—how poor!—remain;
Heart full of bitterness, full of pain.
Ah, how well would it be if there
I could but in yon furnace glare,
Till soft it grew, my love’s heart ply;
No man were then so rich as I.

XIV.

Underneath the greenwood-tree

Days I’ve waited three times three;
I would on my love set eyes,
Here I know her path-way lies.
Could I hope a kiss to earn,
Into weeks the days might turn;
Could I hope to win my dear,
Then each day might be a year!

XV.

Come, silvery moon, so silent and coy,

What does my brown sweetheart that dwells by the
mere?
Say, was she not kissed by a flaxen-haired boy?
Or whispers a stranger soft words in her ear?

On second thoughts, better, moon, darling, be mute,

The odious trade of a telltale eschewing;
Or perhaps you might tell her—and that would not suit—
What yesterday evening myself I was doing!

XVI.
The bee ever makes for the flower,
And lads after lassies will go;
Was it otherwise, grandam so sour,
In the days of thy youth long ago?

For Nature her mould never varies,

To that can no wisdom say nay;
What the ancestor felt, that the heir is,
As inheritor, feeling to-day.
 CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE SZEKLERS AND ARMENIANS.

OF the Hungarians in general, who constitute something less
than the third part of the total population of Transylvania, it
is not my intention to speak in detail. Hungary and
Hungarians have already been exhaustively described by
abler pens, and I wish here to confine myself chiefly to such
points as are distinctively characteristic of the land beyond
the forest. Under this head, therefore, come the Szeklers, as
they are named—a branch of the Magyar race settled in the
east and north-east of Transylvania, and numbering about
one hundred and eighty thousand.

SZEKLER PEASANT.
There are many versions to explain the origin of the
Szeklers, and some historians have supposed them to be
unrelated to the great body of Magyars living at the other
side of the mountains. They are fond of describing
themselves as being descended from the Huns. Indeed one
very old family of Transylvanian nobles makes, I believe, a
boast of proceeding in line direct from the Scourge of God
himself, and there are many popular songs afloat among the
people making mention of a like belief, as the following:

A noble Szekler born and bred,

Full loftily I hold my head.
Great Attila my sire was he;
As legacy he left to me

A dagger, battle-axe, and spear;

A heart, to whom unknown is fear;
A potent arm, which oft has slain
The Tartar foe in field and plain.

The Scourge of Attila the bold

Still hangs among us as of old;
And when this lash we swing on high,
Our enemies are forced to fly.

The Szekler proud then learn to know,

And strive not to become his foe,
For blood of Huns runs in him warm,
And well he knows to wield his arm.

There is also a popular legend telling us how Csaba, son of

Attila, retreated eastward with the wreck of his army, after
the last bloody battle, in which he had been vanquished. His
purpose was to rejoin the rest of his tribe in Asia, and with
their help once more to return and conquer.
On the extreme frontier of Transylvania, however, he left
behind him a portion of his army, to serve as watch-post
and be ready to support him on his return some day. Before
parting the two divisions of troops took solemn oath ever to
assist each other in hour of need, even though they had to
traverse the whole world for that purpose. Accordingly,
hardly had Csaba reached the foot of the hills, when the
neighboring tribes rose up against the forlorn Szeklers; but
the tree-tops rustling gently against one another soon
brought news of their distress to their brethren, who,
hurrying back, put the enemy to flight.
After a year the same thing was repeated, but the stream
ran murmuring of it to the river, the river carried the news
to the sea, the sea shouted it onward to the warriors, and
again quickly returning on their paces they dispersed the
foe.
Three years went by ere the Szeklers were again hard
pressed by their enemies. This time their countrymen were
already so far away that only the wind could reach them in
the distant east, but they came again, and a third time
delivered their brethren.
The Szeklers had now peace for many years; the nut-kernels
they had planted in the land beyond the forest had
meanwhile sprouted and developed to mighty trees with
spreading branches and massive trunks; children had grown
to be old men, and grandchildren to arms-bearing warriors;
and the provisionary watch-post had become a well-
organized settlement. But once again the neighbors,
envying the strangers’ welfare, and having forgotten the
assistance which always came to them in hour of need, rose
up against them. Bravely the Szeklers fought, but with such
inferior numbers that they could not but perish; they had no
longer any hope of assistance, for their brethren were long
since dead, and gone where no messenger could reach
them.
But the star of the Szeklers yet watched over them, and
brought the tidings to another world.
The last battle was just being fought, and the defeat of the
Szeklers seemed imminent, when suddenly the tramp of
hoofs and the clank of arms is heard, and from the starlit
vault of heaven phantom legions are seen approaching.
No mortal army can resist an immortal one. The sacred oath
has been kept; once more the Szekler is saved, and silently
as they came the phantoms wend back their way to heaven.
Since that time the Szekler has obtained a firm hold on the
land, and enemies molest him no more; but as often as on a
clear starry night he gazes aloft on the glittering track[68]
left of yore by the passage of the delivering army, he thinks
gratefully of the past, and calls it by the name of the hadak
utja (the way of the legions).

Recent historians have, however, swept away these theories

regarding the Szeklers’ origin, and explained it in different
fashion. The most ancient records of the Magyars do not
date farther back than the sixth century after Christ, when
they are mentioned as a semi-nomadic race living on the
vast plains between the Caucasian and Ural mountains. A
portion of them quitted these regions in the eighth and
ninth centuries to seek a new home in the territory between
the rivers Dnieper and Szereth. From here a small fraction of
them, pressed hard by the Bulgarians, traversed the chain
of Moldavian Carpathians, and found a refuge on the rich
fertile plains of Eastern Transylvania (895), where, living
ever since cut off from their kinsfolk, they have formed a
people by themselves. According to the most probable
version, these fugitives would seem to have been the
women, children, and old men, who, left unprotected at
home in the absence of the fighting-men of the horde, had
thus escaped the vengeance of Simeon, King of Bulgaria.
“At the frontier,” or “beyond,” is the signification of the
Hungarian word Szekler, which therefore does not imply a
distinctive race, but merely those Hungarians who live
beyond the forest—near the frontier, and cut off from the
rest of their countrymen. One Hungarian authority tells us
that the word Szekler, meaning frontier-keeper or
watchman, was indiscriminately applied to all soldiers of
whatever nationality who defended the frontier of the
kingdom.
Later, when the greater body of Hungarians had established
their authority over this portion of the territory as well, the
two peoples fraternized with each other as kinsfolk,
descended indeed from one common family tree, but who
had acquired certain dissimilarities in speech, manner, and
costume, brought about by their separation; and despite
sympathy and resemblance on most points, they have never
quite merged into one nationality, and the Szeklers have a
proverb which says that there is the same difference
between a Szekler and a Hungarian as there is between a
man and his grandson—meaning that they themselves
came in by a previous immigration.
The Szeklers had this advantage over their kinsfolk in
Hungary proper, of never at any time having been reduced
to the state of serfdom. They occupied the exceptional
position of a peasant aristocracy, having, among other
privileges, the right of hunting, also that of being exempted
from infantry service and being enlisted as cavalry soldiers
only; whereas the ordinary Hungarian peasant was, up to
1785, attached to the soil under conditions only somewhat
lighter than those oppressing the Russian serf. Curiously
enough, though the system of villanage had already been
formally discarded by King Sigismond in 1405, it was taken
up again some years later; and, in point of fact, up to 1848
there was scarcely any limit to the services which the
Hungarian peasant was bound to render to his master.
Not so the Szeklers, who have always jealously defended
their privileges and preserved their freedom, owing to which
their bearing is prouder, freer, nobler than that of their
kinsfolk. The Hungarian peasant, as a rule, is neither
wanting in grace nor dignity. But freedom is just as much a
habit as slavery; and as one writer has aptly remarked, “A
people does not fully regain the stamp of manhood and its
own self-respect in a single generation,” so the man who
can count back eight centuries of freeborn ancestors will
always have an advantage over one whose fathers were still
born in bondage.
Like the other Magyars, the Szeklers are an inborn nation of
soldiers, and rank among the best of the Austrian army. It
was principally on the Szeklers that the brunt fell of resisting
attacks from the many barbarous hordes always infesting
the eastern frontier. When the Wallachians fled to the
mountains at the approach of an enemy, and the Saxons
ensconced themselves within their well-built fortresses, the
Szeklers advanced into the open plain and ranged
themselves for battle, rarely abandoning the field till the
ground was thickly strewn with their dead.
The Szekler, who has usually more children than his
Hungarian brother, is well and strongly built, but rarely over
middle size. His face is oval, the forehead flat, hands and
feet rather small than large. With much natural intelligence,
he cares little for art or science, and has but small
comprehension of the beautiful. Even when living in easy
circumstances, he does not care to surround himself with
books like the Saxon, nor does he betray the latent taste for
color and design so strongly characterizing the Roumanian.
His inbred dignity seems to place him on a level with
whoever he addresses. He is reserved in speech, with an
almost Asiatic formality of manner, and it requires the
stimulus of wine or music to rouse him to noisy merriment;
but on occasions when speech is required of him, he
displays inborn power of oration, speaking easily and
without embarrassment, finding vigorous expressions and
appropriate images wherewith to clothe his meaning. The
Hungarian language has no dialect, and each peasant
speaks it as purely as a prince.
The Hungarian’s character is a singularly simple and open
one; he is simple in his love, his hatred, his anger, and
revenge, and though he may sometimes be accused of
brutality, deceit can never be laid to his charge, while
flattery he does not even understand. It is his inherent
dignity and self-respect which makes him thus open,
scorning to appear otherwise than he really is. You will never
see a Hungarian bargaining for his money with clamorous
avidity like the Saxon, nor will he accept an alms with
humble gratitude like the Roumanian.
He uncovers his head courteously to the master of his
village, but he will not think of uncovering for a strange
gentleman, even were it the greatest in the land. Hospitality
is with him not a virtue but an instinct, and he cannot even
comprehend the want of it in another.
A Hungarian who had stopped to rest the horses in a Saxon
village came wonderingly to his master. “What strange
people are these?” he said. “They were sitting round the
table eating bread and onions, and not one of them asked
me to join them!”
On another occasion a gentleman travelling with an invalid
wife was overtaken by a storm near a Saxon village, and
wanted to put up there for the night. There was no inn in the
place, and not one of the families would consent to receive
them. “You had better drive on to the next village but one,”
was the advice volunteered by one of the most good-
natured Saxon householders. “Not to the next village, for
there they are Saxons like us and will not take you in; but to
the village after that, which is Hungarian. They are always
hospitable, and will give you a bed.”
The Szekler villages, of a formal simplicity, are as far
removed from the Roumanian poverty as from Saxon
opulence. The long double row of whitewashed houses, their
narrow gable-ends all turned towards the road, have
something camp-like in their appearance, and have been
aptly compared to a line of snowy tents ready to be folded
together at the approach of an enemy. The Magyar has a
passion for whitewashing his dwelling-house, and several
times a year, at the fixed dates of particular festivals, he is
careful to restore to his walls the snowy garment of their
lost innocence. This custom of whitewashing at stated
periods is still said to be practised among the tribes dwelling
in the Caucasian regions.
In the midst of the village stands the church, whitewashed
like the other houses. It is slender and modest in shape,
neither surrounded by fortified walls like the Saxon
churches, nor made glorious with color like those of the
Roumanians. Near to the entrance of the village is the
church-yard, and in some places it is still customary to bury
the dead with their faces turned towards the east.
There are few Roumanian villages in Szekler-land, neither do
we find here the inevitable outgrowth of Roumanian hovels
tacked on to each village, as is usual in Saxon colonies. The
Roumanians do not thrive alongside of their Szekler
neighbors, because these do not require their aid and will
take no trouble to learn their language. The Szekler
cultivates his own soil without help from strangers, whereas
the Saxon, whose ground is usually larger than he can
manage himself, and obliged to take Roumanian farm-
servants, is compelled to learn their language; and it has
often been remarked that a whole Saxon household has
been brought to speak Roumanian merely on account of one
single Roumanian cow-wench.
The greater number of Szeklers have remained Catholics,
the population of the western district only having adopted
the Reformed faith, while the Unitarian sect, which has
made of Klausenburg its principal seat, and counts some
fifty-four thousand members, is chiefly composed of
Hungarians proper.
There are not above a dozen really wealthy Hungarian
nobles in Transylvania, and of many a one it is jokingly said
that his whole possessions consist of four horses, as many
oxen, and a respectable amount of debts. The same sort of
open-handed hospitality which has ruined so many Poles
has also here undermined many fortunes.
The conjugal relations are somewhat Oriental among the
lower classes, the position of the wife towards the husband
involving a sense of social inferiority; for while she
addresses him as kend (your grace), and speaks of him as
uram (lord or master), he calls her thou, and speaks of her
as felsegem (my consort). In walking along the road it is her
place to walk behind her lord and master; and at weddings
men and women are usually separated, and if the house
have but a single room it is reserved for the men to banquet
in, while the women, as inferior creatures, are relegated to
the cellar or to a stable or byre cleared for the purpose.
Bride and bridegroom must eat nothing at this banquet, and
only in the evening is a separate meal served up for them,
and, like the other guests, the new-married couple must
spend this day apart.
If we are to believe popular songs, of which the following is
a sample, the stick would seem to play no unimportant part
in each Hungarian ménage:

“O peacock fair, O peacock bright,

 O peacock proud and high!
I fool! for though of lowly birth,
A noble wife took I;
But nothing that I e’er could do
Would please my peacock high.
To market once I went and bought
A pair of blood-red shoon.
I placed my present on the bench—
’Twas at the hour of noon.
‘Thy duty bids thee call me lord,
My darling wife,’ quoth I.
‘Nay, nevermore, that will I not,
And though I had to die,
For gentlemen of noble birth
Sat round my father’s board,
And if I said not “sir” to them,
How should I call thee lord?’

“O peacock fair, O peacock bright,

O peacock proud and high!
I fool! for though of lowly birth,
A noble wife took I;
But nothing that I e’er could do
Would please my peacock high.
Again to market did I go
And bought a kirtle fine;
’Twas growing dark as on the bench
I laid this gift of mine.
‘Thy duty bids thee call me lord,
My darling wife,’ quoth I.
‘Nay, nevermore, that will I not,
And though I had to die,
For gentlemen of noble birth
Sat round my father’s board,
And if I said not “sir” to them,
How should I call thee lord?’
 “O peacock fair, O peacock bright,
O peacock proud and high!
I fool! for though of lowly birth,
A noble wife took I;
But nothing that I e’er could do
Would please my peacock high.
The moon was shining in the skies
When to the woods I sped;
I cut a hazel rod full long,
And hid it ’neath the bed.
‘Thy duty bids thee call me lord,
My darling wife,’ quoth I.
‘Nay, nevermore, that will I not.
And though I had to die.’
Then in my hand I took the rod
And beat my bosom’s wife,
Until she cried, ‘Thou art my lord!
My lord for death and life!’”

The Armenians deserve something more than a passing

notice at the fag-end of a chapter; but having had little
opportunity of being thrown together with these people, I
am unable to furnish many details as to their life and
manners.
Persecuted and oppressed in Moldavia during the
seventeenth century, the Armenians were offered a refuge
in Transylvania by the Prince Michael Apafi, and came hither
about 1660, at first living dispersed all over the land, till in
1791 the Emperor Leopold granting them among other
privileges the right to establish independent colonies, they
founded the settlements of Szamos-Ujvar (Armenopolis) and
Elisabethstadt, or Ebesfalva. This latter town, which counts
to-day about twenty-five hundred Armenian inhabitants, is
renowned for the good looks of its women—pale, dark-eyed
beauties, with low foreheads and straight eyebrows, whose
portraits might be taken in pen and ink only, without any
help from the palette. They have the reputation—I know not
with what reason—of being very immoral, but in a quiet,
unostentatious fashion.
In the men the pure Asiatic type is yet more clearly marked
—the fine-shaped oval head, arched yet not hooked nose,
black eyes, jetty beard, and clean-cut profiles betraying
their nationality at the first glance. In manner they are
singularly calm and self-possessed, never evincing emotion
or excitement. They are much addicted to card-playing. In
many parts of Hungary the Armenians have so completely
amalgamated with the Magyars as to have forgotten their
own language, but where they live together in compact
colonies it is still kept up. There are two languages—the
popular idiom and the written tongue, the language of
science and literature. Their religion is the Catholic one, but
their services are conducted in their own language instead
of Latin.
Like the Hebrews, the Armenians have great natural
aptitude for trade; and it is chiefly due to their influence
that the Jews have not here succeeded in getting the reins
of commerce into their hands. The bankers and money-
lenders in Transylvania are almost invariably Armenians.
A Saxon legend explains the origin of the Armenians by
saying that when God had created all the different sorts of
men, there remained over two little morsels of the clay of
which he had respectively moulded the Jew and the gypsy;
so, in order not to waste these, he kneaded them up
together, and formed of them the Armenian.
 CHAPTER XXXIX.

FRONTIER REGIMENTS.
THE south-west of Transylvania used to form part of the
territory called the Militär-Grenze (military frontier)—a
peculiar institution now extinct, which, interesting as being
to some extent of Roman origin, may here claim a few lines
of notice.
When the Roman conquerors had taken possession of the
countries north of the Danube, they found it necessary to
organize a sort of standing rampart of troops to be always at
hand, ready to oppose unexpected attacks from the
barbarian hordes on the other side. These soldiers, who
might be designated as military agriculturists, found their
sustenance in cultivating the ground assigned to each of
them, and, being always ready on the spot, could be
speedily formed in line at the slightest alarm of an enemy.
Similar circumstances caused the Hungarian kings to imitate
these institutions, and organize the population of the
southern frontier to that purpose, allotting to them the task
of protecting the country against the frequent invasions of
Turks. Not content, however, with resisting attacks from
without, these troops often adopted an offensive line of
action, making raids over the frontier to plunder, burn, and
massacre in the enemy’s country. The continual state of
skirmishing warfare resulting from these arrangements kept
up the martial spirit of the population, and many are the
legends recorded of doughty deeds accomplished at that
time.
After the fall of the Hungarian kingdom in 1526, the
noblemen subscribed among themselves to keep up the
frontier in the same fashion, often availing themselves of
the assistance of these troops in their attempted
insurrections against Austria.
But the Hungarian soldiers, who in this somewhat rough
school of chivalry had acquired objectionable habits—such,
for instance, as that of bringing back their enemies’ heads
attached to the saddle-bow whenever they returned from a
skirmish—had, despite their evident utility, fallen into bad
odor at Vienna; so when the Hungarian nobles themselves
lost their independence, these frontier troops were suffered
to fall into disorganization. Only after Maria Theresa had
ascended the throne, and, having consolidated the Austrian
power, obtained for herself and her descendants the
irrevocable right to the Hungarian crown, was it thought
necessary to reorganize in more regular fashion this living
rampart along the frontier, with a view to keeping out the
Turks, who were again showing signs of being troublesome.
Accordingly, the population of the whole southern frontier,
from Poland to the Adriatic, was classified in military
companies and regiments, and the ground distributed to the
peasants under condition that they and their children should
live and die on the spot, their sons inheriting the obligation
of serving in like manner as their fathers.
Of these frontier regiments, altogether fourteen in number,
six were created in Transylvania. Of these two infantry and
one dragoon regiment were recruited from the Wallachian
population; the remaining three, two infantry and one
hussar, from the Hungarians.
This system was carried out without trouble in the provinces
recently reconquered from the Turks, which, being thinly
populated, offered greater inducements for fresh settlers;
but elsewhere, where there already existed a fixed
population of Hungarians and Roumanians, there was much
difficulty in establishing it. In former days the peasants had
consented to pass their life on horseback in order to protect
the frontier; but those days were long since gone by when
people found such life to be congenial, and many of the
novel conditions imposed by the Austrians were exceedingly
distasteful. They did not care to be commanded by German
officers, nor to feel themselves amalgamated with the
Austrian regular troops, liable to be sent to fight on foreign
territory.
Among the Wallachians whole villages emigrated in order to
evade these new laws. Those who declined to serve, and
were not inclined to leave their homes, were driven from
their huts at the point of the bayonet, and replaced by other
settlers brought from a distance. Much cruelty was resorted
to in order to compel their obedience, the Austrians sparing
neither fire nor sword to gain their ends; and the year 1784
in particular was most disastrous to those poor people, who,
after all, were only trying to escape from unjustifiable
tyranny. Also, a few years later, when some of these troops
had risen in insurrection, declaring themselves only obliged
to defend the frontier, not to espouse foreign quarrels in
which Austria alone had a personal interest, whole
regiments were decimated, shot down by the cannon; and
the place is still shown where the bodies of the victims of
this wholesale butchery repose under two giant hillocks.
From an Austrian point of view, no doubt this institution was
a most excellent and practical one; eighty thousand trained
men, who cost but little in time of peace, were ready at a
moment’s notice for war. Before the officer’s dwelling-house
at each station stood a high pole, wound over with ropes of
straw and other combustible matter, which was set fire to at
the slightest alarm of an enemy. The signal being thus taken
up and repeated from station to station, the whole frontier
was speedily marked out in a fiery line, and the men
collected and in arms in an incredibly short space of time.
When serving against an enemy their pay was equal to that
of the regular troops, while in time of peace they received
no pay except a few kreuzers per day whenever a soldier
was on duty—that is, whenever he had frontier inspection.
On these troops devolved the duty of keeping in order all
roads, buildings, etc., within their circuit, and nowhere in
Hungary and Transylvania were to be found such excellent,
well-kept roads, bridges, and buildings as those within the
territory of the military frontier.
The men could not marry without permission of their
superiors, their sons being, so to say, enrolled as soldiers
before their birth; while daughters could only inherit their
share of the father’s land on condition of marrying a soldier.
The lot of those born and bred in this species of military
bondage has been pathetically rendered in a Hungarian
song, of which I offer a translation:

The wild wood was my native home,

Though born unto a soldier’s doom.
Amid the green leaves sighing,
And gentle cushats crying,
My father nurtured me.

But soon as I, a stripling grown,

Could sit a horse’s back alone,
I to the plough remaining,
My sire must go campaigning
Against the French afar.

Drive furrows deeper and more deep!

Outbursting tears in torrents leap!
My father ne’er returning,
My mother pining, yearning,
Soon wore her life away.
 Now we to war to-morrow go;
The Ruler’s word has bid it so.
Ah me! ye green leaves sighing,
And gentle cushats crying,
When shall I hear you more?

THE ROTHENTHURM PASS.

In former days, when the country was in a state of semi-
barbarism, this system answered well enough; the military
discipline was in itself an education, and the bribe of
becoming landed proprietors induced many, no doubt, to
accept the conditions involved. Later on, however, when all
peasants obtained possession of the soil they tilled, the
tables were turned, and the frontier soldier found himself to
be considerably worse off than his neighbor. Likewise, the
original reason of these institutions no longer existed; the
Ottoman power was rapidly decreasing, and surprises at the
frontier were no more to be looked for. The spirit, the
adventure, the poetry of warfare (which alone had caused
these people to accept their lot) had departed, and they
could no longer be induced to let themselves be led to
butchery in distant climes to gratify a stranger’s whim.
Therefore, in the reorganization of the Austrian army after
the disastrous campaign of 1866, these frontier regiments
were, like other antiquated institutions, finally abolished,
and have left no other trace behind but here and there a
ruined watch-tower standing deserted in a mountain
wilderness.
Many of the points selected for the erection of these military
establishments lay amid the wildest and most beautiful
mountain scenery, and for a keen sportsman, or an ardent
lover of nature, the lot of an Austrian officer in one of these
beautiful wildernesses must have been a very El Dorado.
One of the most beautiful, and from a military point of view,
most important, of these military cordon stations was the
Rothenthurm Pass (Pass of the Red Tower), so named from
the color of a fortress-tower whose ruins may yet be seen
beside the road.
This lovely mountain-gorge, traversed by the river Aluta,
and to be reached in a pleasant two hours’ drive from
Hermanstadt, has been the scene of much cruel strife in by-
gone days. Many a time have the wild devastation—bringing
hordes poured into the land by this narrow defile; and here
it was that in 1493 George Hecht, the burgomaster of
Hermanstadt, obtained a signal victory over the Turks,
whom he butchered in wholesale fashion, dyeing the river
ruddy red, it is said, with the blood of the slain.
Nowadays the river Aluta flows by peaceably enough, and
the primitive little inn which stands at the boundary of the
two countries offers an inviting retreat to any solitary angler
who cares to study the characters of Transylvanian versus
Roumanian trout.
 CHAPTER XL.

WOLVES, BEARS, AND OTHER

ANIMALS.
TRANSYLVANIA has often been nicknamed the Bärenland, and
though bears and wolves do not exactly walk about the
high-roads in broad daylight, as unsophisticated travellers
are apt to expect, yet they are common enough features in
the landscape, and no one can be many weeks in the
country without hearing them mentioned as familiarly as
foxes or grouse are spoken of at home.
The number of bears shot in Transylvania in the course of
the year 1885 was about sixty. Eight of these fell to the
share of the Crown-prince Rudolf of Austria, who for the last
few years has rented a chasse at Gyergyó Szent Imre, in one
of the most favorable bear-hunting neighborhoods.[69]
As to the wolves destroyed each year, they are not to be
reckoned by dozens, nor even by scores, but by hundreds,
and I was assured by a competent authority that between
six and seven hundred is the number of those who last year
perished by the hand of man.
It is the commonest thing in the world on market-days to
see a group of shepherds in the ironmonger’s shop (where a
store of common fire-arms is kept), in deep consultation as
to the merits of the pistol or revolver they are in want of for
scaring the wolves so constantly molesting their flocks; and
occasionally a snapping and snarling wolf, or a pair of bear
cubs, are brought in a cart to the town in quest of an
amateur of such fierce pets.
Even in the neighborhood of Hermanstadt it is not safe to
walk far into the country alone in very cold weather for fear
of wolves, which can easily approach the town under cover
of the forest, which runs unbroken up to the hills; and while I
was at Hermanstadt a large gray wolf was reported to have
been seen several nights in succession prowling about
within the actual precincts of the lower town.
At one of the toll-bars marking the limits of the town, and
whence stretches off a lonely plain towards the south, a
large fierce dog is kept chained up; but he never retains his
situation two years running, because he is invariably
destroyed by wolves before the winter is out. “The dog at
the Poplaka toll-bar has been eaten again,” is the matter-of-
fact announcement one hears every year when the cold is
rising, and which has long since lost all flavor of sensation or
novelty; and one only wonders how any Hermanstadt dog
can still be found infatuated enough to undertake this
forlorn hope.
Up in the mountains, however, the wolves do not slink in
stealthy groups of twos and threes, but assemble in such
mighty packs that sometimes on the high pasturages the
snow is found to be trampled down by the tread of many
hundred feet, as though large droves of cattle had passed
over the place. Officers who have been engaged in the work
of going over the country, classifying all horses for purposes
of national defence, have told me that in many out-of-the-
way places up the hills they used to find the horses
frequently bitten or scarred about the nose—as many
keepsakes from the wolves, whose invariable habit it is first
to spring at the horse’s head.
Many are the ruses which the wolf employs in order to
induce a horse or foal to detach itself from a drove of
grazing animals. Sometimes he will roll himself up into a
shapeless mass, and lie thus immovable for hours on the
ground, till some young inexperienced colt, bitten with
curiosity, wanders from its mother’s side to investigate the
strange bundle it espies at a distance. The wily murderer
lets himself be approached without moving, and only then,
when the hapless victim bends down to snuff the packet, he
springs at the throat, and makes of it an easy prey.
The more experienced horses have long since learned that
their only safety is in numbers; so at the approach of wolves
they draw themselves together in a wheel, each head
turned inward touching the others, their tails all pointing
outward, and with their hind-hoofs dealing out such furious
kicks as to enable them to keep at bay several enemies at a
time.
The Transylvanian bears will rarely attack a man unless
provoked, experiencing as much terror from a chance
encounter as any they are likely to occasion. A Saxon
peasant told me of such a meeting he had some years ago,
when up in the mountains with some gentlemen who had
come there in quest of deer. As they were to sleep in the
open air, he had gone to collect firewood on the ground
between a scattered group of fir-trees. When issuing from
behind a tree-trunk he suddenly found himself face to face
with a gigantic bear—not ten paces off. “We were both so
taken aback,” he said, “that for nearly a minute we stood
staring at each other without moving. Then I called out, ‘Der
Teufel!’ and took to my heels; and the bear, he just gave a
grunt, which perhaps also meant ‘Der Teufel’ in his
language, and he also turned to run; and when I looked back
to see where he was, there, to be sure, he was still running
down the hill as hard as ever he could go.”
Only a couple of summers ago two Hungarian gendarmes
were patrolling near Szent Mihaly where each of them,
walking at a different side of a deep ravine, could see,
without being able to reach, his comrade. As one of them
came round a point of rock, he was suddenly confronted by
a bear carrying a sheep in his mouth. In this case, also, man
and bear stared at each other for some seconds; then the
bear turned away in order to carry off his booty to a safe
place. The gendarme, recovering from his surprise, fired at
the retreating bear, which, wounded, gave a loud roar. A
second shot likewise took effect, for now the bear, dropping
the sheep, raised himself on his hind-legs, and advanced on
his assailant. By the time a third shot was fired the bear had
come up close and seized the muzzle of the gun. A fearful
struggle now began between man and beast. The gendarme
was holding on convulsively to his gun, when, his foot
catching in a tree-root, he stumbled and fell to the ground.
Already he saw the dreadful jaws of the bear close to his
face, and gave himself up for lost. However, the bear was
getting weaker, and let go its hold on the gun to seize the
leg of the man, who, with a last desperate effort, struck the
animal on the breast with the butt-end of his rifle. This
turned the scale, and the animal fled down the ravine to
hide itself in the stream. In the mean time the second
gendarme, who from the other side had been spectator of
the scene, arrived, along with some shepherds armed with
clubs and pickaxes, and pursued the bear into his retreat.
The animal received them with terrific roars, and began to
pick up large stones, which he hurled at his adversaries with
such correct aim as severely to wound one of the shepherds
on the head. Finally the beast was killed, and his stomach
discovered to be full of fresh ox-flesh. The wounded
gendarme had to be conveyed home on horseback, and his
gun was found to have been completely bent in the
struggle.
At the costumed procession commemorating the arrival of
the Saxons in Transylvania, which I have described in
Chapter V., the most conspicuous object in the group of
hunting-trophies was a gigantic stuffed bear, which, as a
current newspaper announced, “had been shot expressly for
the occasion.” This paragraph excited considerable derision
among non-Transylvanian sportsmen, who mockingly
inquired whether a bear could be killed to order like an ox or
a prize pig.
In this case, however, the newspapers said no more than
the simple truth, the bear in question having been literally
shot to order by Oberlieutenant Berger, a native of the
place, and one of the most noteworthy Nimrods in the land.
It happened, namely, that about a fortnight before the day
fixed for the procession, some of the gentlemen charged
with its arrangement were lamenting that the only bear they
had for figuring in the hunting-group was of somewhat
shabby dimensions; on hearing which Oberlieutenant Berger
volunteered to go into the mountains in quest of a better
one. Chance favored his expedition, for within forty-eight
hours he met and shot the magnificent animal which had
the honor of figuring in the historical pageant.
Besides the two fresh bullets which had caused its death, no
less than eleven old lead balls were found completely grown
into the flesh and muscles of the animal.
Two young bear cubs captured alive by another sportsman
earlier in the year had originally been destined to join the
procession as well as their dead relative; but proving too
unruly, they had to be discarded from the programme, as it
was feared that their roaring might alarm the horses.
Though stocked by nature with a profusion of every sort of
game, such as roe-deer, stags, chamois, etc., sportsmen
generally find Transylvania to be an unsatisfactory country
for hunting purposes. It is just sufficiently preserved in order
to hamper an ardent sportsman who wishes, gun in hand, to
roam unmolested about the hills; yet not enough protected
to prevent the Roumanian peasants from calmly
appropriating everything which happens to cross their path.
They can hardly be called poachers either, because they are
simply and utterly wanting in comprehension for this sort of
personal property, and it would be as easy to persuade one
of them that it is wrong to slake his thirst at a mountain
spring as get him to believe that any of the animals he sees
running wild in the forest can belong to any one man more
than to another.
Even when regular hunting battues are organized, the
Roumanians employed as beaters will not fail to put in a
shot whenever they have the chance, nor will they hesitate
to despoil your bag of half its booty whenever your back is
turned.
In a large shooting-party in the neighborhood of
Hermanstadt two years ago, two roe-deer had been shot
down at the first drive. More than one of the gentlemen had
distinctly marked the place where the animals fell, yet on
coming up to it no trace of either was there to be seen save
a little blood upon the grass, and the beaters who had first
reached the spot loudly swore that the wounded animals
had made their escape. All search was unavailing to
discover where the carcasses had been hidden, and neither
threat nor bribe could induce the peasants to disgorge the
booty; but early next morning there were offered for sale at
the Hermanstadt market-place two fine roe-deer, which,
without rash judgment, may be safely asserted to be
identical with those so mysteriously spirited away the day
before.
On the occasion of this same shooting-party some of the
beaters had formed the further ingenious project of stealing
the gun from one of the gentlemen as he lay asleep near
the camp-fire; but they had reckoned without their host, not
having counted on the exceptional contingency of there
being one honest man among them, who took upon himself
to put his masters on their guard. The other beaters,
enraged at this treachery on the part of a comrade,
revenged themselves by destroying the saddle and cutting
out the tongue of his horse.

Chamois are sometimes to be seen in numbers of thirty to

forty heads at once. Roe and stags are common, but the
lynx and marten are growing rare; while the ibex and urus
have completely died out, the last urus known of in
Transylvania having been killed near Udvarhely in 1775.
Small game, such as hares, partridges, etc., are rarely to be
purchased in the market, and still more rarely to be met
with in the stubble-fields. Haselhühner[70] and capercailzie
are, however, sufficiently numerous in the pine woods to
reward more than a passing acquaintance; and whoever
takes the trouble to approach the river Alt with anything
resembling a civilized rod may be sure of a basketful of well-
flavored trout.
The wild-cat, badger, fox, and otter are still plentiful, as well
as almost every European variety of eagle and falcon.
Vultures are likewise numerous; and a friend of ours who, to
attract these birds of prey, lately invested in the unsavory
purchase of five dead dogs, which were deposited on a
sand-bank near the river, had presently the satisfaction of
seeing nine well-grown vultures settle on the place.

Those same bear cubs which had shown themselves so

unworthy of figuring in the historical procession were a
great source of amusement to us. When they arrived they
were tiny round balls of fur yelping piteously for their
mother, and hardly able to walk, but soon got reconciled to
their position, and became most intimate with the soldiers
at the barracks, where they were lodged. One day when we
went to visit them in the barrack-yard, accompanied by
several terriers, one of the cubs, happening to be in a
playful mood, began making advances to the dogs, which
mostly took to their heels in terror at sight of this formidable
playmate. One white fox-terrier only stood his ground and
entered into the spirit of the thing, and in the wild game of
gambols which ensued the ponderous antics of the baby
bear beside the lightning-like movements of the wiry terrier,
as they chased each other round and round the barrack-
yard, were a sight worth seeing.
In spite of their apparent awkwardness, however, it is
wonderful to see with what agility these young bears could
run up and down a tree-trunk, leading one to the
uncomfortable conclusion that if pursued by one of their
kinsfolk in a forest the hope of saving one’s self by climbing
a tree would be a slender one.
These two cubs, which for some incomprehensible reason
had been christened Dick and John, grew warmly attached
to the officer who had brought them here, and would rush
impetuously to meet him whenever he was seen
approaching. Both of them seemed likewise to be much
attracted by the sight of scarlet, and whenever they espied
a pair of red hussar breeches, or the scarlet stripe down a
general’s legging, there was instantly a race to this brilliant
goal, not always relished by the object of these attentions,
who sometimes failed to see the fun of being folded in their
uncouth embrace.
Dick was apt to be sulky at times, and wont to misinterpret
a friendly poke from a parasol, but John had an angelic
disposition, and soon became the favorite. Dick had a bad
habit of sucking his brother’s ears, who used patiently to
submit to the operation for an hour at a time, which course
of treatment soon transformed his beautiful bushy ears into
two limp fleshy flaps, devoid of the slightest appearance of
hair.
They both very soon learned to know the soldiers’ dinner-
hour, and while the food was preparing used to push open
the kitchen door in hopes of a share, till their importunities
were baffled by an order to keep the kitchen locked in
future. This much aggrieved the cubs, which stood outside
thumping the door for admittance; and one day when the
key had been merely turned, and left sticking on the
outside, Dick seized hold of it between his teeth, working it
backward and forward with such persistency that he finally
forced the lock and marched triumphant into the kitchen.
Unfortunately the golden age of childish grace and
innocence is but of short duration in the case of bears, and
Dick and John proved no exception to this rule. After a very
few months they began to grow large and gawky; the
amount of butcher’s meat required for their sustenance was
something terrific, and Dick’s temper was daily growing
more precarious. Arrangements for their removal to more
suitable quarters were therefore made, and finding their
kennel empty one day, we received the mournful
intelligence that the furry brothers had been transferred to
the safer guardianship of a zoological establishment at
Pesth.
 CHAPTER XLI.

A ROUMANIAN VILLAGE.
IN our intercourse with the Roumanian peasantry we are
constantly reminded of the fact that only yesterday they
were a barbarous race with whom murder and plunder were
every-day habits, and in whom the precepts of respect for
life and property have yet to be instilled. Not that the
Roumanian is by nature murderously inclined—on the
contrary, he is gentle and harmless enough as a general
rule, and in nine cases out of ten the idea of harming you
will not even occur to him; but should your life by any
chance happen to stand between him and the object of his
desire, no sentiment of religion or morality will be likely to
restrain him from using his knife as freely as he would in the
case of a hare or roe-deer. It is not that he takes life for the
pleasure of shedding blood, but simply that he sets little
value on it, and that he regards as far greater sin any
infraction of his Church laws than the most flagrant attack
on life and property.
The study of this people, gradually emerging from
barbarism into civilization, is most curious and interesting.
While eagerly grasping at the benefits held out to them by
science, they are as yet unable to shake themselves clear of
the cobwebs of paganism and superstition which often
obscure their vision. It is the struggle between past and
future, between darkness and light, between superstition
and science; and who can doubt that the result will be a
brilliant one, and that a glorious resurrection awaits these
spirits, so long enchained in bondage. But this hour has not
yet struck, and the study of this people, however
interesting, has its drawbacks, sometimes even perils; and
especially for a lady, it is not always advisable to trust
herself alone and unarmed in one of the out-of-the-way
Roumanian villages, as I had occasion myself to discover in
one of my expeditions to a hamlet lying south-east of
Hermanstadt.
Some time previously I had “spotted” this place on the map;
it seemed to be within easy walking distance—not more
than two hours off—and, lying somewhat away from the
high-road, was not likely to have been much visited, and
might therefore be expected to possess a fair assortment of
china jugs and embroidered towels.
“Take your revolver with you, mamma,” suggested my
youngest son, when I told him where I was going.
“Nonsense!” I replied; “the map and some sandwiches are
all I shall require;” for my experience, which till then had
lain entirely in Saxon villages, had shown me no ground for
such precautions. I do not suppose that the child’s warning
had been dictated by any prophetic spirit; more likely he
wondered how any one lucky enough to possess such a
delightful toy as a real revolver could refuse themselves the
pleasure of sporting it on every possible occasion. So,
leaving the neat little fire-arm hanging on its customary nail,
I started on my walk, accompanied by a young German
maid, who, speaking both Hungarian and Roumanian
fluently, was useful as an interpreter.
It was early in October, and a bright sunshiny day; the high-
road was crowded with carts and peasants coming to town,
for it was market-day; but after we had struck into a path
across the fields the way lay solitary before us. The village,
which nestled against a bare hill-side, was neither very
picturesque nor interesting-looking; and as we drew nearer I
saw that it had a somewhat poverty-stricken aspect, which
considerably depressed my hopes of ceramic treasures. I
had not been aware that this hamlet, formerly a flourishing
Saxon settlement, had by degrees become flooded by the
Roumanian element, and that the Protestant church, for lack
of a congregation, was now usually shut up. Many of the
people had German names, while speaking the Roumanian
language and wearing the Roumanian dress; and of all the
inhabitants four families only still professed the Lutheran
faith. Intermarriage with Roumanians, and the total
extinction of many Saxon families, had been the causes
which had thus metamorphosed the national character of
the village.
Crossing a little bridge over the bed of a partially dried-up
stream, we entered the hamlet, where I forthwith began
operations, proceeding from house to house. At the very
outset I found two pretty specimens of china jugs in a gypsy
hovel, but this was a solitary instance of good-luck which
had no sequel, for all the other huts could only produce
coarse Roumanian ware, very much inferior to Saxon
pottery.
Our appearance in the village made a considerable
sensation, and at first we were slightly mobbed by all sorts
of wild uncouth figures, mostly gypsies; but luckily by
degrees the interest wore off, and we were left alone, but for
one particularly villanous-looking man who kept following at
a little distance. Already I had been rather provoked by
several attempts to pick my pocket on the part of the
gypsies, so was on my guard, when, standing still to reflect
where next to go, the villanous-looking individual
approached to accost me, and I could see that his eyes were
riveted on my gold watch-chain, which imprudently I had
left visible outside my jacket. These suspicions were
presently strengthened by his asking me what o’clock it
was. “Look at your own church clock,” I answered, rather
shortly, pointing to the tower close at hand; but he gave a
roguish grin, and said, “Our clock is slow; I wanted to set it
right.”
I could not help laughing, though I did not feel quite easy in
my mind, and gave him the information he professed to
want, but which of course was only an excuse to look at my
watch. I now tried to shake him off, but my villanous friend
was anxious to improve the acquaintance, and would not
leave me without having ascertained who I was, and what I
wanted here.
“Old china jugs!” he exclaimed, when somewhat weakly I
had admitted my errand. “I have got plenty such jugs, if the
gracious lady will only condescend to come into my house
close by.”
I looked again more narrowly at the face of my villanous
friend, and the result of my investigations was to answer
with great decision, “Thank you, I have got enough china
jugs for to-day—quite enough.”
He tried to insist, till I found it expedient to lose my temper,
telling him to go about his business and leave me in peace.
He did leave me in peace, but only indirectly, for we saw
him soon after speaking to a gypsy woman, who presently
began to dog our footsteps in the same manner, trying to
induce me to go into this or that one of the more
disreputable-looking houses.
By this time I was thoroughly tired out. Any one who has
had like experience will know how fatiguing it is to go into
twenty or thirty houses in succession, with the invariable
stereotyped questions, “Have you any jugs? and will you sell
them?” and then to repeat over and over again the self-
same process of persuasion and bargaining. Besides this, I
had risen early, had a long walk, and was very hungry, so
naturally wanted a quiet spot to sit down and eat my
sandwiches. “There must surely be a village inn where we
can get a glass of milk,” I said, turning round to our
persistent follower.
“There, there,” said the woman, pointing in advance, and
she disappeared running down the street.
We had no difficulty in finding the inn, as indicated by the
usual sign all over Austria—a bunch of wood-shavings hung
over the door-way. I was about to enter the room, when my
German servant suddenly drew back and pulled my dress.
“Come away, come away, madam,” she whispered; “it is not
safe to go in there,” and as soon as we had regained the
road and shaken ourselves clear of some loungers outside
who tried to persuade us to re-enter, she explained the
cause of her terror: she had caught sight of that same man
who had asked to see the watch hiding behind the pothouse
door, and evidently lying in wait for us.
This looked serious, and it was evident that some sort of
trap was being laid for my unfortunate watch, so I resolved
that nothing in the world should induce me to enter any
such suspicious-looking house. My maid was nearly crying
with fright by this time, and shaking like an aspen leaf, so I
kindly advised her not to be a fool, pointing out that there
was really no cause for alarm after all. “We need not enter
any house unless we like, and they will hardly think of
murdering us in the open street, so do not make a fuss
about nothing.”
“It is not for myself, but on account of the gnädige frau, that
I am frightened,” the girl now explained, apparently stung
by the insinuation of cowardice. “If anything should happen
to you, madam, what will the master say to me when I go
home alone? He will say it was all my fault!”
“Make your mind quite easy,” I said (perhaps rather cruelly,
as it now strikes me). “If they should cut my throat to get
the watch, they will for a certainty cut yours as well to
prevent you telling tales of them, so you will never reach
home to be scolded.”
But the question of what to do was in truth becoming
perplexing; rest and food were now secondary
considerations, my only thought being how safely to reach
home. The long lonely way that separated this village from
the town seemed doubly long and desolate in anticipation,
and I hardly liked to start from here alone. I now thought
with regretful longing of the handy little revolver I had left at
home in its Russia-leather case. Not that I should ever have
required to use it, of course, but its appearance alone would
have served as antidote to the dangerous fascinations of
the gold watch. If I had but followed my boy’s advice I
should not have found myself in this awkward predicament.
Taking a turn down the road to collect my ideas, a thought
struck me. In the course of my peregrinations through the
village earlier in the day, I had noted one house where the
people appeared more respectable, though in nowise
wealthier, than their neighbors. The man had a frank open
face, in which I could hardly be mistaken; and, moreover, I
had observed a few books lying on a shelf, in itself an
unusual circumstance in any Roumanian house, which would
seem to imply some degree of culture. To this man,
therefore, I resolved to go for advice; perhaps he would
himself accompany us part of the way, or else provide some
other escort who would undertake not to cut our throats
between this and Hermanstadt.
This plan seemed reasonable; but just as I was about to
push open the gate of the little court-yard, the same gypsy
woman who had been set on before to follow me came
running up: “Don’t go in there; there is a terrible bad dog.”
She warned so earnestly that for a moment I hesitated with
my hand on the latch; for if in the whole world there is a
thing which has the power to make my flesh creep and my
blood run cold, it is a savage dog, and this woman, with the
quickness of her race, had already had occasion to note my
weak point. Her warning, however, missed its effect, for
having been in that courtyard before, I distinctly
remembered the absence of any dog whatever, whether
good, bad, or indifferent, and her anxiety to prevent me
from entering was in itself a sign that there was no danger.
So in I went: the man with the good face was not at home, I
was told—he had gone to the field, but would presently
return; only his wife, a sweet-faced young woman, and his
aged mother, being alone in the house. Yes, I might sit down
and welcome, said the young woman; and she hastened to
bring me a chair and set some fresh milk before me; so I
passed half an hour very pleasantly in examining the
cottage and its inhabitants.
The young wife was seated at her loom weaving one of the
red and blue towels which adorn each Roumanian cottage.
Some of the pillow-cases and towels here hung up were of
superior make to those usually seen, being both softer in
color and richer in texture. “It is the old mother who made
them,” she explained. “She works far better than I can do,
but now she is too old, and the weaving fatigues her; she
was ninety-five this year.”
“Was she in good health?” I asked by means of my
interpreter.
“Quite good; but she cannot eat much—a little soup and a
glass of wine every day is about all she takes.”
“And where is your dog?” was my next inquiry,
remembering the gypsy woman’s caution.
“Dog?” she asked in surprise. “We never had a dog. What
should we keep one for? We are too poor to be afraid of
robbers.”
When the husband came back I explained our errand. He
smiled a little, and said he thought my fears were
groundless. Those fellows would hardly dare to attempt any
violence in daylight; but after all, it was just possible, he
admitted. There certainly were several very bad characters
in the village, and no doubt a gold watch was a great
temptation; it would certainly be wiser not to start from here
alone. After considering a little (apparently it did require
consideration), he said that he knew of one respectable man
in the village, and would come with us to look for him. I
expressed my astonishment at seeing so many books in his
house. “I began by being school-master in a neighboring
village,” he told me, “but it was only for a short time. Then
my father died, and I had to return here to look after the
fields. That was ten years ago. If I had remained there
longer I should know more than I do.” He showed me a
volume of general history he was then studying. “I read a
little of it every evening when I come back from work. I try
to keep myself from forgetting everything—one is apt to get
rusty and verbauert (peasantified) living here among
peasants.”
The sole other respectable man which the village could
produce turning out to be absent, our host expressed his
willingness to accompany us as far as I wished, though I
knew that he was leaving his work to do so. Before quitting
the village, however, I had a last encounter with my
villanous friend of heretofore, whom I found waiting for me
near the little bridge. He begged me so urgently to come in
just for one minute to look at his china jugs, which he
described in enthusiastic terms, that I gave an unwilling
consent. He was apparently surprised and not over-pleased
on recognizing my escort, and would have shaken him off on
reaching his door, saying, “Well, good-by, neighbor; you
need not trouble yourself further.”
Of course I refused to go into the house alone, and of
course, too, when I did go in, the much-vaunted jugs turned
out to be cracked and worthless specimens of the very
commonest sort of ware, bearing no resemblance to what I
was seeking.
I was fairly glad to turn my back on this horrid little village,
fully resolved never again to set foot within its precincts;
and in conversation with our obliging protector, who spoke
very tolerable German (an unusual thing in any Roumanian),
three-quarters of an hour passed very quickly. He told me
much about himself and his family; also about the village,
which twice had been burned down within fifteen years and
reduced to the most abject poverty; everything of value in
the place had perished on the one or other of these
occasions. His family life seemed happy, but for one source
of grief, for his marriage was childless, and to any
Roumanian this is a very great grief indeed. “It is sad for us
to be alone,” he said; “but God has willed it so.”
In the course of our talk he inquired, but with great delicacy,
who I was, saying, “I do not know whether I should say
madam or fräulein; and perhaps I seem impolite if I am not
giving the gracious lady her proper title.” And when I had
mentioned the name and position of my husband, I found
him to be well informed as to all the military arrangements
of the country, correctly naming off-hand all the ten or
twelve cavalry stations in Transylvania. He recognized our
name as being a Polish one, and began to talk of that
nation. “Those Poles have sometimes very good heads,” he
remarked, “but they do not seem able to manage their own
affairs. What a pity they were not able to keep their country
together!” After this he inquired much about the state of
commerce and agriculture in Poland, the influence of the
Jews, etc., all he said indicating such a mixture of natural
refinement and shrewd common-sense that I was quite sorry
when, arriving within sight of the high-road, and there being
no reason further to tax his good-nature, he took his leave
with a bow which would not have disgraced any gentleman.
 CHAPTER XLII.

A GYPSY CAMP.
WALKING across the country one breezy November day, I was
attracted by the sight of a gypsy tent pitched on a piece of
waste-land some hundred yards off my path—motive
enough to cause me to change my direction and approach
the little settlement; for these roving caravans have always
had a peculiar fascination for me, and I rarely pass one by
without nearer investigation.
This particular encampment turned out to be of the very
poorest and most abject description: one miserable tent,
riddled with holes, and patched with many-colored rags, was
propped up against a neighboring bank. Alongside, a semi-
starved donkey, laden with some tattered blankets and
coverings, was standing immovable, and in the foreground a
smoking camp-fire, over which was slung a battered kettle.
There was very little fire and a great deal of smoke, which at
first obscured the view, and prevented me from
understanding why it was that the gypsies, usually so quick
to mark a stranger, gazed at me with indifference: not a
hand was stretched forth to beg, nor a voice raised in
supplication. The men were standing or reclining on the turf
in listless attitudes, while the women, crowded round the
fire, were swaying their bodies to and fro, as though in
bodily pain.
Soon, however, the shining point of a bayonet descried
through the curling smoke gave me the clew to this
abnormal behavior, and approaching nearer, I saw the
figures of three Hungarian gendarmes dodging about
between the ragged tent and the skeleton donkey; they
were searching the camp, as they presently informed me,
for a stolen purse. A peasant had had his pocket picked that
morning at market, and as some of these gypsies had been
seen in town, of course they must be guilty; and the
speaker, with an oath, stuck his bayonet right into the
depths of the little tent, bringing out to light a motley
assortment of dirty rags, which he proceeded to turn over
with scrutinizing investigation.
Any person with a well-balanced mind would, I suppose,
have rejoiced at this improving spectacle of stern justice
chastising degraded vice; but I must confess that on this
occasion my sympathies were all the wrong way, and I could
not refrain from wishing that these poor hunted mortals
might elude their punishment, whether deserved or not.
Justice, as represented by these well-fed boorish
gendarmes, who were turning over so ruthlessly the
contents of the little camp, holding up to light each sorry
rag with such pitiless scorn, and stripping the clothes from
the half-naked backs of the gypsies with such needless
brutality, appeared in the light of malicious and unnecessary
persecution; while vice, so poor, so wretched, so woe-
begone, could surely inspire no harsher feeling than pity.
Among the females I remarked a young woman of about
twenty-five, with splendid eyes, skin of mahogany brown,
and straight-cut regular features like those of an Indian
chieftainess. She wore a tattered scarlet cloak, and had on
her breast a small baby as brown as herself, and naked, in
spite of the sharp November air. One of the gendarmes
approached her, and with a coarse gesture would have
removed her cloak (apparently her sole upper garment) to
search beneath for the missing purse; but with the air of an
outraged empress she waved him off, and raising full upon
him her large black eyes, she broke into a torrent of speech.
I could not understand her language, but the tenor of her
discourse was easy to guess at from her expressive gestures
and play of features. Her voice was of a rich contralto, as
she poured forth what seemed to be the maledictions of an
oppressed queen cursing a tyrant. Her gestures had an
inbred majesty, and her attitude was that of an inspired
sibyl. I thought what a glorious tragic actress she would
have made—perfect as Lady Macbeth, and divine as
Azucena in the “Trovatore.” Even the brutal gendarme felt
her influence, for he did not attempt to molest her further,
but half shamefacedly withdrew, as though conscious of
defeat, transferring his attentions to one of the men, whom
he vigorously poked with the butt-end of his gun to force
him to rise from his recumbent position.
The fruitless search had now come to an end; the ragged
tent had been demolished and the skeleton donkey unladen
without so much as a single florin of the stolen money
having come to light. In a prolonged discussion between
gypsies and gendarmes, the word “Hinka, Hinka,” was often
repeated; and Hinka, as it appeared, was the name of one of
the gypsies who was at that moment missing from the
camp. She was expected back by nightfall, they said.
Hearing this, the gendarmes proceeded to make themselves
comfortable, awaiting Mrs. or Miss Hinka’s return, lighting
their pipes at the fire, and playfully upsetting the caldron
containing the gypsies’ supper. One gendarme walked up
and down with fixed bayonet to see that no one attempted
to leave the camp.
There being nothing more to see, I took my leave, for it was
getting late, and I had still a long walk before me. I had
almost forgotten the little episode with the gypsies, when,
near the town, I met a small linen-covered cart drawn by a
ghastly-looking white horse, worthy companion of the
skeleton donkey. I should probably not have given a second
thought or glance to this cart, for it was nearly dark, but as
it passed me two or three curly black heads peeped out
from under the linen awning, and instantaneously as many
semi-naked children had bounded, India-rubber-like, on to
the road, surrounding me with clamorous begging. While I
was giving them some coppers, I saw that in the cart was
sitting a somewhat pale and jaded-looking young woman,
probably their mother, holding the reins and waiting for the
children to get in. “Is your name Hinka?” I asked, as a
thought struck me.
The woman stared at me in a bewildered manner without
speaking, but her panic-struck face was answer sufficient.
“Do not go back to the camp to-night,” I said, speaking on
the impulse of the moment. “The gendarmes are there, and
they are waiting for you.”
My meaning was evidently plain, though I had spoken in
German; probably the word gendarmes had a familiar ring in
her ear, for she now gazed at me with positive terror in her
wild, dilated eyes—the terror of a hunted animal which sees
the huntsmen closing in on all sides; then, without a word of
explanation, excuse, or thanks, she abruptly turned round
the horse’s head, and lashing it to its utmost speed,
disappeared in the opposite direction.
Several very worthy friends of mine have since pronounced
my behavior in this circumstance to have been highly
reprehensible: I had sided with the malefactor, and possibly
defeated the ends of justice by screening the culprit.
Perhaps they are right, and it can only be owing to some
vital defect in my moral constitution that I have never
succeeded in feeling remorse for this action. On the
contrary, it was with a feeling of peculiar satisfaction that I
thought that evening of the three brutal gendarmes waiting
in vain for the return of the guilty Hinka. I wondered how
long they waited, and how many pipes they smoked, and to
how many oaths they gave vent on finding that they had
waited in vain, and their victim was not going to walk into
the trap after all.
 CHAPTER XLIII.

THE BRUCKENTHALS.
AMONG the crooked, irregular houses, low-storied and
unpretentious, which form the streets of Hermanstadt, there
is one which stands out conspicuous from its neighbors,
resembling as it does nothing else in the town. This is the
Bruckenthal palace, a stately building which might right well
be placed by the side of some of the most aristocratic
residences at Vienna, and of which even the Grand Canal at
Venice need not be ashamed—but here absolutely out of
place and incongruous. Looking like a nobleman amid a
group of simple burghers, everything about this building has
an air thoroughly aristocratic and grand seignior: the broad
two-storied façade richly ornamented, the fantastically
wrought iron gratings over the lower windows, the double
escutcheon hanging above the stately entrance, even the
very garret windows looking out of the high-pitched triple
roof, have the appearance of old-fashioned picture-frames
which only want to be filled up with appropriate rococo
figures.
As we step through the roomy porte-cochère into a spacious
court, we glance round half expecting to see a swelling
porter or gorgeously attired Suisse prepared to challenge
our entrance, and instinctively we fumble in our pocket for
our card-case; but no one appears, and all is silent as death.
Passing over the grass-grown stones which pave the court,
we step through a capacious archway into a second court as
large as the first, and surrounded in the same manner by
the building running round to form another quadrangle.
Here apparently are the stables, as a stone-carved horse’s
head above a door at the farther end apprises us, and hither
we direct our steps in hopes of finding some stable-boy or
groom to guide us, and tell us to whom this vast silent
palace belongs.
The stable door is ajar, and we push it open, but pause in
astonishment on the threshold, met by the stony stare of
countless unseeing eyes. A stable it is undoubtedly, as
testify the carved stone cribs and partitioned-off stalls—six
stalls on the one side, six on the other, roomy and luxurious,
fit only for the pampered stud of a monarch or of an English
fox-hunter, but which now, deserted of its rightful
occupants, has been usurped by a collection of plaster casts
and terra-cotta copies of ancient statues. Where majestic
Arabs used formerly to be stabled, now stands a naked
simpering Venus, and the Dying Gladiator writhes on the
flag-stones once pawed by impatient hoofs.

THE BRUCKENTHAL PALACE.[71]

By-and-by we come across some one, who in a few words
gives us the history of the Bruckenthal palace.
Samuel Bruckenthal, of Saxon family, was raised alike to the
rank of baron and to the position of governor of Transylvania
by the Empress Maria Theresa, this being the first instance
of a Saxon being thus distinguished. In this capacity he
governed the land for fourteen years, from 1773 to 1787,
and much good is recorded of the manner in which he filled
his office, and of the benefits he conferred on the land.
Baron Samuel Bruckenthal was a special favorite of the
great empress, who seems to have overpowered both him
and his family with riches and favors of all kinds. Besides
this splendid palace (truly magnificent for the country and
the time when it was built), and which boasted of a picture-
gallery and an exceedingly valuable library, the Bruckenthal
family became possessed of extensive landed property,
some of which was to belong to them unconditionally, other
estates being granted to the family for a period of ninety-
nine years, afterwards reverting to the Crown. Likewise,
villas and manufactories, summer and winter residences,
gardens and hot-houses, which have belonged to them, are
to be met with in all directions.
Baron Bruckenthal, who died in 1803, had decreed in his last
will, dated 1802, that the gallery and museum he had
formed were to be thrown open for the benefit of his Saxon
townsmen; while his second heir, Baron Joseph Bruckenthal,
further decreed, in a will dated 1867, that in the case of the
male line of his family becoming extinct, the palace,
inclusive of the picture-gallery, library, etc., should revert to
the Evangelical Gymnasium at Hermanstadt, along with the
interest of a capital of thirty-six thousand florins, to be
expended in keeping up the edifice and adding to the
collection. The contingency thus provided for having come
to pass a dozen years ago, the directors have appropriated
different suites of apartments for various purposes of public
utility and instruction. Thus the lofty vaulted stables were
found to be conveniently adapted for containing the models
for a school of design; while up-stairs the gilded ball-room
has been converted into a cabinet of natural history. Here
rows of stuffed birds, as well as double-headed lambs, eight-
legged puppies, and other such interesting deformities, are
ranged on shelves against the crumbling gilt mouldings
which run round the room; and tattered remnants of the rich
crimson damask once clothing the walls hang rustling
against glass jars, in which are displayed the horrid coils of
many loathsome reptiles preserved in spirits of wine. Truly a
sad downfall for these sumptuous apartments, where high-
born dames were wont to glide in stately minuets over the
polished floor!
The picture-gallery, opened to the public on appointed days,
contains above a thousand pictures, which, filling fifteen
rooms, are divided off into the three schools to which they
belong—viz., Italian, Dutch, and German. The greater part of
these pictures is said to have been purchased from French
refugees at the time of the First Revolution, many families
having then sought an asylum in Hungary and Transylvania.
Mr. Boner, in his work on Transylvania, has thought fit to
condemn in a wholesale manner the contents of this gallery
as “wretched daubs fit only for a broker’s stall,” a verdict as
rash as unjust, and which has since been refuted by the
opinion of competent judges. Of course, in a small provincial
town like Hermanstadt, situated at the extreme east of the
Austrian empire, it would be unreasonable to expect to find
in a private gallery collected in the eighteenth century
priceless chefs-d’œuvres of the kind we travel hundreds of
miles to admire in the Louvre or at Dresden. No doubt, also,
some of the paintings erroneously attributed to famous
masters, such as Rubens or Titian, are but good copies of
original works, while the parentage of a good number of
others is unknown, or matter for guess-work. Granting all
this, however, the wonder is rather, I think, to find such a
very presentable collection of paintings of second and third
rank in a small country town, among which no intelligent
and straightforward connoisseur can fail to pass some hours
without both pleasure and profit.
The best picture in the gallery, and the most celebrated, is
the portrait of Charles I. of England, and of his wife,
Henrietta Maria, by Vandyck, which has brought many
Englishmen hither in hopes of purchasing it.
The library, now numbering about forty thousand volumes,
is added to each year from part of the legacy attached to
the Bruckenthal palace, and is a great boon to the town; for
not only does it comprise a comfortable reading-room, to
which any one may have gratuitous access, but all sorts of
works are freely placed at the disposal of those who wish to
study them at home, on condition of signing a voucher by
which the party holds himself responsible for loss or damage
to the work.
The Bruckenthal library is indeed a great and valuable
resource to those banished to this remote corner of the
globe, and it is only surprising that more people do not avail
themselves of the advantages which permit one to enjoy at
home, sometimes for two or three months at a time, several
valuable works of history, biography, or science. Some of
the editions of older classical authors are most beautifully
bound and illustrated with fine copperplates—perfect
éditions de luxe, such as one rarely sees nowadays.[72]
Many curious manuscripts, principally relating to the
country, are also here to be found; but the gem of the
collection, and by far its most interesting and precious
object, is a prayer-book of the fifteenth century, which,
written on finest vellum, contains six hundred and thirty
pages in small quarto, each page being adorned with some
of the finest specimens of the illuminated art to be met with
anywhere.
The collection of coins is exceedingly remarkable,
containing, as it does, abundant specimens of the ancient
Greek, Dacian, and Roman coins, which are continually
turning up in the soil, as well as of all the various branches
of Transylvanian coinage in the Middle Ages. An assemblage
of old Saxon ceramic objects, such as jugs and plates, may
also be mentioned, as well as samples of old German
embroidery, and some exceedingly beautiful pieces of
jewellery belonging to the Saxon burgher, and peasant
costumes.
The least interesting part of the museum is what is called
the African and Japanese Cabinet, hardly deserving such a
pompous designation, as the objects it mostly contains
(savage weapons, dried alligators, etc., added to the
collection some thirty years ago) are by no means more
interesting or varied than what one is so tired of beholding
in any well-furnished English drawing-room.
There is a legend attached to the Bruckenthal palace which
tells us how an old soldier, who had served his emperor
faithfully through many years, took his dismission at last,
and, with only three coppers in his pocket, prepared to
pilger homeward. On his way he was met by an old white-
bearded man, who said, “Give me an alms, for all you have
is mine.” The soldier replied, “Your gain will not be great, for
see, I have got but three kreuzers, but you are welcome to
one of them.” Hereupon the old man took one kreuzer, and
the soldier proceeded on his way. Soon, however, he was
met by another old man, who in like manner demanded an
alms, and received a second copper; and this happened
again a third time. But when the soldier had thus divested
himself of his last coin the third old man thus spoke: “See, I
am one and the same as the two old men who begged from
you before, and am no other than Christ the Lord. As,
therefore, you have been charitable, and have given of the
little you had, so will I reward you by granting any boon you
choose to ask.”
After the soldier had reflected for a little, he begged for a
sack which should have the virtue that, whenever he spoke
the words, “Pack yourself in the sack,” man or beast should
equally be obliged to creep inside it. “I see,” said the Lord,
“that you are a wise man, and do not crave treasures and
riches. The sack is yours.”
With this magic sack on his back the soldier wandered on till
he reached the town of Hermanstadt. Here he found all the
population talking of a ghost in the Bruckenthal palace,
which had lately been disturbing the place, and whosoever
attempted to pass the night in those rooms was found as a
corpse next morning.
On hearing this the veteran went with his sack to old Baron
Bruckenthal, and begged for a night’s lodging in those very
rooms. In vain the old gentleman warned him of the danger,
and prophesied that assuredly he would lose his life. The
soldier persisted in his resolution, begging only for the loan
of a Bible and two lighted candles. These were given to him,
and likewise a copious supper, with wine and roast-meat.
However, he ate and drank but sparingly, for he wished to
remain wide-awake and sober; but he opened the Bible
between the two candles, and read diligently therein.
Shortly before midnight the room began to be unquiet, but
the soldier did but read the Bible all the more fervently as
the noise increased. Then as twelve o’clock struck there was
a sound like the report of a gun, and a leg was seen
suspended from the ceiling.
The soldier remained quietly sitting, and said to himself,
“Where there is one leg, there must be another too,” and
verily a second leg became soon visible beside the first.
Quoth the soldier then, “Where there are two legs, there
must perforce be body and arms as well,” and without much
delay these also made their appearance. Then he said, “A
body cannot be without a head,” but hardly had he said the
words when the entire figure fell down from the ceiling, and
rushing at the soldier, began to strangle him.
Quickly he cried, “Pack yourself in the sack,” and in the self-
same instant the ghost was imprisoned, and plaintively
begging to be let out again. The soldier at first only
permitted the ghost to put out its head, which was quite
gray, but it went on begging to be released, and promising
to reveal a mighty secret.
Hearing this the soldier opened the sack; but, hardly set
free, the spectre again rushed at his throat, so that he had
barely time to call out, “Pack yourself in the sack.”
Now, being again in his power, the ghost was forced to
confess to the soldier that in these walls there were
concealed many barrels containing treasures, and over
these it was his mission to watch. It promised to make over
in writing a portion of this money to the veteran, and for this
purpose begged to have its arms released from the sack in
order to sign the document.
This being granted, the ghost a third time attempted the
soldier’s life, who, however, used the magic formula once
more, and, determined to show no further mercy to his
antagonist, cut off the head of the treacherous phantom.
 BARON SAMUEL BRUCKENTHAL.
Next morning the inhabitants of Hermanstadt were greatly
astonished to find the soldier still alive, and the praise of his
valor was in every mouth. Under his directions the walls
were now broken open, and within many little barrels were
discovered, all containing heavy gold, of which the brave
soldier received a handsome portion, sufficient to enable
him to live in comfort to the end of his days.
It is to this discovery that many impute the great riches of
the Bruckenthal family, and were it not for the valiant
soldier the fortune they left behind them would hardly have
been so great.
Though the name of Bruckenthal is probably but little known
outside Transylvania, and I have failed to find it in several
German encyclopædias, yet here it is a word pregnant with
meaning; and people at Hermanstadt are wont to swear by
the Bruckenthal palace as the most stable and immutable
object within their range of knowledge, just as an Egyptian
might swear by the Pyramids or the Sphinx. “May you be
lucky as long as the Bruckenthal palace stands,” or “Sooner
may the Bruckenthal palace fall down than such and such
an event come to pass,” are phrases I have frequently had
occasion to hear.
But the memories of the Bruckenthals are not confined to
the palace which bears their name. Every vestige of past
grandeur or remnant of an extinct luxury, each work of art
which comes to light in or about Hermanstadt, may be
traced back to this once omnipotent family. If in your
country walks you come upon a double row of massive lime-
trees, twelve or sixteen perhaps, standing forlorn on the
grass, with nothing to explain their presence on a lonely
meadow, you are surely informed that these are the last
survivors of a stately avenue leading to spacious orangeries
in the Bruckenthal time. The orangeries have now
disappeared, yet these few old trees linger on with
senseless persistency—their snowy blossoms reminding one
of powdered heads, their circling branches suggesting wide-
hooped skirts setting to each other in the evening breeze,
like an ancient quadrille party forgotten in the ball-room,
long after the other guests have departed.
If you find an old statue chipped and moss-grown, dreaming
away in the shade of a rose-bush which soon will stifle it in
thorny embrace, you may take for granted that you are
standing on the site of a former Bruckenthal garden.
If in a pawnbroker’s shop you disinter a carved oak chair
heavily wreathed in shrouding cobwebs, be sure that it has
wandered hither from the old palace on the Ring; and
should you chance to espy a rococo mirror, with curiously
fretted gold frame, but tarnished and blurred, do not doubt
that at some remote period gallant beaux and stately
dames of the house of Bruckenthal have mirrored
themselves complacently in its surface.
Look closer still in the miscellaneous heap of bric-à-brac
which encumbers this same pawnbroker’s back shop, and
ten to one you will be able to recognize on some rotting
canvas the grim features of old Samuel Bruckenthal himself,
or those of his imperial mistress Maria Theresa.
Some of these old portraits, which I passed almost daily in
my peregrinations about the town, seemed to look at me so
plaintively with their canvas eyes, as though imploring me
to release them from their ignoble position, that I had to
take pity upon them at last and offer them an asylum in my
house.
Few things ever gave me so vivid an impression of the
transitory nature of earthly possessions, and the
evanescence of power and grandeur, as these scattered
relics of an extinct family meeting the eye at every turn;
and as the sea of chance was continually casting up some of
these shipwrecked treasures, more than one of them
happened to drift my way. Thus one day a poor woman
brought to my door a delicate little piece of fancy porcelain,
which I was glad to purchase for a small sum. About ten
inches high, it represents a miniature citron-tree with
blossoms and fruit, growing in a gold-hooped tub of exactly
the same shape as the wooden cases in which real orange-
trees are often planted. An old lady who recollects the
vanished days of the Bruckenthal glory recognized this
graceful trifle standing on my drawing-room console, and
told me that she remembered a whole set of them,
pomegranates and citron-trees alternately, with which the
table used to be decked out on the occasion of large dinner-
parties.
What has become of the many companions of my lonely
citron-tree, I wonder? and where are now all the faces that
used to meet round that festive board? Tout passe, tout
lasse, tout casse!
 CHAPTER XLIV.

STILL-LIFE AT HERMANSTADT—A
TRANSYLVANIAN CRANFORD.
LIFE at Hermanstadt always gave me the impression of living
inside one of those exquisitely minute Dutch paintings of
still-life, in which the anatomy of a lobster or the veins on a
vine-leaf are rendered with microscopic fidelity, and where
such insignificant objects as half-lemons or mouldy cheese-
rinds are exalted to the rank of centre-pieces.
During seven months of the year—from April till November—
the idyllic quiet of Hermanstadt was certainly not without its
charms. So long as the forest was green and the birds were
singing, one did not feel the want of other society, and the
répertoire of walks and rides furnished variety sufficient for
an active body and a contented mind. It has often been
remarked of Transylvania, that while resembling no other
country precisely, it partakes of the character of many, and
that within the space of half a dozen miles you may be
reminded of as many different lands. Thus one day your
road will take you through a little piece of Dutch scenery, a
sluggish stream bordered by squat willow-trees, with at
intervals a sprinkling of quaint old Flemish figures; another
time it savors perhaps of Rhineland, as your path, leading
upward to the top of a sandy hill, loses itself in a labyrinth of
luxuriant vineyards; or else you may deem yourself on the
Roman Campagna, when, issuing forth on the vast tracts of
waste-land, you see shaggy buffaloes standing about in
attitudes of lazy enjoyment, leisurely cropping the sunburnt
grass or voluptuously steeping their bodies in the cooling
bath of a green shining morass.
You may ride for hours in the shade of gnarled oak-trees, or,
emerging on to an open glade, indulge in a long-stretched
gallop over the velvety sward. In spring-time these grassy
stretches are crowded thick with scented violets, whose
purple heads are crushed by dozens at each stride of your
horse; and in autumn, when the grass is close cropped,
these meadows become one vast playing-ground for legions
of brown field-mice, scampering away from under the
horse’s feet, or peeping at us with beady black eyes from
out the porticos of their sheltering holes.
But once the winter has fairly set in, when those same frisky
brown mice have retired to their strongholds in the bowels
of the earth; when the last flower has withered on its stalk,
and birds of passage have left the land; when streams have
ceased babbling, and mill-wheels, made captive by chains of
glittering icicles, are forced to stand still; when parasols
have been exchanged for muffs, and the new toll-dog has
already been eaten by the wolf—then indeed a season of
desperate desolation settles down on the place. What is
usually understood by the word amusement does not here
exist. There is a theatre, it is true, but this is available in
summer only; for as the crazy old tower which has been
turned into a temple of the muses cannot be heated, it
remains closed till the return of spring brings with the
swallows some theatrical company of third or fourth class to
delight the population during a space of some weeks. Now
and then a shabby menagerie or still shabbier circus finds
its way to the place; and such minor attractions as an
educated seal, a fat lady, or a family of intelligent fleas,
offer themselves for the delectation of a distinguished
public. I have known persons who paid as many as six visits
to the seal and eight to the fat lady during this period of
vital stagnation. Is not this bare statement wellnigh pathetic
in its dreary suggestiveness? What stronger proof can there
be of the mournful state of an intellect reduced to seek
comfort from seals or fat women?

STREET AT HERMANSTADT.
Had it not been for the resources of the Bruckenthal library,
life would have hardly been endurable at this saison morte;
but after all, even reading has limits, and the question of
what next to do was apt to become puzzling to unfortunate
mortals whose tastes did not happen to lie in the directions
of music, love, or cookery.
About the liveliest thing to be done was to go often to the
place on market-days, and watch the endless succession of
pictures always to be found there. It is the sort of market-
place which would be a perfect godsend to any artist in
search of models for his studio. No difficulty here in
collecting types of every sort: an amazing display of pretty
dark-eyed women in rich Oriental costumes; a still greater
assortment of shaggy, frowning figures armed with dagger
and pistol, representing every possible gradation of the
Italian bandit or the mediæval bravo. Here a sweet-faced
young Roumanian woman, tenderly pressing a naked
sucking-pig to her breast, might sit for a portrait of the
Madonna; there a Saxon matron, prim and puritanical in her
stiff old-fashioned dress, is offering cider for sale in a harsh
metallic voice; yonder a row of old dames, who sit weaving
funeral wreaths out of berries and evergreens, would offer
famous models for the Parques, or the Tricoteuses under the
guillotine (it was just about here, by-the-way, that the
scaffold used to stand in olden times). Dishevelled gypsy
women are trying to dispose of coarse wooden spoons, or
baskets made out of shavings, no doubt combining their
trade with a little profitable pocket-picking; and half-naked
gypsy children are searching the mire for scraps of bread or
vegetables which no well-bred dog would condescend to
regard.
There is no great choice of delicacies to be found at this
Hermanstadt market-place. Game is but rare, for reasons
that I have mentioned before, and the finer sorts of
vegetables are entirely wanting. The beef, veal, pork, and
mutton, which form the whole répertoire of the butcher’s
stall, cannot be compared to English meat, but have the
great advantage of being much cheaper—beef about 4d.
and mutton 3d. per lb. Eggs and butter are good and
plentiful; and as for the milk, let no one pretend to have
tasted milk till he has been in Transylvania; so thick, so rich,
so exquisitely flavored is the milk of those repulsive-looking
and ferocious buffaloes, as good almost as cream
elsewhere, and for the rest of your life putting you out of
conceit of your vaunted Alderney or short-horn breeds, and
making everything else taste like skim-milk by comparison.
Some people indeed there are, of superdelicate digestions,
who cannot stand buffaloes’ milk, and are deterred by the
delicate almond flavor usually considered to be its greatest
attraction.
The Transylvanian wines have been described and extolled
by other authors (Liebig, for instance), and deserve to be
yet more widely known. There are, of course, many different
sorts and gradations, those from the Kokel valley being the
most highly prized. It is mostly white, and even the common
vin du pays is distinguished by its rich amber hue, making
one think of liquid topazes, if ever topazes could be melted
down and sold at sixpence the gallon.
It is a noticeable and praiseworthy fact that at Hermanstadt
there are no beggars. It is the pride of the Saxons to be
absolutely without proletariat of the kind which seems as
necessary an ingredient of other town populations as rats
and mice. Even the Roumanians, though poor, are not
addicted to begging, and, excepting the gypsies, I do not
recollect one single instance of meeting a beggar in or
about the town. Nor can the gypsies be called beggars by
profession; no gypsy will in cold blood set himself to go
begging from door to door, though he instinctively holds out
his hand to any one who passes his tent.
Curious old legends occur to us while picking our way about
the streets, and more than one old house is pointed out as
being inhabited by ghosts. Also, Dr. Faust, of famous
memory, is said to have long resided at Hermanstadt, and of
him a very old woman who died not long ago used to relate
as follows:
“My grandfather was serving as apprentice at the time when
Dr. Faust lived here, and told me many tales of the
wonderful things the great doctor used to do. Thus one day
he played at bowls on the big Ring (place) with large round
stones, which as they rolled were changed into human
heads, and became stones again as soon as they stood still.
Another time he assumed the shape of the town parson, and
as such walked up and down the church roof, finally
standing on his head at the top of the steeple, to the terror
and amazement of the people below; then when the real
parson made his appearance on the Ring, he jumped down
among the crowd in guise of a large black cat with fiery
eyes, which forthwith disappeared.
“Once, also, on occasion of a large cattle-fair, there was
suddenly heard the sound of military music, and, lo and
behold! in place of the sheep, calves, oxen, and horses,
there marched past a regiment of soldiers with flying colors
and resounding music. The people rubbed their eyes, scarce
believing what they saw and heard; then, as still they stared
and gaped, the band-master gave a signal, the music turned
to a hundredfold bleating and bellowing, and the sheep,
cattle, and horses stood there as before.
“At last, as every one knows, Dr. Faust was carried off to
hell. Our Lord would gladly have saved him from this doom,
for the doctor had always a kind heart, and had done much
good to the poor; but to save him was impossible, for he
had sold himself by contract to the devil, who kept strict
watch over him, and never let him out of sight.”
Also, as architect Dr. Faust was renowned throughout
Transylvania, but he often played tricks on the people, who
grew to distrust him and decline his services. The numerous
Roman roads still to be met with all over the country are
attributed to Dr. Faust, who, it is said, constructed them with
the assistance of the evil one.
The shops at Hermanstadt are such as might be expected
from its geographical position and the sort of people
inhabiting it; in fact, you are agreeably surprised to find
here fashions no more ancient than of two years’ date.
Shopkeepers here still retain the antediluvian habit of eating
their dinner as we hear of them doing some hundred years
ago. When twelve o’clock strikes every shop is closed, and
you would knock in vain against any of the barred-up doors;
the streets become suddenly empty, and a stranger arriving
at that hour would be prone to imagine himself to have
stepped into a sleeping city. There are two fairly good
German booksellers, several photographers, and sufficient
choice of most other things to satisfy all reasonable wants.
Yet there were people among our acquaintances who,
scarcely more reasonable than children crying for the moon,
used to fly into a passion, and consider themselves ill-used,
because they had failed to procure some fashionable kind of
note-paper, or the newest thing out in studs.
Sometimes, it is true, the narrow circle of Hermanstadt
traffic showed its threadbare surface in the most amusing
manner, as, for instance, when in an evil hour I bethought
myself of ordering a winter jacket trimmed with otter-skin
fur. Three skins would suffice for my purpose, as the tailor
had calculated; so, accordingly, I went the round of all the
fur-selling shops in the place. There were four of these who
kept fur among other goods, and by a curious coincidence
each of them confessed to possessing one otter only. Three
out of the four could not show me their skin; they were
unable to lay hand on it at that precise moment, it seemed,
but if I would step round later in the day it should be
produced. Returning, therefore, some hours later, I found,
indeed, the promised otter in shop No. 2, but Nos. 3 and 4
were, for some mysterious reason, unable to keep their
word, putting me off again to the following day; and by a
strange accident the otter in shop No. 1 had now
disappeared. Then ensued a wild-goose chase—or, I
suppose, I should call it a wild-otter hunt—all round the
shops again for several days, having glimpses of an otter
now at one shop, now at another, but never by any chance
in two shops simultaneously, till at last an energetic
summons on my part to confront all four together, led to the
melancholy revelation that there existed but one single
otter in the whole town of Hermanstadt, the poor hard-
worked animal alternately figuring among the goods of four
different tradesmen.
In olden times, as we are told, the furrier guild of
Hermanstadt was very illustrious. Its members once
specially distinguished themselves in a fray with the Turks
by delivering their Comes, in danger of being cut down.
Since that time the guild enjoyed the distinction of
executing the sword-dance on solemn occasions,
particularly at the installation of each new Comes.
This anecdote occurred to my mind more than once in the
course of my otter-hunt; and I sadly reflected that the
Comes would probably be left to perish to-day, while the
sword-dance would be apt to assume somewhat shabby
proportions if executed by the four greasy Jews, with their
solitary otter, which is all that remains of the once famous
guild.[73]
Other provincial towns as small as or smaller than
Hermanstadt can always show a certain amount of resident
families whose hospitable houses are thrown open to
strangers living there for a time. Here there is nothing of the
sort, the wealthier class being entirely made up of Saxon
burghers, who have no notions of friendly intercourse with
strangers. It is difficult to explain the reason of this
ungracious reserve, for they are neither wanting in
intelligence nor in learning. Their education is
unquestionably superior to that of Poles or Hungarians of
the same class of life; but even when well informed in all
branches of science, music, and literature, and on the most
intimate terms with Goethe and Schiller, Mozart and
Beethoven, they can rarely be classed as gentlefolk, from
their total lack of outward polish and utter incomprehension
of the commonest rules of social intercourse. Even persons
occupying the very highest positions in Church and State
are constantly giving offence by glaring breaches of every-
day etiquette. This proceeds, no doubt, from ignorance,
from want of natural tact, rather than from any intentional
desire to slight; but the result is unquestionably that
strangers, who might certainly derive much advantage from
intercourse with some of these people, are deterred from
the attempt by the lack of encouragement with which they
are met.
I should, however, be ungrateful were I not to acknowledge
that among the Transylvanian Saxons I learned to know
several, to whose acquaintance I shall always look back as a
pleasant reminiscence. First and foremost among these I
should like to mention our worthy physician Dr. Pildner von
Steinburg, to whom I am indebted for many interesting
details of Saxon folk-lore. Also, I can count among the
people I am glad to have known more than one of the school
professors and several village pastors; and I am truly
convinced that I might have extended my acquaintance with
pleasure and profit considerably had circumstances so
permitted. But precisely therein lies the difficulty. The
Transylvanian Saxon burgher is a very hard nut indeed to
crack, and in order to get at the sound kernel within, one
has to encounter such a very tough outside that few people
care to attempt it. No doubt much of the imposed code of
etiquette of the civilized world is an empty sham which lofty
spirits should be able to dispense with; but unfortunately we
are so narrow-minded that we cannot entirely divest
ourselves of the prejudices in which we were brought up.
In other parts of Transylvania the country-seats of the
Hungarian nobility offer a pleasant diversion; but here there
is nothing of the sort, all the land about the place being in
the hands of Saxon village communities. Social life at
Hermanstadt was therefore reduced to a few military
families, who either might or might not happen to suit one
another; and whoever has experience with this class will
know that the cases of non-suitability are, alas! by far the
most frequent.
“Small towns are so much nicer—don’t you think so?” I
heard a gushing creature remark to a gentleman she was
endeavoring to captivate. “One gets to know people so
much better than in large towns. Isn’t it true?” “Very true,”
he replied, dryly; “one gets to know and to dislike people so
much more thoroughly than in a large town.”
Of course there were exceptions; but even if you do succeed
in finding one or two friends whose society you care to
cultivate, the case is not really much better—for whose
feelings, what affection could stand the test of meeting their
best friend six times a day in every possible combination of
weather, locality, and costume?—in church, on the
promenade, at the confectioner’s, and in every second
shop, till you have long exhausted your whole répertoire of
smiles, nods, and ejaculatory salutations. What galvanized
attempts were made at gayety only served to bring out the
social barrenness into stronger relief; for how was it possible
to get up interest in a ball when you knew exactly
beforehand what every woman would wear, what each man
would say, and which of them would dance together?
None of the military families then stationed at Hermanstadt
happening to have grown-up daughters, the absence of girls
from most social reunions gave them much of the effect of a
third-class provincial theatre, where the part of soubrette is
performed by a respectable matron of fifty, and where
Juliets and Ophelias are apt to be passée and wrinkled. We
hear so much about the corruption of large towns; but for a
good, steady, infallible underminer of morals, commend me
to the life of a dull little country town. People here began to
flirt out of very ennui and desolation of spirit; beardless
boys at a loss to dispose of their soft green hearts,
desperately offered them to women twice their age; couples
who had lived happily together in the whirl of a dissipated
capital now drifted asunder under the deadening influence
of this idyllic tête-à-tête, each seeking distraction in another
direction—the result of all this being an amount of middle-
aged flirtation exceedingly nauseous to behold. Each
evening-party was thus broken up into duets of these
elderly lovers, while by daytime every man walked with his
neighbor’s wife beneath the bare elm-trees which shaded
the only dry walk near the town.
This is, perhaps, what Balzac means by saying that life in
the provinces is far more intense than in a capital—so
intense, indeed, as frequently to be entirely made up of
unnatural dislikes and equally unnatural likings; while that
serene indifference which, after all, is the only really
comfortable feeling in life, has here no place.
Cranford-like, we all walked to and from the social meetings,
which took place at alternate houses. The distances were so
short as not to make it worth while getting in and out of a
carriage, and people who loved their horses did not care to
drive them on a cold, dark night over the slippery and
uneven pavement of the town. Every party, therefore,
terminated by a Cinderella-like transformation scene—thick
wadded hoods, heavy fur cloaks, and monstrous clogs
reducing us one and all to shapeless bundles, as we walked
home in the starlight over the crisp, crunching snow.
As the winter advances the social gloom deepens, and the
liveliest spirits fall a prey to a sense of mild desperation. I
began to realize the possibility of paying endless visits to
the seal or the fat lady, and only wondered why no one had
as yet hit upon the bright expedient of buying the one or
marrying the other, merely by way of bringing some variety
into his existence. Some women changed their cooks, and
others their lovers, merely for change’s sake; and as there
was far greater choice of the latter than of the former article
—there being many men, but of cooks very few—any
woman known to be capable of roasting a hen or making a
plain rice-pudding became the centre of a dozen intrigues
woven round her greasy person. A single roe-deer appearing
in the market infallibly gave birth to three or four evening-
parties within the week. You were invited to sup on its
saddle at the general’s, to partake of the right haunch at the
colonel’s house, and the left at the major’s, and might deem
yourself exceptionally lucky indeed if not further compelled
to study its anatomy at some other house or houses—
everywhere accompanied by the identical brown sauce, the
same slices of lemon, the self-same dresses, cards, and
conversation!
Oh, roebuck, roebuck! why did you not remain in your own
native forest? Much better would it have been for yourself—
and for us!
 CHAPTER XLV.

FIRE AND BLOOD—THE HERMANSTADT

MURDER.
AT risk of dispelling the idea just given of the somnolent
nature of life at Hermanstadt, I am bound to mention that
the quiet little town was once distinguished by a murder as
repulsive and cold-blooded as any of which our most
corrupted capitals can boast.
It came to pass, namely, that during the summer of 1883 the
town was several times roused by the fire-alarm, and at
short intervals more than one barn or stable was partially
reduced to ashes. Nobody thought much of this at the time,
for, thanks to the energetic conduct of the volunteer fire-
brigade, assistance was promptly rendered, and though
some few Saxon voices were heard to express a belief that
their beloved compatriots the Roumanians were probably at
the bottom of this, as of most other unexplained pieces of
mischief, the majority of people were of opinion that the
unusually dry summer, coupled with some chance acts of
negligence, was quite sufficient to account for these
conflagrations.
In the month of September, however, the entire garrison of
Hermanstadt being absent at the military manœuvres, these
fires began to assume an epidemic character, and by a
strange coincidence they occurred invariably at night. During
the week the troops were away there were no less than four
or five fires.
Vague alarm now began to take possession of the
population, and the uneasy feeling that something was
wrong took shape in a dozen fantastic rumors, the one more
startling than the other. The cook coming back from market
brought news of a parcel of combustible materials found
concealed in some barn or hay-loft; the boys returned from
school full of some mysterious threatening letter, said to
have been discovered posted up on a tree of the promenade;
and the shopman, while tying up a parcel, sought to enliven
us by dark allusions to sinister-looking individuals seen
dodging about the scene of conflagration, and apparently
regarding their handiwork with fiendish glee.
By daytime these rumors certainly tended to break the
monotony of our solitude, and, proud of our superior
common-sense, we, the bereaved grass-widows of the
absent officers, could afford to laugh at the many ridiculous
stories which were scaring our weaker-minded attendants.
Only when darkness had set in, when the children had gone
to bed, and we ourselves prepared to spend a long, lonely
evening, did these various reports begin to assume a
somewhat more definite shape in our brain, and to appear
infinitely less absurd than they had done in broad daylight.
We nervously wondered whether again this night we should
be roused from sleep by the horrid sound of the tocsin.
Though it was autumn, not spring, we could not shake
ourselves free from an atmosphere of vague April fools on a
large and most unpleasant scale, and dimly began to realize
what it must feel like to be a Russian emperor, as quaking
we counted the days which must elapse before our natural
protectors and the defenders of the town were restored to
us.
One night, having, as usual, gone to bed with these
sensations, I was just dropping into an uneasy sleep, when,
sure enough, shortly before midnight the odiously familiar
sound of the fire-alarm broke in upon my dream, and, hastily
opening the window, I could see the sky all red with the fiery
glare, at what appeared to be a very short distance from our
house in the direction of the stables where, about a hundred
paces farther up the street, our horses were lodged. My
husband’s chargers were, of course, away with him at the
manœuvres, but the children’s pony and one horse had
remained behind; so, afraid of anything happening to them
in case the orderly were asleep or absent, I resolved to go
and assure myself of their safety. In a few minutes I was
dressed, and, accompanied only by my faithful Brick, who
was vastly delighted at the idea of a midnight walk, I left the
house.
Before I had gone many steps I saw that my fears for the
horses were groundless, the fire being ever so much farther
away than had appeared from the window. However, having
taken the trouble to rise and dress, I resolved to go on a
little, and see whatever there was to be seen. It was a lovely
moonlight night, almost as bright as day, only that the town
had a much more lively aspect than I had ever seen it wear
by daylight, for every one was afoot, and, like myself,
hurrying towards the red glare visible over the high-pointed
gables.
It proved impossible to get close to the fire raging in a
narrow street at the beginning of the Untere Stadt, but any
one standing at the top of the steep stone staircase by which
this portion of the town is reached could command a good
view of the scene, all the more striking from being seen from
above. After I had stood there for nearly half an hour
watching the tossing flames below me, and choked by
occasional puffs of smoke, I began to feel both chilly and
sleepy, and thought I might as well go back to bed, since it
was nearly one o’clock, and the excitements of this night
appeared to be exhausted. I left a large crowd still
assembled round the scene of action, while the streets I
passed on my homeward way were empty and deserted.
Deserted, likewise, was our own street, the Fleischer Gasse,
as it lay before me in the moonlight; but as I approached I
became aware of the solitary dark-clad figure of a slender
young man walking on the pavement just in front of our
house. He seemed to me well dressed, and in appearance
thoroughly respectable—an opinion which Brick, however,
failed to share, for he advanced to meet the stranger with a
low growl of suppressed but intense disapproval, which
compliment the respectable young man returned by
savagely hitting the dog with the tightly rolled-up umbrella
he carried in his hand.
I should probably not have cast a second look at this
stranger had not something in the needless brutality of his
action attracted my attention, and caused me to scan his
features. I thus noticed that he appeared to be little over
twenty years of age, had a small sallow face, a sprouting
mustache, and dark eyes set rather near together.
I rang the house-bell, and my maid came down to let me in,
when, to my surprise, the stranger rudely attempted to force
himself in behind me; but we slammed the door in his face,
and then my servant told me that this same young man had
been hanging about here for over half an hour, and had
already once endeavored to effect an entrance behind some
other person.

Two days later the troops came back from the manœuvres,
and everything returned to accustomed order and quiet. The
officers were, however, one and all far too much engrossed
in recollection of those glorious imaginary laurels they had
been winning on their bloodless battle-fields to take interest
in anything so commonplace as a real fire; so the tale of the
terrors we had undergone during their absence fell upon
callous ears, and as no more conflagrations ensued to give
color of semblance to our story, the matter soon lapsed into
oblivion.
The usual winter torpor settled down upon the place, and the
months wore slowly away towards spring without anything
having occurred to disturb their peaceful current, when late
on the evening of the 21st of February the almost forgotten
sound of the tocsin was again heard in the streets, and
simultaneously the news of a fourfold murder spread like
wildfire through the town. The house inhabited by a retired
military surgeon, Dr. Friedenwanger, had been discovered
burning, and some members of the fire-brigade, on forcing
an entrance, found his corpse, along with that of his wife,
child, and maidservant, still reeking with warm blood, and
mutilated in the most disgusting manner.
At first everybody was quite at sea as to where to look for
the perpetrators of this crime, but by a curious chance, just
while Dr. Friedenwanger was being buried, two days later, a
bloody knife and some iron crowbars, found concealed in a
drain near the cemetery, led to the identification of the
murderers in the persons of Anton von Kleeberg and Rudolf
Marlin,[74] two young men of respectable burgher families,
aged about nineteen and twenty-one. The photographs of
these youthful criminals being soon after exhibited in several
shop-windows, neither I nor my maid had any difficulty in
recognizing that of Kleeberg as the portrait of the mysterious
stranger who had tried to enter our house on the night of the
fire.
Many interesting details, too lengthy to be here recorded,
came out at the trial, and a long list of misdeeds was
brought home to the culprits, who, among other things,
confessed to having laid every one of the fires the previous
summer, thus diverting public attention while they
proceeded to rob some particular house known to be ill-
guarded, or inhabited by women only. There is therefore
every reason to suppose that Messrs. Kleeberg and Marlin,
well aware of the temporary absence of all masculine
element from the household, had selected our house for a
visit of this description; and I am likewise firmly convinced
that my beloved and sagacious dog Brick, with that delicate
sense of perception which so favorably distinguishes the
canine from the coarser human race, had instantaneously
detected the guilty intentions of the very respectable-looking
young man we met in the moonlight before our house that
September night. The victim, Dr. Friedenwanger, enjoyed a
bad reputation as a usurer, and his murder had been
undertaken for the sake of stealing the watches and
jewellery he kept in pawn; while by subsequently setting fire
to the premises the murderers had hoped to annihilate all
traces of their crime. Some of the horrible disclosures at the
trial brought, nevertheless, moments of intense satisfaction
to more than one female breast, as being so many
triumphant vindications of those terrors so cavalierly treated
by the other sex a few months before. Did they now realize
in what danger we had been last autumn, when they were all
away engrossed in their miserable sham-fights? Did they
know that their homes might have been reduced to ashes
while they were complacently toying with blank-cartridges?
or that their helpless progeny could easily have been made
mince-meat of while they were slaying their legions of
visionary Russians or Turks?
Such the self-evident arguments with which we were now
able to clear ourselves from the base imputation of
cowardice, and surely no woman worthy her sex forbore to
make use of these handy weapons, or missed such glorious
opportunity of turning the tables on her lord and master.

Characteristic of Magyar legislation was the circumstance of

the whole trial being conducted in Hungarian, though this
language was absolutely unknown to the two German
prisoners, who were thus debarred the doubtful privilege of
comprehending their own death-sentence when finally
pronounced about a year after their crime. Like enough,
though, its meaning was subsequently made clear to them,
for Anton von Kleeberg and Rudolf Marlin were executed at
Hermanstadt on the 16th of June, 1885.[75]
 CHAPTER XLVI.

THE KLAUSENBURG CARNIVAL.

READERS of the foregoing pages will have had occasion to
remark that, except when diversified by fire or bloodshed,
life at Hermanstadt was not a lively one; therefore an
invitation which I received during my second winter in
Transylvania to spend some weeks at Klausenburg during the
carnival season was very welcome. It was a decided relief to
get away from the vulgar monotony of those antiquated
flirtations which in Hermanstadt did duty for society, and to
be reminded of things one was in danger of forgetting—of
fresh young faces, light pretty dresses, and real dancing.
Nor was I disappointed in what I saw during my fortnight’s
stay at Klausenburg: pretty dresses in plenty; prettier faces,
for the girls of the place are justly celebrated for their good
looks; and as for dancing—why, I do not think I ever knew
before what it was to see real, heartfelt, impassioned,
indefatigable dancing. An account of the three last carnival
days, as I spent them at Klausenburg, will convey some
notion of what is there understood by the word dancing.
We had arrived late on the evening of the Saturday
preceding Ash-Wednesday, therefore only the gentlemen of
the party, unwilling to lose a single instant of their precious
holiday-time, rushed off to a large public ball or redoute.
The following evening—Carnival Sunday—assembled the
whole society in the salons of the military commander, Baron
V——, whose guest I was at the time. There were from thirty
to thirty-six dancing couples, and the first thing to strike a
stranger on entering the room was, that not a single plain
face was to be seen among them. Almost all the young girls
were pretty, some of them remarkably so; dark beauties
mostly, with a wealth of black plaits, glorious eyes, and
creamy complexions, and with the small hand and high-
curved instep which characterize Hungarian ladies. The
faintest suspicion of a dark shade on the upper lip was not
without charm in some cases; and when viewed against a
strong light, many of the well-cut profiles had a soft, downy
appearance, which decidedly enhanced their piquante effect.
Side by side with these, however, were one or two faces fair
enough to have graced any English ball-room.
What pleased me here to see was, that the married women,
as a matter of course, leave the dancing-field to the young
girls, and do not attempt, by display of an outrageous luxury
in dress, to concentrate attention on themselves: the
particular type of exquisite élégante never missing from a
French or Polish salon has no place here. This is surely as it
should be and as nature intended; pleasure, dancing,
flirtation are for the young and the unmarried, and those
who have had their turn should be content to stand aside
and look on henceforth; but when, as is too often the case, it
comes to be a trial of strength between matrons and
maidens as to which shall capture the best partners and
carry off the greatest number of trophies, the result can only
be an unnatural and distorted state of society.
What Edinburgh society was to London some fifty years ago,
so does Klausenburg stand to-day with regard to Pesth. As
nearly all the people here are connected by ties of blood as
well as of friendship, something of the privacy of a family
circle marks their intercourse; and while lacking none of the
refining touches of modern civilization, a breath of
patriarchal sans gêne pervades the atmosphere.
The weak side of Klausenburg society at present is a minority
of gentlemen, as of late years many members of
distinguished families have got to prefer the wider range of
excitement offered by a season at Buda-Pesth to the more
restricted circle of a purely Transylvanian society which
satisfied their fathers and grandfathers. On this occasion,
however, there was no lack of dancers, for the young
hussars who had come with us from Hermanstadt efficiently
filled up the social gaps, restoring the balance of sex in the
most satisfactory manner.
What interested me most in the ball-room was to watch the
expression of the Tzigane musicians crowded together in a
door-way; their black eyes rolling restlessly from side to side,
nothing escapes their notice, and they are evidently far
better informed of every flirtation, mistake, coolness, or
quarrel in the wind, than the most vigilant chaperon.
Of course here, as at every Hungarian ball, the principal
feature was the csardas; and it was curious to see how, at
the very first notes of this dance, the young people all
precipitated themselves to the end of the room where the
musicians were placed, jostling one another in their anxiety
each to get nearest to the music. To an uninitiated stranger it
looks most peculiar to see this knot of dancers all pressed
together like herrings in a barrel in one small corner, while
fully two-thirds of a spacious ball-room are standing empty;
but the Hungarians declare that the Tziganes only play the
csardas with spirit when they see the dancers at close
quarters, treading on their very toes and brushing up against
the violins. Sometimes the band-master, unable to control
his excitement, breaks loose from the niche or door-way
assigned to the band, and, advancing into the room,
becomes himself the centre of the whirling knot of dancers.
Whenever the csardas comes to an end there is a violent
clapping of hands to make the music resume. Hungarians are
absolutely insatiable in this respect, and, however long the
dance has lasted, there will always be eager cries for more
and more and more.
The cotillon, which was kept up till seven in the morning, was
much prettier than any I remember to have seen danced
before, for Hungarians are as superior to Germans or
Englishwomen in point of grace as they are to Poles in the
matter of animation—and they executed all the usual figures
demanding the introduction of a cushion, a mirror, a fan,
India-rubber balls, etc., in a manner equally removed from
boisterous romping as from languid affectation.
The following evening (Monday) the society reassembled at
the pleasant and hospitable house of Mme. de Z——, whose
dark-eyed daughters take a foremost rank among
Transylvanian beauties. In order to have some strength
remaining for what was still to come, dancing was on this
occasion reduced to the modest allowance of six hours, the
gypsies being compulsorily sent away soon after three
o’clock, in order to force the young people to take some rest.
On Tuesday we all met again at the Casino for the bachelor’s
ball, given by the gentlemen of the place, and where, with
the exception of supper and occasional snatches of
refreshment, dancing was kept up uninterruptedly till near
eight o’clock next morning. At the conclusion of the cotillon
each lady received from her partner a pretty white and silver
fan, on which her initials were engraved—a souvenir which I
have much pleasure in preserving, in remembrance of the
happy days I passed at Klausenburg.
An old traditional dance, which they here call Écossaise (but
which in reality is simply a pot-pourri of several English
country-dances), is danced at Klausenburg after midnight on
Shrove-Tuesday, or rather Ash-Wednesday morning. [76] This
dance having been somewhat neglected of late years, the
young people blundered sorely over some of the figures, and
the dance would have lapsed into hopeless chaos had not
the former generation gallantly thrown themselves into the
breach. Respectable fathers of grown-up daughters, and
white-haired grandmothers, now started to their feet,
instinctively roused to action by vivid recollections of their
own youth; and such is the power of memory that soon they
were footing it with the nimblest dancers, going through
each figure with unerring precision, and executing the
complicated steps with an accuracy and grace which did
honor to the dancing-masters of half a century ago.
One of these figures was the old one of cat and mouse, in
which the girl, protected by a ring of dancers, tries to escape
the pursuit of her partner, who seeks to break through the
line of defenders—the moment when the cat seizes its prey
being always marked by the band-master causing his violin
to give a piteous squeak, imitating to perfection the
agonized death-shriek of a captured mouse.
It is de rigueur that the last dance on Ash-Wednesday
morning should be executed by daylight. This was about
seven o’clock, when, the lights being extinguished and the
shutters flung open, the gypsies threw all their remaining
energies into a last furious, breathless galop—a weirder,
wilder scene than I ever witnessed in a ball-room, to look at
this frenziedly whirling mass of figures, but dimly to be
descried in the scarcely breaking dawn—gray and misty-
looking as ghosts risen from the grave to celebrate their
nightly revels, and who, warned by the cock’s crow of
approaching daybreak, are treading their last mazes with a
fast and furious glee; while the wild strains of the Tzigane
band, rendered yet more fantastic by the addition of a
monstrous drum (expressly introduced for the purpose of
adding to the turmoil), might well have been borrowed from
an infernal orchestra.
When the galop came to an end at last, from sheer want of
breath on the part of both players and dancers, daylight was
streaming into the room, disclosing a crowd of torn dresses,
crushed flowers, and flushed and haggard faces, worn with
the dissipation of the previous hours—a characteristic sight,
but not a beautiful one by any means. Each one now rushed
to the tea-room to receive the cups of fresh steaming kraut
suppe, served here at the conclusion of every ball. It is made
of a species of pickled cabbage, and has a sharp acid flavor,
most grateful to a jaded palate, and supposed to be supreme
in restoring equilibrium to overtaxed digestions.
While the ladies were resting till their carriages were
announced, the gentlemen began to light their cigars, and
the Tziganes, having recovered strength, resumed their
bows; but what they now played was no longer dance music,
but wild, fitful strains and melancholy national airs,
addressed now to one, now to another of the listeners
grouped about.
In other Continental towns dancing is brought to an end on
Ash-Wednesday morning, and most people would suppose
that having danced for three nights running, even the
youngest of the young would be glad to take some rest at
last. Not so at Klausenburg: nobody is ever tired here or has
need of rest, as far as I can make out; and it is a special
feature of the place that precisely Ash-Wednesday should be
the day of all others when gayety runs the wildest. The older
generation, indeed, lament that dancing is no longer what it
used to be; for in their time the Shrove-Tuesday party used
never to break up till the Thursday morning, dancing being
kept up the whole Wednesday and the following night,
people merely retiring in batches for an hour or so at a time
to repair the damages to their toilets.
Such desperate dissipation has now been modified, in so far
as the party, separating towards 8 or 9 A.M., only meet again
at 6 P.M., first to dine and then to dance. I could not get any
one to explain to me the reason of this Ash-Wednesday
dissipation, which I have never come across in any other
place. Most of those I asked could assign no reasons at all,
except that it had always been the custom there as long as
any one could remember; but one version I heard was that in
1848 the Austrian Government took into its head to forbid
dancing in Lent. “So, naturally, after that we had to make a
point of dancing just on Ash-Wednesday to show our
independence,” said my informant. The delicate flavor of
forbidden fruit, which, no doubt, adds so much to the
sweetness of these Ash-Wednesday parties, is kept up by the
Klausenburg clergy, who, after having for years vainly
attempted to put a stop to this regularly recurring Lenten
profanation, now contents itself with a nominal protest each
year against the revellers. Thus, as often as the day comes
round, a black-robed figure, sent hither to preach sackcloth
and ashes, makes his appearance on the ball-room premises;
but, more harmless than he looks, his bark is worse than his
bite, and he interferes with no one’s enjoyment. He does not
indite maledictions in letters of fire on the wall; neither does
he act the part of Banquo’s ghost at the banquet. Probably
he has in former years too often acted this part in vain, so
finds it wiser now to compromise the matter by accepting a
modest sum as alms for his church, and abandoning the
sinners to their own devices.
In place of the limp and crushed tulles and tarlatans of the
previous night, the young girls had now appeared mostly in
pretty muslin and fresh summer toilets adorned with natural
flowers. Some of them looked rather pale, as well they might
after their previous efforts; but at the first notes of the
csardas every trace of fatigue was gone as if by magic, and
not for worlds would any one of them have consented to sit
through a single dance. “Of course I am tired,” said a young
girl to me, very seriously, “but you see it is quite impossible
to sit still when you hear the csardas playing; even if you are
dying you must get up and dance.”
For my part, I confess that the mere effort of looking on this
fourth night was positive exhaustion. Long after midnight
they were still dancing away like creatures possessed—
dancing as though they never meant to stop, and as though
their very souls’ salvation depended on not standing still for
a single moment. My brain began to reel, and feeling that
worn-out Nature could do no more, I made the best of my
way to carriage and bed, pursued by nightmares of a never-
ending csardas.
After Ash-Wednesday Klausenburg society settled down to a
somewhat calmer routine of amusement, consisting in
skating, theatre-going, visiting, and parties.
There is a pleasing elasticity about Klausenburg visiting
arrangements, people there restricting themselves to no
particular hour, and no precise costume for going to see their
acquaintances; so that ladies bound for the theatre or a
party may often be seen paying two or three visits en route,
not at all embarrassed by such trifles as short sleeves or
flowers in the hair.
About two parties a day seemed to be the usual allowance
here in Lent. Some of these reunions, beginning at five
o’clock, were accompanied by cold coffee, ham sausages,
and cakes; others, commencing at nine in the evening, were
connected with tea and supper, so that frequently the self-
same party might be said to begin in one house and
terminate in another.
The gypsies were everywhere and anywhere to be seen, for
most of these social gatherings end in dancing, and without
the Tzigane no pleasure is considered complete. Pougracz,
the present director of the Tzigane band at Klausenburg, has,
so to say, grown up in society, his father having filled the
post before him, and he himself, a man well on in middle-age
—with such a delightfully shrewd, good-natured, rascally old
face—has played for another generation of dancers, fathers
and mothers of the young people who now fill the ball-room.
There are other Tzigane bands as good, but his is the only
one “in society,” and it is most amusing to note the half-
impudent familiarity of his manner towards both gentlemen
and ladies who have grown up to the sound of his fiddle. It is
positive agony to him to witness bad dancing, and he was
wont to complain most bitterly of one gentleman to whom
nature had denied an ear for music (a rare defect in any
Hungarian). “None of you young people dance particularly
well nowadays,” he remarked, with frank criticism, “but
among you there is one who makes me positively ill to look
at. If I were not to play at him and send my violin into his
feet, he would never be able to get round at all.”
On another occasion, when the figures of the Écossaise
threatened to melt away into hopeless confusion, Pougracz
angrily turned round and apostrophized a married lady who
was sitting near me. “How can you sit there and see them
making such a mess of it all?” he said. “It is not so long ago
that you were dancing yourself as to have forgotten all about
it, so go and make order among them!”
The pretty old-fashioned custom of serenades being still here
en vogue, sometimes on a dark winter’s night, between two
and three o’clock, one may hear the Tzigane band strike up
under the window of some fêted beauty, playing her favorite
air or nota. The serenade may either have been arranged by
a special admirer, or merely by a good friend of the family.
Often, too, several young men will arrange to bring
serenades to all the young ladies of their acquaintance,
going from one house to another. The lady thus serenaded
does not show herself at the window, but if the attention be
agreeable to her, she places a lighted candle in the
casement in token that the serenade is accepted.
Such acceptance is, however, by no means compromising,
no serious construction being necessarily put upon what may
simply be intended as a friendly attention.
There is something decidedly refreshing about such frank
ovations nowadays, when the lords of creation have become
so extremely chary of their precious attentions towards the
fair sex. To offer a nosegay to a girl is in some places so
fraught with ominous meaning as to be considered
equivalent to a marriage proposal, and exquisite young
dandies are apt to feel themselves seriously compromised by
the gift of a single rose-bud.
Only, the Klausenburg roses have no such treacherous
thorns, it seems; and methinks society must surely be
healthy in a place where any gentleman may, without laying
himself open to the charge of lunacy, wake up a whole street
at 3 A.M. by instigating a musical row beneath the window of
a young lady acquaintance.
 CHAPTER XLVII.

JOURNEY FROM HERMANSTADT TO

KRONSTADT.
THE railway from Hermanstadt to Kronstadt takes us mostly
through a rich undulating country, for, leaving the mountains
always farther behind us, we near them again only as we
approach the end of our journey.
Salzburg, or Vizakna as it is named in Hungarian, renowned
for its salt-mines, is the first station on the line on leaving
Hermanstadt—a melancholy, barren-looking place,
seemingly engendered by Nature in one of her most
stagnant moods. A wearisome stretch of sandy hillocks, their
outlines broken here and there by unsightly cracks and
fissures, is all that meets the eye; not a tree or bush to
relieve the monotony of the short stunted grass, where
starved-looking daisies, and spiritless, emaciated
chamomiles, are all the flowers to be seen. No wonder the
great white cattle look moody and dissatisfied, as from the
sandy cliff above they sullenly gaze down at their own
reflections in the dull green waters of the Tököli Bath. This
bath, highly beneficial in cases of acute rheumatism, is
nothing more than an old salt-mine dating back to the time
of the Romans, and which, through some accident or
convulsion of nature, has been flooded. The brine it contains
is so strong as to bear up the heaviest bodies and render
sinking an impossibility, so that, though of tremendous
depth, persons absolutely ignorant of swimming can walk
about in it in perfect safety, with head and shoulders well
above the surface.
There are various other baths in the place, all somewhat
weaker than the Tököli and other salt-mines, which, only
worked in winter, yearly furnish some eighty thousand
hundred-weight of salt. But the weirdest and gloomiest spot
about Salzburg is an old ruined mine, deserted since 1817,
and where over three hundred Honved soldiers found their
grave in 1849. They fell in battle against the revolutionary
Wallachians, and, as the simplest mode of burial, their
bodies were thrown down the old shaft, which is over six
hundred feet deep and filled with water to about a quarter of
its depth.
A magnificent echo can be obtained by firing a gun or pistol
down the shaft; but it is dangerous to approach the edge,
because of earth-slips, for which reason the place is enclosed
by a wire railing. However, neither this danger nor the fear of
the three hundred ghosts who may well be supposed to
haunt the spot is sufficient to restrain the Roumanians from
prowling about the place. On fine moonlight nights—as I was
told by the revenue officials, whose guard-house is close by
—they will let themselves down by ropes to chip off whole
sackfuls of salt. Sometimes they are caught in the act by
some wide-awake official, who then threatens to cut the rope
and send the culprits to rejoin the Honveds below, till the
unfortunate wretches are forced to sue for their lives in
deadliest fear.
The prettiest of the Saxon towns we passed on our way to
Kronstadt is Schässburg, situated on the banks of the river.
Towers and ramparts peep out tantalizingly from luxurious
vegetation, making us long to get out and explore the place;
particularly inviting is a steep flight of steps leading to an old
church at the top of a hill.
It is here that Hungary’s greatest poet, Petöfi, perished in the
battle of Schässburg on the 31st of July, 1849, when the
revolted Hungarians, led by the Polish general Bem, were
crushed by the superior numbers of the Russian troops come
to Austria’s assistance.
Petöfi’s body was never found, nor had any one seen him
fall, and for many years periodical reports got afloat in
Hungary that the great poet was not dead, but pining away
his life in the mines of Siberia. There seems, however, to be
no valid reason for believing this tale, and more likely his
was one of the many mutilated and unrecognizable corpses
which strewed the valley of Schässburg on that disastrous
day.

SCHÄSSBURG.
(Reprinted from publication of the Transylvanian
Carpathian Society.)
To the west of the town we catch sight of a solitary turret
perched on the overhanging cliff above the river; it is said to
mark the place where a Turkish pacha, besieging the town
with his army, was slain by a shot fired from the goldsmiths’
tower. The pacha was buried here sitting on his elephant,
and this tower raised above them, while that other tower
from whence the shot was fired, held ever since in high
honor, was decked out with a golden ceiling. This latter has
now fallen into ruin, and the inscription on the pacha’s
resting-place has become almost illegible, but the legend still
runs in the people’s mouths, and is told in verse as follows:

“By Schässburg, on the mountain

A turret gray doth stand,
And from the heights it gazes
Down on the Kokel land.
And ne’er a passing wand’rer
This turret who doth see,
But pauses to inquire here
What may its meaning be.

“It is a proud remembrance

Of doughty deeds and bold.
Still faithfully the people
Relate this legend old:
In by-gone days of trouble
Went forth, with sword and brand,
A mighty Turkish pacha,
To devastate the land.

“Thus also would he conquer

This ancient Saxon town;
But here each man was ready
To die for its renown.
And there upon the mountain
The pacha took his stand,
An elephant bestriding,
And cimeter in hand.

“The mighty Ali Pacha,

 He swears with curses wild,
That by his beard will he destroy
The Saxon, chick and child.
Then struck the haughty Moslem
Full in the breast a ball;
With curses yet upon the lip,
A death-prey he must fall.

“The leaden ball came flying,

Full thousand paces two,
From out a fortress turret,
With deadly aim and true.
A sturdy goldsmith was it
Who fired this famous shot;
The Turkish horde, which seeing,
Their courage all forgot.

“And panic-struck escaping,

Their pacha left to die,
The elephant still bestriding,
With fixed and glassy eye.
Then sallied forth the Saxons
As thus the Moslems fled,
And gazed on the dead pacha
With joy and yet with dread.

“They built up Ali Pacha

Within that turret gray,
From head to foot still armed
In battle-field array;
His elephant beside him
Was buried here as well,[77]
And outside an inscription
Their history doth tell.

“By times a plaintive wailing

 May here be heard at night;
Or chance you to see flitting
A phantom figure white,
The pacha ’tis, who cannot
Find lasting rest, they say,
Because ’mid heavy curses
His spirit passed away.”

Another point of interest we see from the railway is the

ruined castle of Marienburg, crowning a bare hill to our right
hand, about half an hour before reaching Kronstadt, built by
the knights of the Teutonic order during their occupation of
the Burzenland in the early part of the thirteenth century.
These knights, whose order unites some of the conditions of
both Templars and Maltese knights, had been founded in
Palestine about the year 1190, for the double purpose of
tending wounded crusaders, and, like these, combating the
enemies of the Holy Sepulchre. Only Germans of noble birth
were admitted as members, under condition of the
customary vows of chastity and obedience. They had,
however, not been long in existence when their position in
Palestine began to grow insecure; and casting about their
eyes in search of some more tenable position, they were met
half-way by the King of Hungary, Andreas II., who, on his
side, was in want of some powerful alliance to secure the
eastern provinces of Transylvania against the repeated
invasions of the Kumanes.
The negotiations between the monarch and the Teutonic
order seem to have lasted several years, being finally
brought to a conclusion in 1211 in a treaty signed by the
King in the presence of eighteen distinguished witnesses.
This treaty distinctly sets forth that the part of the country
called the Burzenland, and whose boundaries are exactly
defined, is bequeathed as an irrevocable gift to the knights
of the Teutonic order by the King, who, hoping thereby to
obtain pardon of his sins and secure eternal salvation for
himself and his ancestors likewise, intrusts to them the
defence of the eastern frontier of his kingdom against
barbaric invasions. In this document, which is lengthy and
involved, are likewise set forth all the rights, obligations,
privileges, and restrictions of the said knights. They were
exempted from all the usual taxes and tributes to the King,
who, however, did not resign his claim to the sovereignty of
the land, reserving to himself on all occasions the right of
ultimate decision in cases of contested justice. Whatever
gold or silver was discovered in the soil was to belong, half
to the King, half to the order. Though granting the utmost
freedom in all matters relating to trade and commerce, the
Hungarian monarch retained the sole right of coinage; and
while permitting the knights to erect the wooden fortresses
and citadels which were amply sufficient to resist attacks
from the barbarians, it was distinctly stipulated that they
were not to build castles or fortifications of stone.
Barring these few restrictions, the land was to be absolutely
their own; and had the knights been wise enough to keep to
the compact, no doubt the Teutonic order might yet be
flourishing to-day in Transylvania, instead of having been
ignominiously expelled after scarce a dozen years’
residence.
At first the new arrangement seems to have been most
beneficial to the country, for we hear of growing prosperity
and of flourishing agriculture and commerce; and many
German villages which acknowledged the Teutonic knights as
their feudal masters were founded at that time.
But the good understanding between King Andreas and the
knights was of short duration, for before ten years had
elapsed we already read of dissensions cropping up; the
knights are accused of extending their boundaries beyond
the prescribed limits, of issuing an independent coinage, of
building stone castles, and of bribing away German colonists
to settle on their own land to the detriment of other
provinces—all of which things were distinctly interdicted by
the terms of agreement. Many stories, too, are told of their
cruel tyranny towards unfortunate serfs—such, for instance,
as compelling several hundreds of them to pass whole nights
in the marshes round Marienburg, each man armed with a
long switch wherewith to flog the troublesome frogs, whose
croaking disturbed the slumbers of the holy men up in the
castle.
King Andreas, who was of a weak, vacillating disposition, was
easily persuaded by counsellors antagonistic to the order to
revoke the deed of gift, which proclamation was issued in
1221, accompanied by an order to the knights to evacuate
the territory and the strongholds they had built. Before,
however, this had been effected, the Pope, Honorius III.,
himself a special protector of the order, intervened, effecting
a reconciliation, the result of which was a fresh treaty
confirming the previous donation. This renewed deed of gift
not only ratified all the terms of the previous document, but
actually increased the privileges enjoyed by the knights,
granting them among other things the much-coveted right of
building stone castles.
In spite, however, of some notable victories over the
Kumanes in 1224, and the brilliant prospects thereby opened
of enlarging their domains, the Teutonic knights were not
destined to shine much longer in the land they had thus
successfully civilized and made arable. No doubt they
hastened their own downfall by the signal short-sightedness
of their grand-master, Hermann von Salza, who committed
the error of taking upon himself to offer the supremacy of
the Burzenland to the Holy See, begging the Pope to enroll
this province among the Papal States. Of course the knights
had no right thus to dispose of a domain which they only
held as subjects of the Hungarian Crown; and though the
Pope, as was to be expected, gladly accepted the handsome
donation, the King as naturally resented a proceeding which
could only be regarded as the blackest high-treason. This
time the breach was such as could no longer be bridged over
by any attempt at reconciliation. The Teutonic knights had
made themselves too many enemies, and especially the
King’s eldest son (afterwards Bela IV.) was strenuous in
urging his father to eject the order from the land. This
sentence was carried out, not without much trouble and
bloodshed; for the knights were little disposed to disgorge
this valuable possession. Even when at last compelled to
turn their backs on Transylvania, which appears to have been
about 1225, it was long before they relinquished the hope of
ultimately regaining their lost paradise. But all efforts in this
direction proved unavailing; for it was decreed that the
German knights were to behold the Burzenland no more.

CASTLE OF TÖRZBURG.
I have not been able to obtain any picture of Marienburg,
and to the best of my knowledge none such has ever been
executed, which is all the more to be lamented, as this
interesting ruin, like so many others in the country, bids fair
to vanish ere long without leaving any trace behind. In
default, therefore, of Marienburg, I offer a picture of the
Castle of Törzburg, another of those seven fortresses raised
by the Teutonic knights during their brief but brilliant reign.
This castle, lying south of Kronstadt, at the entrance of the
similarly named pass, has, however, lost much of its former
romantic appearance. Since 1878, when the Hungarian
Government thought necessary to guard the frontier against
Roumania, it was converted into a soldiers’ barracks; and
though no longer used for that purpose, no steps have yet
been taken to restore the edifice to its original form by
rebuilding the slender turrets of which it had been divested.

Shortly before reaching Kronstadt our train came to an

unexpected stand-still in the midst of a wide-stretching plain.
Some flocks were grazing on either side of the rails, but
there was no station or guard-house in sight to explain this
unaccountable stoppage, and there seemed to be nothing to
suggest an accident, till, stretching our heads out of the
window, we saw a group of people bending over a formless
mass which lay on the rails some hundred yards to our rear.
One of the passengers who happened to be a doctor was
hastily summoned to the spot, but he returned shaking his
head, for his science could do nothing here. A shepherd lad
aged twelve or thirteen had been lying across the rails
seemingly asleep in the sun. He lay so flat that the engine-
driver had failed to perceive him till the last moment, and
then only had seen how a white figure had jumped up in
front of the engine, but instantaneously caught by a blow
from the engine-fliers, was stricken down to rise no more.
Had the boy been asleep or intoxicated, or whether it were
an accident or a suicide, none could tell. We were thankful to
be far enough from the scene to be spared the sight of the
horrible details—how horrible could be guessed from the
expression of those who were now slowly returning to
resume their places in the train.
As we moved away I could only discern how two men were
lifting the body from the rails, and how a woman with
uplifted arms was running across a field towards them.
 CHAPTER XLVIII.

KRONSTADT.
IT needed the sight of beautiful Kronstadt to efface the
impression of this ghastly picture—beautiful, indeed, as it
clings to the steep mountain-side, looking as though the
picturesque houses and turrets had been carved out of the
rocks which tower above them.
At Hermanstadt the view of the mountain-chain is grander
and more sublime, but Kronstadt has the advantage of being
in itself part and portion of the mountain scenery, the
fashionable promenade winding in serpentine curves up the
Kapellen Berg to the back of the town, being but the
beginning of an ascent which, if pursued, will lead us to a
height of wellnigh seven thousand feet.
Without, however, going any such desperate distance,
merely from the top of the Kapellen Berg or Zinne (thirteen
hundred feet above the town), to be reached without
perceptible effort, we can enjoy one of the finest views to be
seen throughout Transylvania, offering as it does a singularly
harmonious blending of wild, uncultured nature and rich
pastoral scenery.
Not far below the highest point of the Kapellen Berg is a
small cave which goes by the name of the Nonnenloch
(nun’s hole). A hermit is said to have lived here for many
years; but it is more celebrated as having been the haunt of
a monstrous serpent, which hence used to pounce down
upon inadvertent wanderers. On one occasion it is said to
have carried off and devoured a student who was reading
near the town-wall; but tormented by thirst after this
plentiful repast, the monster drank water till it burst. The
portrait of this gigantic snake may still be seen painted on
the old town-wall near the barracks.
There is another legend relating to the Kronstadt Kapellen
Berg, which, though somewhat lengthy, is too graceful to be
refused a place here:
“Many, many years ago there lived at the Kronstadt
gymnasium a student who was uncommon wise and God-
fearing, and who could preach so well that it often happened
that he was delegated by any one of the town clergymen,
when indisposed with a cold or toothache, to preach in his
stead. And this the student did right willingly; for he received
for each sermon half a Hungarian florin, which was good pay
for those times. But still more for the honor and glory did he
like to do it; and the most praiseworthy thing about it was,
that he did not copy out his sermons from a book, but that
he composed them unaided out of his own mind and learned
them by rote; and as, moreover, he had a fine manner of
delivery, it was a pleasure to listen to him. Whenever he had
to learn a sermon by heart, it was his custom to seek out
solitary places where he might be undisturbed, but his
favorite haunt used to be the steep, wooded hill behind the
town.
“Thus one day, having to learn a sermon to be preached on
the morrow at the Johannis Kirche (the present Catholic
Franciscan church), our student as usual repaired to his
favorite haunt. He had just finished his self-allotted task, and
was preparing to go home, when he espied a beautiful bird,
which, hopping about on an overhanging branch, seemed to
be intently gazing at him. The student approached the bird,
but when he had reached it so close as almost to touch it
with his hand, it flew off some paces farther up the hill,
alighting on another branch and gazing on him as before.
Again he followed the bird, which, repeating its former
manœuvre, led him on by degrees almost to the top of the
hill to the spot now known as the Nonnenloch. Here the bird
disappeared into a thicket, still followed by the student, who,
bending aside the branches, saw a broad cleft in the rock,
wide enough to admit a man’s body. He could still descry the
bird, which, flying in through the opening, was soon lost to
sight in the cavernous depths within.
“Wonderingly he entered the cave and penetrated a
considerable way into the mountain, not understanding,
however, how it was that, though so far removed from the
light of day, he was yet perfectly able to distinguish his
surroundings as in a sort of twilight. Suddenly at the end of
the cave, which had now contracted to a narrow passage, he
was confronted by the figure of a dwarf with pale face and
long gray beard, who cried in a deep, angry voice, ‘Who art
thou? and what seekest thou here?’
“The student felt sorely afraid, but took heart, seeing that his
conscience was clear and he had done no harm; so he
related to the dwarf how, having come hither to learn his
sermon, which by the help of God he hoped to preach next
day in the Johannis Kirche, he had been led by the bird ever
up the hill and deeper into the forest, till he reached this
cave.
“At the very first word the manikin’s face grew mild and
benevolent. ‘So thou art he?’ he said, in a gentle voice, when
the other had finished speaking. ‘Often have I listened to
thee reciting thy sermons down in the forest, and have been
rejoiced and edified by the beautiful words. I am the berg-
geist (mountain-spirit), and the bird which enticed thee
hither is in my service, and did so by my order, for I wished
to know thee. Thou shalt not repent having come hither, for I
will show thee what no mortal eye has seen.’
“At a sign from the dwarf an invisible door at the extremity of
the cave flew open, and following his guide, the student
gazed about him in speechless wonder. He now found
himself in a vault far wider and loftier than the church nave,
and though there were here neither windows nor torches, the
whole building was pervaded by a rosy, transparent twilight.
What a gorgeous and splendid sight now met his eyes! The
arches on which the vault rested were of massive silver, and
of silver, too, the pillars which supported them. The ribs of
the arches were of gold, as likewise the ornaments on the
columns. Moreover, these columns were encircled by flower-
garlands composed of many-colored precious stones—
diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and topazes; while
hundreds more of the same stones lay strewn about on the
ground. How all this glittered and sparkled before the eyes of
the wondering student!
“‘See,’ spoke the dwarf, ‘this is a workshop, and there are
many more such in the heart of the mountains, where, out of
gold, silver, and precious stones, we spirits fashion the
flowers that deck the surface of the earth. You foolish
mortals no doubt believe the flowers to sprout of themselves
in spring to enamel meadow and forest in blue, red, and
yellow tints. But learn that this is the work of us, the
mountain-spirits, who by order of the Creator wander over
the surface of the earth, unseen by men, sowing broadcast
the mountain treasures which glitter in the sunshine in
manifold shapes and colors. And in autumn, when the
flowers wither, we go forth again to gather in the gems we
have strewn, and hide them in rocky strongholds till spring
comes round again. Thus do we strive to rejoice the hearts of
men by letting their eyes feast on the works of the Creator.
But,’ he continued, laughing maliciously, ‘we feel but
contempt and derision for such foolish mortals as, having
become possessed of some stray grains of our flower-seed,
which they have perchance discovered in a torrent-bed or
rocky fissure, set great store on their possession, decking
themselves out with it as though each simple field-flower
were not more beautiful by far than the gem from which it
has sprung.’
“The words of the mountain-spirit well pleased the student,
and he thought of the text of the sermon he was about to
preach on the morrow, treating of the lilies of the field, which
neither toil nor spin, and are yet more gorgeous than
Solomon in all his glory. But at the same time there went
through his brain other thoughts of less lofty nature. To a
poor devil such as he a pocketful of these glittering stones
would be a most acceptable present—sufficient probably to
relieve him of all material anxiety, and enable him to go to
Germany to finish his studies. Vainly he hoped that the gray-
bearded dwarf might tender some such gift, but to his
discomfiture the berg-geist betrayed no such intention.
“Something more than an hour the student spent in
contemplation of the riches of the cavern; then he bethought
himself of home, and begged the dwarf to let him out.
“‘The little bird,’ spoke the spirit, ‘which brought thee hither
will conduct thee back through the cleft.’ But as they neared
the entrance of the vault the student made a feint of
stumbling, and as he did so, surreptitiously caught up a
handful of gems, which he secreted in the pocket of his
dolman. The old dwarf said nothing, but smiled sarcastically,
and the student deemed his manœuvre to have passed
unnoticed.
“Suddenly the dwarf had disappeared, and the student found
himself again in the cleft of rock where an hour previously
the bird had lured him; and here, too, the bird itself was
waiting for him, and, hopping cheerfully in front, soon
conducted him back to the light of day, whereupon it
disappeared into the bushes.
“Our student felt heartily thankful to be delivered from the
somewhat uncanny surroundings, and to see the blue sky
and the golden sunshine once more. But, strange to say, as
he pursued his way homeward down the hill to regain the
town by the upper gate, several things struck him as
unknown and unfamiliar. The people he met were not attired
according to the fashion of the day; the path was smoother
and better kept; even the very trees seemed changed, and
no more the same he had seen growing there when he had
gone up the hill that morning. He specially remembered a
slender young lime-tree which had been planted only the
spring before; where had it now gone to? and how came
there to be an aged and majestic tree in its place?
“As he entered the town-gate that leads into the Heilig-
leichnams Gasse (Corpus Christi Street), many things
likewise appeared strange; the houses had foreign shapes,
and out of their windows there peeped unknown faces.
“While ruminating over these puzzling facts he bethought
himself of the treasure he carried in his pocket, and his
conscience began to prick him, that he, who until now had
been careful to keep the Ten Commandments, had now
made himself guilty of breaking the eighth one. It seemed to
him as though the purloined gems were burning through the
coat into his heart. Thus thinking, he approached the river in
order to ease his conscience by throwing in the stolen
property. He put his hand into his pocket and drew it out full,
but before throwing away the treasure he wished to take a
last look at the glittering stones. But what was this? A
handful of coarse gravel was all he held. Some witchcraft
must be here at work; and a cold shudder ran over his frame,
but he was thankful to be rid of the accursed jewels.
“At last he had reached the school, and stepped over the
threshold of the door. Several students met him in the
corridors or coming down the staircase; but he, who knew
every one about the place, was surprised to see naught but
strange faces, who stared back at him with astonishment
equal to his own.
“He entered his little bedchamber, but here also all was
different: no press, no table, no chair remained of those he
had left there that morning; the very bed was another one,
and the occupants of the room knew him as little as he knew
them.
“This was surely a greater wonder than all that had
happened to him up yonder at the cavern. It needed all his
self-control to keep his faculties together and prevent himself
from going mad. And he must keep his reason; for was he
not to preach his sermon next day in the Church of St. John?
“He fared no better when, hoping to find a way out of his
dilemma, he rushed wildly to the rector’s abode. The voice
which responded ‘Intra’ to his modest knock was a strange
one; and as he, entering, saw a stranger sitting at the
writing-table, he timidly said that he wished to speak to the
Virum pereximium. ‘I am he,’ was the answer; ‘who are you,
and what seek you here? I am acquainted with all the
students of the gymnasium. How come you to be wearing
their dress?’
“Our student now mentioned his name, and related how he
had been delegated by the reverend and worthy minister
such-and-such to preach on the following day; how he had
gone out early on to the hill to learn his sermon by rote, and
all that subsequently happened to him. Everything he related
faithfully, excepting the episode regarding the handful of
glittering stones, which he thought better to conceal. Then
he told how on his return he found everything changed as by
an evil charm—how he knew nobody, and was known by
none in return.
“When the student had first named himself, and likewise
mentioned the name of the preacher whose place he was to
take next day, an expression of wondering astonishment had
dawned on the rector’s face, which grew more intense as the
narrative proceeded. When the student had finished his
story, he turned round hastily and took from the bookcase
behind him an ancient volume in pig-skin binding.
“‘Yes; here it stands in the Albo studiosæ juventutis
gymnasii, anno Domini 1——: “On the —— of the month of
August did the Studiosus Togatus N—— N—— ex ædibus
gymnasii, absent himself from here and did not again return,
which defalcation caused all the greater consternation as the
said studiosus had been delegated to preach next day, being
the fifteenth Sunday after Trinity, in the church of St.
Johannes, and in lieu of the sermon a lectio biblica had to be
held instead.” And this happened,’ wound up the rector,
turning to the student, ‘exactly a hundred years ago to-day.’
“And so it was in truth; the time he had spent in the cave
had seemed but an hour to the young man, and in reality a
hundred years had passed! Everything around him had
changed except his own self; for the years that had fled had
left no mark on him, and he looked young and strong as a
youth of scarce twenty years.
“It is easy to conceive how this wonderful story was swiftly
spread throughout the town, and especially what sensation it
caused amid the Kronstadt students, among whom the
centenarian youth was now permitted to resume his place.
Then as the mid-day bell had just tolled, and our student felt
a mighty craving of hunger within him (which was not
wonderful, considering that he had fasted for a century), he
did not require much pressing to sit down at the dinner-board
with his companions.
“But oh, wonder of wonders! hardly had he swallowed the
first spoonful of the dish before him, when his whole
appearance began to change: his dark hair turned gradually
white, and fell from his head like snow-flakes; his features
shrank perceptibly, and the bloom of his cheek gave place to
an ashy pallor; his eye grew dim; and scarcely had his
comrades, hastening to support his sinking frame, laid him
upon a bed, when with a last deep-drawn breath he expired.
“For some years after this many Kronstadt students used to
haunt the hill along the town, in hopes that the bird might
appear and lead them into the enchanted cavern, secretly
resolving well to line their pockets with the riches it
contained—for that the jewels were subsequently changed to
gravel they had not been informed. But though many have
searched for the spot, none ever succeeded in finding it
again, so that by degrees the love of reciting sermons on the
mountain died out, and the whole story lapsed into oblivion.
Also, the page from the Albo scholastico where mention is
made of this is said to be missing, so that now but a few old
people are acquainted with this legend, and fewer still there
are who yet believe it.”
Kronstadt, or Brasso, as it is called in Hungarian, lying at a
height of 1900 feet above the sea-level, is of more mixed
complexion than other Transylvanian towns, and is already
mentioned in the thirteenth century as having a mixed
population of Saxons, Szeklers, and Wallachs. Whereas
Klausenburg is exclusively a Hungarian, and Hermanstadt a
Saxon city, Kronstadt partakes a little of both characters, and
has, moreover, a dash of Oriental coloring about it. In the
streets, besides the usual contingent of fiery Magyars, stolid
Saxons, melancholy Roumanians, ragged Tziganes, and
solemn Armenians, we pass by other figures, red-fezzed,
beturbaned, or long-robed, which, giving to the population a
kaleidoscopic effect, make us feel that we are next door to
the East, and only a few steps removed from such things as
camels, minarets, and harems.
 KING MATTHIAS CORVINUS.
Kronstadt is said to derive its name from a golden crown
found suspended on a broken tree-stump about the year
1204. A fugitive king—such is one version of the story—had
here deposited his head-gear, no doubt finding it
inconvenient when flying through the forest. On the spot
where the royal insignia was found was raised the present
town of Kronstadt, whose arms consist of the image of a
crown suspended on a stump. The tree-stump represents the
town, we are told, its roots the Burzen, or Wurzel, land, while
the crown is figurative of the Hungarian monarch.[78] The
original crown is said to have been long treasured up in the
guildhall of Kronstadt, and jealously guarded by the citizens,
who showed it but rarely, and as special mark of favor to
some potentate. An old writer of the year 1605 described
this crown as being of gold and decorated with golden
plumes, and mentions that it was Gregory, the despotic king
of Mœsia, who, obliged to withdraw from the siege of
Kronstadt, and defeated by the Turkish pacha Mizetes, laid
down his crown on the stump where it was afterwards found
by Kronstadt citizens.
There is another story, which relates that this crown
belonged to Solomon, King of Hungary, who died dethroned
in the eleventh century, and spent his last years living as a
hermit in a romantic valley near Kronstadt which still bears
his name. Feeling his death approach, he concealed his
golden crown in a hollow beech-tree, where long afterwards
it was discovered by some shepherds, when the tree,
becoming old and rotten, had fallen to the ground.
The Feast of St. John the Baptist (June 24th) was generally
regarded as the anniversary of the crown-finding, to
commemorate which it used to be customary to hoist up at
the end of a high Maypole a crown woven together of ripe
cherries, roses, and rosemary, and adorned with gingerbread
figures and cakes of various sorts. The youth of both sexes
danced round this pole to the sound of music, and whoever
succeeded in scaling the height and carrying off the crown
received a handsome prize.
A dilapidated crown carved in the stone façade of an old
house in the Purzelgasse at Kronstadt gives evidence that
here King Matthias, once travelling incognito, as was his
wont, entered and consumed the frugal meal of six eggs,
leaving behind him on the table-cloth a paper on which were
written the Latin words:

“Hic fuit Matthias rex comedit ova sex.”[79]

The principal church at Kronstadt, dating from the end of the

fourteenth century, contains many objects of interest,
besides an organ which is of European reputation. In the
sacristy are preserved rich old vestments remaining from
Catholic times, perfect masterpieces of elaborate
embroidery, such as I have not anywhere seen surpassed.
Sometimes a cope or chasuble is covered with a whole
gallery of figures executed in raised-work, each detail of
expression and every fold of the drapery being rendered in a
manner approaching the sculptor’s art.
In the church itself hang some of the most exquisite Turkish
carpets I have ever seen—such tender idyllic blue-green
tints, such gloomy passionate reds, such pensive amber
shades, as to render distracted with envy any amateur of
antique fabrics who has the harrowing disappointment of
ascertaining that these masterpieces of the Oriental loom
are not purchasable even for untold sums of heavy gold!
“There was ein verrückter Engländer (a mad Englishman)
here some years ago,” I was told by a church-warden, “who
would have given any price for that pale-blue one up yonder,
and he remained here a whole month merely to be able to
see it every day; but he had to go away empty-handed at
last, for these carpets, like the vestments, are the property
of the Church, and not even the bishop himself has power to
dispose of them.”
 CHAPTER XLIX.

SINAÏA.
FROM Kronstadt we made an excursion to Sinaïa, a
fashionable watering-place and summer residence of the
King of Roumania, about two hours’ distance over the
frontier.
We had provided ourselves with a passport from
Hermanstadt, for just at that particular moment the
regulations about crossing the frontier were rather strict, in
consequence of some temporary coolness between the two
crowned heads on either side. Usually the entente cordiale
between both countries is most satisfactory, and Austrian
officers wishing to pay their respects to his Roumanian
Majesty can always count on a gracious reception; but we
happened, unfortunately, to have hit off a brief period of
international sulks. Austrian officers were forbidden to show
themselves in uniform within the kingdom, or, indeed, to
cross the frontier at all, and were consequently reduced to
the subterfuges of passports and plain clothes.
It ultimately proved to be much easier to cross from Hungary
to Roumania than vice versa; for on our way back that same
evening, we were detained an eternity by the suspicious
pedantry of the Hungarian officials, contrasting unfavorably
with the genial simplicity of arrangements on the other side.
The whole route from Kronstadt to Sinaïa is very beautiful,
the railway running through a deep valley which sometimes
narrows to the dimensions of a close mountain gorge,
densely wooded on either side by noble beech forests,
bordered by fringes of wild sunflowers, which marked the
way in a line of unbroken gold. One might almost have
fancied that some munificent fairy had thus chosen to show
the way to the King’s abode, by strewing gold-pieces along
the road.
The glimpses of peasant life we got by looking out of the
carriage-window already showed us costumes more varied
and fantastic than on the Hungarian side; an air of Eastern
luxury as well as of Eastern indolence pervaded everything,
and it was impossible not to feel that we had entered
another country—the land beyond the land beyond the
forest.
At Sinaïa itself the valley has somewhat widened out,
affording room for numerous handsome villas and luxurious
hotels which have sprung up there of late years. On a low hill
stands the convent where the royal family have taken up
their residence till the new-built castle is ready to be
inhabited.
 CASTLE PELESCH AT SINAÏA. SUMMER RESIDENCE OF
THE KING OF ROUMANIA.
Proceeding on our way towards the convent, we were
puzzled for a moment by the appearance of the peasant
women we met—their surprising richness of costume and
profusion of ornament surpassing the limits of even
Roumanian gorgeousness. Their straight-cut scarlet aprons
were literally one mass of rich embroidery, and each
movement of the arm caused the sleeve to glitter in the sun
like the scales of gold and silver fish; but why, in place of the
customary sandals, did they wear delicate high-heeled
chaussure strongly suggestive of Paris? Why, instead of the
twirling distaff, did we see Japanese fans in their hands? And
why, oh why, as we came within ear-shot, did we make the
startling discovery that they were not talking Roumanian at
all, but speaking French with more or less successful
imitations of a Parisian accent?
These various “whys” were soon put to rest by the
information that these were not peasants at all, but
Roumanian Court ladies, who, following the example of their
queen, adopt the national dress for daily wear during the
summer months.
It being Sunday, mass had just finished as we reached the
convent, whence a motley congregation of officers and
ladies, soldiers, peasants, and monks came pouring out. A
sentry walking up and down in a somewhat nonchalant
manner, as though merely taking a mild constitutional, and a
red-and-blue flag waving above the low roof of the old-
fashioned, shabby building, were the only symptoms of
royalty about the place.
Presently a low basket-carriage, drawn by two handsome
cream ponies with distressingly long tails and ill-cut manes,
came round to the convent door, close to where we were
standing, and was entered by a slender lady attired in the
national costume, bareheaded, and holding up a Chinese
parasol to protect herself from the broiling sun. She
appeared to be on easy, cordial terms with the respectable-
looking family servant who assisted her to get in, and had
quite a pleasant chat with him as he stood on the door-step.
It was evident, from the way she was saluted on her
passage, that the Queen is a great favorite with people of all
classes.
The King, whom we came across a little later in the day,
seemed of more unapproachable species, and the little
incident connected with his appearance savored rather of
Russian than of Roumanian etiquette.
We were walking in the direction of the newly built castle,
which, situated on the banks of a torrent at the opening of a
steep mountain ravine, and deliciously shrouded in gigantic
trees, is the most perfect beau-ideal of a summer chateau I
ever saw. Already I had had occasion to remark the
appearance of several semi-military-looking beings (whether
policemen or soldiers I cannot precisely define) dodging
about mysteriously in and out between the tree-stems, when
suddenly one of them came rushing towards us, waving his
arms aloft like a windmill gone mad, and with an expression
of the wildest despair hurriedly repeating something we
failed to understand, but which evidently was either a
warning or a threat. Before we had time to request this
curious being to explain himself more intelligibly, he had
disappeared, jumping over the steep, precipitous bank of the
ravine, and vanishing in the brushwood.
We now looked round in alarm, half expecting to see a
furious wild-boar, possibly even a bear, appearing from the
mountain-side, but could only perceive a tall, dark,
handsome officer approaching us, and behind him a correct-
liveried servant carrying a railway rug. The meaning of the
mysterious warning now began to dawn on our
comprehension; this could only be the King, from his
resemblance to the portraits we had seen, and we had
probably no business to be here prying on his private
premises. Our feeling of tact was, however, not exquisite
enough to induce us to risk our necks in endeavoring to
conceal ourselves from his august gaze, so we bravely stood
our ground, and nothing worse happened than our bow being
very politely returned.
When his Majesty had disappeared I went to the bank to see
what had become of the unfortunate soldier or policeman
who had effaced himself in so foolhardy a manner; but
though I half expected to see his corpse lying shattered at
the foot of the rock, no trace of him was there to be seen.
The castle, now completed, and since 1884 inhabited every
summer by the royal family, is built in the old German style,
and has, I hear, been fitted up and furnished in most
exquisite fashion—each article having been carefully
selected by the Queen herself, whose artistic taste is well
known. Deeper in the forest, at a little distance from the
castle, is a tiny hunting-lodge, where in the hot weather the
Queen is wont to spend a great part of the day. It is here that
she loves to sit composing those graceful poems in which
she endeavors to reflect the spirit and heart of her people;
and visitors admitted to this royal sanctuary are sometimes
fortunate enough to see the latest rough-cast of a poem,
bearing the signature of Carmen Sylva, lying open on the
writing-table.
The villas about Sinaïa are rather bare-looking as yet,
especially on a burning summer day; for parks and gardens
have not had time to grow in proportion to the hot-headed
mushroom speed with which this whole colony has sprung
into existence. The bathing establishment is one of the most
delightful I ever saw—a large marble basin, roofed in and
lighted from above, framed with a luxuriant fringe of
feathery ferns and aquatic plants trailing down on to the
surface of an exceptionally clear and crystal-like water. When
the Queen comes hither to bathe the walls are further
adorned by hangings of Oriental carpets and embroidered
draperies.
There are in the place several good restaurants whose
cookery might rival any Vienna or Paris establishment, and,
for prices, indeed surpass them. Everything we found to be
very dear at Sinaïa. As we were returning to Kronstadt in the
evening and intended to walk about all day, we did not
engage a bedroom at the hotel, but merely asked for some
place where we might deposit our wraps and umbrellas. For
this purpose we were given a sort of small closet, semi-dark,
being only lighted from the staircase, and containing,
besides a broken table, but two deal chairs and an
unfurnished bedstead. Yet for this luxurious accommodation,
which our effects enjoyed during a period of about eight
hours, we were charged the modest sum of fifteen francs.
I spent some time at a very fascinating bazaar, where I
purchased a few specimens of Roumanian pottery, dainty
little red-and-gold cups for black coffee, some grotesque
birds, and an impossible dog, which have somewhat the
appearance of ancient heathen household gods. There were
also carpets for sale, but mostly over-staring in pattern, and
of terrifically high prices.
We had brought with us a letter of introduction to a ci-devant
Austrian officer settled here, and married to a daughter of
Prince G——, one of the principal notabilities of the place,
which introduction procured us a very pleasant invitation to
dine with his family on the terrace overlooking the public
gardens.
Our beautiful dark-eyed hostess, whose graceful élancée
figure seemed made to show off to perfection all the
fascinations of the national costume, was kind enough to
dress expressly for my benefit before dinner, putting on a
profusion of jewellery to heighten the effect of robes fit for
Lalla Rookh or Princess Scheherezade. One can hardly wear
too much jewellery with this attire: three jewelled belts, one
adorned with turquoises, another with garnets, and a third
with pearls and emeralds, were disposed across the hips one
above the other, like those worn in old Venetian paintings;
several necklaces, forming a bewildering cascade of coral
and amber over the bosom; a perfect wealth of bracelets;
and more jewelled pins than I was able to count held back a
transparent veil, further secured by loose golden coins falling
low on the forehead.
Her father, Prince G——, gave us some interesting details
about the foundation of this promising colony, which is the
only establishment of the sort in the kingdom. He himself
was the principal moving spirit in its foundation, and it was
owing to his persuasions chiefly that the King formed the
resolution of founding a national watering-place, which, by
becoming the resort of the Roumanian noblesse, would keep
them at home, instead of spending their money at French or
German baths.

Gladly would I have prolonged my stay in Roumania by some

days, or even weeks; and it was tantalizing to have to leave
these attractive unknown regions after such a cursory
glance. Still more so was it to be obliged to refuse a friendly
invitation to return there to join a projected expedition of
eight to ten days across the mountains, to be organized as
soon as the weather had grown cooler. It was to be a large
cavalcade—about twenty persons in all—the ladies in
Roumanian dress and riding in men’s saddles. “Perhaps it is
because of this you refuse,” said my hostess. “I have heard
that you English are always so very particular; but here
everybody rides so—even the Queen herself has no other
saddle.”
I had, alas! no opportunity to correct this impression, by
showing that an Englishwoman may be as enterprising as a
Roumanian queen.
 CHAPTER L.

UP THE MOUNTAINS.
“WHEN I was young our mountains were still locked up,” I was
told by a gentleman native of the place, who accompanied
me on my first mountain excursion in Transylvania.
“Whoever then wanted to climb hills or to shoot chamois had
to travel to Switzerland to do so; and at school they used to
teach us that there were no lakes in the country.”

THE NEGOI—THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN IN

TRANSYLVANIA, 8250 FEET HIGH.[80]
It is, in fact, only within the last half-dozen years that some
attempt has been made to unlock the long range of lofty
mountains which tower so invitingly over the Transylvanian
plains, and render practicable the access to many a wild,
rocky gorge and secluded loch hitherto unknown save to
wandering Wallachian shepherds. A most praiseworthy
institution, somewhat on the principle of the Alpine Club, has
been formed, thanks to whose energy suitable guides have
been secured and rough shelter-houses erected at favorable
points. All this, however, is still in a very primitive state, and
the difficulties and inconveniences attending a Transylvanian
mountain excursion are yet such as will deter any but very
ardent enthusiasts from the attempt. It is not here a
question, as in Switzerland, of more or less hard walking or
clambering before you can reach a good supper and a
comfortable bed. Here the walking is often hard enough, but
with this essential difference—that no supper, whether good
or bad, can be obtained by any amount of effort; and that
the bed, if by good-luck you happen to reach a hut, consists
at best of a few rough boards with a meagre sprinkling of
straw. You cannot hope to purchase so much as a crust of
bread on your way, and the crystal water which gurgles in
each mountain ravine is the only beverage you will come
across. Everything in the way of food and drink, as well as
cooking utensils, knives, forks, cups, and plates, along with
rugs and blankets for the night, must be carried about
packed on baggage-horses. Therefore, when a party consists
of half a dozen members, and when the length of the
expedition is to exceed a week, the caravan is apt to assume
somewhat imposing proportions. Luckily, in the land beyond
the forest prices are still moderate in the extreme, and
without rank extravagance one may indulge in the luxury of
two horses and one guide apiece. One florin (about 1s. 8d.)
being the usual tax for a horse per diem, and the same for a
man, the daily outlay thus amounts to five shillings only—a
very small investment indeed for the enjoyment to be
derived from a peregrination across the mountainous parts
of the country. I have no doubt that all true lovers of nature
will agree with me in thinking that precisely the rough and
gypsy-like fashion in which these excursions are conducted
forms their greatest charm, and that beautiful scenery is
more thoroughly appreciated undisturbed by any seasoning
of French-speaking waiters, table-d’hôte dinners, and wire-
rope tram-ways.
This way of travelling has, moreover, the incontestable
advantage of being select, and escaping the inevitable
discords which continually jar upon us when moving in a
tourist-frequented country. What beautiful view does not lose
half its charm if its foreground be marred by a group
savoring of cockneyfied gentility? Which magnificent echoes
do not become vulgar when awakened by the shrieking
chorus of a band of German students? Does not even a
broken wine-bottle or a crumpled sheet of newspaper,
betraying the recent presence of some other picnicking
party, suffice to ruin miles of the finest landscape to an eye
at all fastidious?
Here we may walk from sunrise to sunset without meeting
other sign of life than some huge bird of prey hovering in
mid-air above a lonely valley; and once accustomed to the
daily companionship of eagles, one is apt to feel very
exclusive indeed, and to regard most other society as
commonplace and uninteresting.
From the moment we set foot on the wild hill-side, we have
left behind us all the mean and petty conditions of every-day
life. At least we have no other littlenesses to bear with than
what we bring with us ready-made—our own stock-in-trade
(which, of course, we cannot get rid of) and that of our
chosen companions. Therefore, if I may offer a friendly piece
of advice to any would-be mountaineer in these parts, let
him look at his friends—not twice, but full twenty times at
least—before he contemplates cultivating their uninterrupted
society at an altitude of six thousand feet above sea-level.
Indeed a Transylvanian mountain excursion is not a thing to
be lightly entered upon out of simple gaieté de cœur, like
any other pleasure-trip. It is a serious and solemn
undertaking—almost a sort of marriage-bond—when you
engage to put up, for better for worse, with any given half-
dozen individuals during an equal number of days and
nights. Like gold, they must previously have been tried by
fire; and you will find very, very few people, even among
your dearest friends, who, when weighed in the balance, will
not be found wanting in one or other of the many
qualifications which go towards making up a thoroughly
congenial companion.
The pure ozone of these upper regions seems to act like the
lens of a powerful microscope, bringing out into strong relief
whatever is mean or paltry. Sweetly feminine airs and graces
which have so entranced us in the ball-room develop to
positive monstrosities when transplanted to the mountain-
top; an intellect which amply sufficed for the requirements of
small-talk on the promenade or at morning calls shows
pitiably barren when brought face to face with the majesty of
nature; and a stock of amiability always found equal to the
exigencies of conventional politeness very soon runs dry
under the unwonted strain of a genuine demand. As in the
palace of truth in the fairy tale of Madame de Genlis, nothing
artificial can here remain undiscovered. You can as little hope
to hide your false chignon while camping-out at night as to
conceal the exact quality of your temper; and defects of
breeding will leak out as surely as the rain will leak in
through the inferior fabric of a cheap water-proof cloak.
On the other hand, however, be it said, that many people
who in town life have appeared dull and commonplace now
rise in value under the action of this powerful microscope;
sterling qualities, whose existence we had never suspected,
now come to light; and hidden delicacies of thought, which
have had no room for expansion in the muggy atmosphere of
conventionality, put forth unexpected shoots.
Such reflections are, nevertheless, but pointless digressions
from the subject in hand, having nothing whatever to do with
my own individual experiences; and present company being
always excepted, I would have it distinctly understood that
we were all amiable, all entertaining, all refined and noble-
minded, when in the second week of September we started
on one of these excursions—a long-cherished wish of mine
whose execution had been hitherto baffled by the difficulty
of finding suitable companionship.
Our party consisted of four gentlemen and two other ladies
besides myself, and a six hours’ drive had taken us from
Hermanstadt to the foot of the hills, where horses and guides
awaited us—an imposing retinue of fully a dozen steeds and
nearly as many men: the former starved, puny-looking
animals, weak and spiritless at first sight, but sure-footed as
goats and with endless resisting power; the latter wild,
uncouth fellows, with rolling black eyes and unkempt elf-
locks, attired in coarse linen shirts, monstrous leather belts,
and wearing the national opintschen on their feet.
Our provisions and utensils were packed, according to the
custom of the country, in double sacks made of a sort of
rough black-and-white checked flannel, and these, along with
our bundles of wraps, secured to the backs of the pack-
horses—a somewhat complicated business, as the weight
requires to be extremely nicely balanced on either side. It
was wonderful to see how much could be piled up upon one
small animal, which wellnigh disappeared beneath its bulky
freight.
While this packing was going on we rested by the river-side,
already enjoying a foretaste of the beauties in store for us.
Dense beech woods clothed the sides of the valley down to
the water’s edge, terminating as usual in a golden fringe of
wild sunflowers standing out in broad relief from the dark
background; clumps of bright-blue gentians and rosy rock-
carnations were sprouting between the stones, and here and
there the luxuriant trails of the wild hop hung down till they
touched the water; a pair of water-ousels perched on
opposite banks were making eyes at each other across the
roaring torrent, and the deep quiet pools were occasionally
stirred by the leap of a silvery trout.
At last we were told that all was ready; so, mounting our
riding-horses, we commenced the ascent. The saddles were
the usual rough Hungarian wooden ones, only softened by a
plaid or rug strapped over. Side-saddles are here useless, as
the horses cannot be tightly girthed for climbing, and are not
accustomed to the one-sided weight; so the only way to ride
with comfort and safety is to imitate the example of the
Roumanian queen. A very little contrivance about the
costume is all that is necessary in order to sit comfortably on
a man’s saddle; but I found the unwonted position rather
trying at first, and sought occasional relief by sitting
sidewise, using the high wooden prominence in front as the
pommel of a lady’s saddle. However, I soon relinquished
these experiments, having very nearly come to serious grief
from the saddle turning abruptly, which undoubtedly would
have landed me on my head had I not extricated myself by a
frenzied evolution. After this experience I thought it wiser to
tempt fate no further and meekly resign myself to the
degradation of a temporary change of sex.
On this particular occasion, however, I did not for long tax
the powers of my steed, it was so much pleasanter to walk
up the mountain-path step by step, and enjoy at close
quarters all the wonders of the forest.
For upwards of two hours our way led us through splendid
beech woods richly carpeted with every species of ferns and
mosses, an endless vista of shining gray satin and soft
emerald velvet. Then by-and-by the first shy irresolute fir-
tree appears on the scene, like a bashful rustic strayed
unawares into the presence of royalty. The tall majestic
beeches look down contemptuously on the puny intruder;
for, like ancient monarchs fallen asleep on their thrones, they
do not conceive it possible that their reign should ever come
to an end.
“What means this rough interloper?” they seem disdainfully
to ask, as they nod in the evening breeze. “Are not we the
sole lords in these realms? What seeks this insolent upstart
in our royal presence?”
But scarcely have we gone a hundred paces farther, than
again we meet the intruding pine, larger and stronger this
time; nor is he alone, for he has brought with him a motley
group of his prickly brethren. Onward they press from all
sides, impudently sprouting up at the very feet of the
indignant beeches—their rough green arms ruthlessly
brushing against the delicate gray satin of those shining
pillars, trampling down the emerald velvet of the carpet, like
revolutionary peasants broken into a palace.
The lordly beeches make a last effort to assert their
supremacy, but the limits of their kingdom are reached; the
sharp wind sweeping over the mountain-top, making them
shake with impotent rage, is too keen for their delicate
constitutions. They dwindle away, perish, and die, leaving
the field to their hardier foe.
And now King Pine has it all his own way. Le roi est mort.
Vive le roi! A minute ago we had been revelling in the
beauties of the beech forest, and now, courtier-like, we find
ourselves thinking that the pine woods are more beautiful
yet by far. What can be more exquisite than those feathery
branches trailing down to the mossy carpet? what more
glorious than those straight-grown stems, each one erect
and strong, worthy to be the mast of a mighty ship? what
scent more intoxicating than the perfume they breathe
forth?
Our reflections are presently broken in upon by a scramble
close at hand. One of our baggage-horses has trod upon an
underground wasp’s-nest, which intrusion having been duly
resented by the indignant insects, the horse takes to kicking
violently, and finally rolls down the wooded incline,
scattering our baggage as he goes. Luckily, nothing is lost or
damaged, and after a little delay, the fugitive being captured
and reladen, we are able to proceed on our way. A little more
climbing, and then at last the forest walls unclose, and we
stand on an open meadow of short-tufted grass, where is
built the rough wood hut which is to give us shelter. To the
right and left the pine woods slope upward, their shadowy
outlines gradually losing themselves in the fast-gathering
twilight; and in front, at a distance of some five hundred
yards, is a wall of rock overwashed by a foaming cascade,
whose music has been growing on our ears during the last
few minutes.
The horses are relieved of their respective burdens and set
loose to graze; neither hay nor oats has been provided, nor
do they expect it. Our Wallachian guides busy themselves in
collecting firewood and kindling a large camp-fire, for the
triple purpose of cooking the supper, keeping themselves
warm, and scaring off possible bears or wolves that may
come prowling about at night in quest of a horse. There is
here no difficulty in providing firewood enough for a splendid
bonfire, and no tree burns with such spirit as a dead fir-tree.
It is my duty here to forestall all possible anticipation, by
frankly acknowledging that no bear ever did come to disturb
us on this occasion. Yet the thought of the shaggy visitor who
might at any moment be expected to drop in upon us went a
long way towards enhancing the romance of the situation.
During our whole stay in the mountains Bruin was like a
vague intangible presence hovering around, and causing us
delicious thrills of horror at every step. If we plucked a
branch of late raspberries on our path, it was with a
trembling hand, lest a furry paw should appear at the other
side of the bush to claim its rightful property; and we lay
down to rest half expecting to be wakened by an angry growl
close at hand. Consequently, the raspberries we ate and the
sleep we snatched were sweeter far than common
raspberries and every-day sleep, feeling, as we almost got to
do, as though each had been fraudulently extorted from the
bear.
Our shelter-hut, roughly put together of boards, consisted of
a small entrance-lobby with stamped earth floor, and of one
moderate-sized room about six paces long. All down one
side, occupying fully half the depth of the apartment, ran a
sort of shelf covered with straw, supposed to act as bed,
where about a dozen persons might have room lying side by
side. A long deal table, a wooden bench, and a row of pegs
for hanging up the clothes completed the furniture. Besides
the wooden shutters, there were movable glass windows,
which were regularly deposited in a hiding-place under the
foot-boards, lest they should be wantonly broken by the all-
destroying Wallachians. Each authorized guide only is
apprised of their place of concealment, to which he is careful
to restore them when the party breaks up.
This particular shelter-hut is an exceptionally well-built and
luxurious one, most such being devoid of windows, and often
closed on one side only.
By the time we had prepared our supper and cheered
ourselves with numerous cups of excellent tea it had grown
quite dark, and we were thankful to seek our hard couches. A
railway rug spread over the straw-covered boards rendered
them quite endurable, and all superfluous coats and jackets
were pressed into the pillow service. All of us lay down in our
clothes, merely removing the boots; for it is hardly possible
to dress too warmly for a night passed in these Carpathian
shelter-huts; and despite the day having been so warm as to
necessitate the thinnest summer clothing for walking, the
nights were piercingly cold, and even a heavy fur sledging-
cloak was not superfluous.
Though the splash of the water-fall and the tinkling bell of a
grazing horse were the only sounds which broke the stillness
of the night, yet our unwonted surroundings did not allow of
much uninterrupted slumber. But it is surprising to note to
what a very minimum the necessary dose of sleep can be
reduced on such occasions; the body, renovated as by a
magic potion, seems unaccountably delivered from all
physical weakness; even the sore throat we had brought with
us from the lower world has vanished in the pure
atmosphere of the upper regions.
 CHAPTER LI.

THE BULEA SEE.

NEXT morning we proceeded to the real object of our
excursion, the Bulea See, a lake which lies at the foot of the
Negoi, 6662 feet above the sea-level, and situated about
three hours distant from our shelter-hut.
There was a steep climb till we had reached the top of the
water-fall, and then we found ourselves in a second valley,
larger and wider than the first, and of a totally different
character. Here were neither moss nor ferns, neither beech
nor pine woods—only a deep and lonely valley shut in by
pointed rocks on either side, and thickly strewn throughout
with massive bowlder-stones, each of which would seem to
mark the resting-place of a giant. The only form of
vegetation here visible, besides the short scraggy grass
sprouting in detached patches betwixt the stones, were the
stunted irregular fir-bushes (called krummholz), which, blown
by ever-recurring gales into all sorts of fantastic shapes,
resemble as many wizened goblins playing at hide-and-seek
among the giant tombstones, crawling and creeping into
every hollow which can afford them shelter from the
inclemency of the winter storm; for now we have entered a
third kingdom, and the reign of the pine-tree is at an end.
Having once overpassed the height of 1800 metres (5905½
feet), above which fir-trees do not thrive, these once stalwart
and overbearing giants have degenerated to the misshapen
and crooked goblins we see.
Yet here again we are forced to acknowledge this new
metamorphosis to be but another step in the scale of
loveliness. We had been enchanted by the beech woods,
ravished by the pine forest, yet now all at once we feel that
with the desolate wildness of these upper regions a yet
higher note of beauty has been struck; for here Nature,
seeming to disdain such toilet artifices as trees or ferns or
cunningly tinted mosses, like a classical statue, boldly
reveals herself in her glorious nudity, with naught to distract
the eye from the perfection of her sublime curves.
Something of the charm of this desolate stony valley lay no
doubt, for me, in its marked resemblance to Scottish
scenery, recalling to my mind some of the wilder parts of
Arran, the upper half of Glen Rosa, or portions of Glen
Sannox, seen long ago but never forgotten; and for a
moment I experienced the pleasurable sensation of
recognizing the face of a beloved old friend in a strange
picture-gallery.
The fierce barking of dogs aroused me from my comparisons,
and now for the first time I perceived that at one place the
large loose stones had been piled together so as to form a
rude sort of hovel or cavern, the headquarters of some
shepherds come hither to find pasture for their flocks during
the brief mountain summer.
We approached the stina, as these bergeries are called, and
made acquaintance with the shepherd, some of the
gentlemen at my request cross-questioning him as to his
habits and occupation. He was ready enough to enter into
conversation with us and our guide, seemingly rejoiced at
the sight of other human beings after a long period of
isolation. We learned from him that the shepherds are in the
habit of coming up here each summer about the end of June,
to remain till the middle of September, after which date
snow may be expected to set in, and the shepherd,
proceeding southward as the year advances, leads his flocks
into Wallachia and Moldavia to pass the winter. These flocks
are not the property of one individual, but each village
inhabitant has his particular sheep marked with his own sign.
All the mountain pastures in these parts belong to a Count T
——, who receives forty-five kreuzers (about 9d.) per sheep
for its summer pasturage.
This particular flock consisted of about eight hundred head,
herded by four shepherds only, and six or eight large wolf-
dogs. The men receive thirty florins (£2 10s.) yearly wages,
besides a pair of sandals each, and a certain proportion of
food, principally maize-flour, to be cooked into mamaliga,
and whatever cheese and sheep’s milk they require. These
wages are considered high enough in these parts, but the
work required is hard and fatiguing. The whole day the
shepherd must creep along the crags with his flock, at places
where scarce a goat could obtain footing, and at night he
must sleep in the open air whatever be the weather, ready to
spring up at the slightest alarm of wolf or bear.
“When did you last see a bear?” inquired our interpreter of
the solitary shepherd.
“This very night, dommu” (master), he replied, “the ursu
came prowling about the camp, and had to be driven away
by the dogs. Most nights he does come, and four of my
sheep has he carried off this year. Not one of our dogs but
has been torn or wounded by him in turn.”
“And where are your sheep at present?” was the next
question, as we looked round at the deserted camp.
The man pointed upward and uttered a shrill, unearthly cry,
which presently was repeated as by an echo coming from
the topmost ledges of the crags overhead; and there, looking
up to where the jagged peaks were sharply defined against
the blue sky, we could see the white sheep clinging all over
the face of the precipitous cliffs like patches of new-fallen
snow. It was wonderful to see how these seemingly senseless
animals obey the slightest call of their shepherd, who by the
inflections of his voice alone guides them in whatever
direction he pleases; and it is almost incredible that out of a
flock of eight hundred sheep the shepherd should be able to
recognize and identify each separate animal.
When we came to see those sheep at close quarters later in
the day, we were surprised at the whiteness and fine quality
of their wool—each single animal looking as though it had
been freshly washed and carefully combed out, like the
favorite poodle of some fine lady, and presenting therein a
striking contrast to the flocks down below on the plains,
whose appearance is dirty and unkempt. This superior toilet
of the mountain sheep seems due to the constant mists and
vapors ever flitting to and fro in these upper regions, which
thus enact the parts of cleansing spirits; but why, when they
are about it, do not these benevolent kobolds wash the
shepherd as well?
Besides the dogs, there is usually a donkey attached to each
shepherd’s establishment. It serves to carry the packs of
cheese and milk, or the heavy bunda (sheepskin coat) of the
shepherd, and follows the flock about wherever its legs
permit. On this occasion we met the inevitable ass some few
hundred yards farther up the valley, standing on one of the
giant tombstones, and with head thrown back, loudly braying
up in the direction of the mountain heights. He, too, had
caught sight of his beloved sheep scrambling so far out of
reach up there, and weary of his loneliness, was thus
passionately entreating his eight hundred sweethearts to
return to his faithful side.
Two hours more up the lonely valley brought us to our
destination. There was one last rocky wall to be overcome,
and, having scaled it, we stood with panting breath before
the Bulea See, a curiously suggestive little loch, dark
greenish-blue in color, which nestles in the stony chalice
formed by the rocks around.
Nothing but gray bowlder-stones lying here cast about; no
plant save the deadly monk’s-hood growing rank in thick,
short tufts of deep sapphire hue; no sign of life but one
solitary falcon soaring overhead, and some scattered
feathers lying strewn at the water’s edge.[81]
The brooding melancholy of this solitary spot has a charm all
its own. This would be the place, indeed, for a life-sick man
to come and end his days, and if there be such a thing as a
voluptuous suicide, methinks these were the proper
surroundings for it. Death must come so swiftly and so surely
in those still green waters, which have such an insinuating
glitter; no danger here of being saved and brought back to
unwelcome life by a meddlesome log of floating wood, or the
officious arm of an out-stretched branch. Everything here
seems to breathe of the very spirit of suicide; the cold green
waters, the deadly monk’s-hood, the hovering falcon, all
seem to agree, “This is the end of life—come here and die!”
But let the hapless wretch bent on leaving this world beware
of looking round once more before executing his resolve, for
if he but turn and gaze again at the magnificent panorama at
his feet, he will assuredly be violently recalled to life.
I do not recollect having seen any single view which in its
glorious variety ever impressed me as much as what I saw
that day, looking from the platform beside the Bulea See;
neither a framed-in picture nor yet a bird’s-eye view, it
rather gave me the feeling as though I were standing at the
head of a giant staircase whose balustrades are formed by
the nicked-out peaks of the crags on either side, and whose
separate steps present as many gradations of variegated
beauty.
Close to our feet lay the stony valley we had just been
traversing, with its gigantic tombstones and wizened dwarf
bushes, and the flashing crest of the water-fall, just visible,
like a silver thread, at the farthest point. Then, after a
sudden drop of several hundred feet, our eye lights upon the
pine valley, with the shelter-hut where we had passed the
previous night. With a telescope we could just make out the
place of the camp-fire and the figures of some grazing
horses. Of the third step of this giant ladder—namely, the
beech forest—we could see only the billowy tops of the
close-grown trees, a mass of waving green, touched here
and there by the hand of autumn into russet and golden
tints; then far, far below lay stretched the smiling plain,
streaked with occasional dark patches we knew to be forests,
and sundry white dots we guessed at as villages, and the
serpentine curves of the river Alt, winding like a golden
ribbon between them.
A long bank of clouds which had been hovering over the
plain now sank down, gradually obscuring that part of the
view, but not for long. This was but another freak of nature,
one more turn in the kaleidoscope; for now the mist has sunk
so low that the plain itself appears above it, and we behold
the landscape framed in the clouds, like a delusive Fata
Morgana.
This is indeed a picture never to weary of, and after gazing
at it for ten ecstatic minutes, I defy the life-sick man to turn
away and carry out his suicidal intentions. The cold green
waters have lost their attraction for him, and the spell of the
deadly monk’s-hood is broken; for another voice whispers in
his ear, and it tells him of life and of hope: a few minutes ago
he had felt like a condemned criminal in sight of his grave,
but now, with this glorious world at his feet, he is fain to
think himself monarch of all he beholds.
The giant’s ladder contains one more step, for by scrambling
up the rocks at one side of the loch one may reach the crest
of the mountains, and walking there for hours on the
confines of Roumania, gain an extensive view into both
countries.
This is what some of the gentlemen of our party did, in
hopes of coming across chamois; while the rest of us
remained below, well content with what we had achieved,
settling down, not to suicide, but to such healthier, if more
commonplace, pursuits as luncheon and sketching. At least
the luncheon was eaten and the sketch was begun; but
beginning and finishing are two very different things in these
regions, and one cannot reckon without the mountain-
sprites, who were this day mischievously inclined.
A tiny white cloudlet, snowy and innocent-looking as a tuft of
swan’s-down, had meanwhile detached itself from the bank
of clouds below the plain, and was speeding aloft in our
direction. Incredibly fast this mountain-sprite ascended the
giant staircase—gliding over the space it had taken us three
hours to traverse in not the tenth part of that time; jumping
two steps at once, it seemed in its malicious haste to spoil
our pleasure. Now it has reached the terrace where we are
sitting; we feel its cold breath on our cheek, and in another
minute it has thrown its moist filmy veil over the scene. The
lake at our side has disappeared; we cannot see ten paces in
front, and we shiver under the warm wraps we just now
despised.
The mist, which feels at first like a soft, invisible rain,
gradually becomes harder and more prickly; there is a sharp,
rattling sound in the air, and we realize that we are sitting in
a hail-storm, from which we vainly try to escape by dodging
under the overhanging rocks.
As quickly as it came it is gone again, for scarce ten minutes
later the sun shone out triumphant, dispersing the ill-natured
vapors. Yet a little longer will the sun lord it up here as
master, and come victorious out of all such combats; but
these impish cloudlets are the outrunners of the army of the
dread ice-king, and will return again day by day in greater
numbers, soon to be no more driven away from these
regions.
 CHAPTER LII.

THE WIENERWALD—A DIGRESSION.

I SHALL never forget the shock to my feelings when, shortly
after leaving Transylvania, I went to spend the summer
months in the much-famed Wienerwald near Vienna. In
former years I had often visited this neighborhood, and had
even retained of it very pleasant recollections; but now, fresh
from the wild charm of undefiled and undesecrated nature,
the Wienerwald and everything about it appeared in the light
of a pitiable farce. In fact, I do not think I had ever rightly
appreciated the Transylvanian mountain scenery till forced to
compare it with another landscape.
The country about Vienna—of which its natives are so proud
—is beautiful, it is true, or rather it has been beautiful once;
but, alas! how much of its charm has been destroyed by that
terrible Verschönerungs Verein (Beautifying Association), as
those noisome institutions are called, loathsome abortions of
a diseased German brain, which have the object of teaching
unfortunate mankind to appreciate the beauties of nature in
the only correct fashion authorized by science.
Viewed in the abstract, an ignorant stranger unacquainted
with the habits of the country might be prone to imagine
taking a walk up any of those beautiful wooded hills to be a
comparatively simple matter, provided his lungs and his
chaussure be in adequate walking trim. Ridiculous error! to
be speedily rectified by painful experience before you have
spent many days in the neighborhood of the Austrian capital.
It is here not a question of boots, but of books; of science,
not of soles; your lungs are useless unless your mind be
rightly adjusted; and the latest edition of Meyer’s
“Conversations Lexicon” will be far more necessary to fit you
for a walk in the Wienerwald than a pair of Euknemida
walking-shoes.
To go into a civilized Austrian forest requires at least as much
preparation as to enter a fashionable ball-room; and unless
you have been thoroughly grounded in contemporary
literature, general history, and the biographies of celebrated
men, you had far better stay at home.
There you are not left to yourself to make acquaintance with
trees and flowers, as your ignorant rustic fashion has
hitherto been; but your exact relations to the botanical world
around you are precisely defined from the very outset. At
every step you make you are overwhelmed with alternate
doses of advice, admonition, entreaty, or threat; but never,
never by any chance are you left to your own devices! You
cannot feel as if you were alone even in the most hidden
depths of the forest, for the tormenting spirit of the
Verschönerungs Verein will insist on following you about step
by step, its jarring voice ever breaking in on your most secret
reveries. It warns you not to tread on the grass; it entreats
you to spare the pine-cones; it instructs you to avoid
meddling with the toadstools; it recommends the flowers to
your protection; it advises you to be careful with your cigar-
ashes; it commands you to muzzle your unhappy terrier; it
weighs you down with a crushing sense of your own
unworthiness by appealing to your sense of honor, of probity,
of refinement, of patriotism, and to a hundred other noble
qualities you are acutely conscious of not possessing; then
passing from fawning flattery to brutal menace, it growls
dark threats against your liberty or your purse, should you
have remained deaf to its hateful voice, and presume to
have overstepped the limits of familiarity prescribed towards
an oak-tree or a bush of wild-rose.
If, chafing in spirit at these reiterated pinpricks, you would
take some rest by sitting down on one of the numerous
benches placed there for the accommodation of exhausted
but perfectly educated individuals, you are abruptly called
upon to choose between Goethe and Schiller, Kant or Hegel,
Lessing or Wieland, to the immortal memory of each of
which celebrities the proud monument of six feet of white-
painted board has been dedicated.
A harmless enough looking little bridge is designated as
Custozza bridge, and a delicious opening in the forest
redolent of wild cyclamen desecrated by the base
appellation of Philosophen Wiese (Philosopher’s meadow).
Even the source where you pause to slake your thirst has
been christened by some such preposterous title as the
fountain of friendship or the spring of gratitude. You cannot,
in fact, move a hundred yards in any given direction without
having the names of celebrated men, cardinal virtues, or
national victories forced down your throat ad nauseam, and
—what to my thinking is the cruelest grievance of all—you
are there debarred the simple satisfaction of losing your way
in a natural unsophisticated manner, every second tree
having been converted into a sign-post, which persists in
giving information you would much rather be without.
Latitude and longitude are dinned into your ears with
merciless precision; staring patches of scarlet, blue, and
yellow paint, arranged to express a whole series of cabalistic
signs, disfigure the ruddy bronze of noble pine-stems; gaunt
pointing fingers, multiplied as in a delirious nightmare, meet
you at every turn, informing you of your exact bearings with
regard to every given point of the landscape within a radius
of ten miles. “Two hours from Bürgersruhe,” they tell you;
“Five hours from Wienerlust;” “An hour and a half from
Philister Berg”—and oh, how many weary miles away from
anything resembling nature and freedom, eagles and poetry!
You long to be gone from the mournful spectacle of nature
profaned and debased; your independent spirit chafes and
frets under the oppressive tyranny of a vulgar despot, who,
not content with directing your movements and restricting
your actions, would further extend his detested interference
to the inmost regions of your thoughts and feelings. Why
should I be confronted with Hegel, when I wish to cultivate
the far more congenial society of an interesting stag-beetle?
Wherefore disturb the luxurious feeling of gloomy revenge
my soul is brooding by the suggestion of any sentiment as
sickly and as utterly fabulous as friendship or gratitude? Why
dishonor the fragrance of pale cyclamen by a bookworm
odor of mustiness and mildew? Why, O cruel Verschönerungs
Verein, skilful annihilator of all that is beautiful and sublime,
have you left no margin for poetry or imagination, romance
or accident, conjecture or hope, in visiting these regions?
“Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch’ entrate” it is indeed the case
here to say; or rather, if you be wise, do not enter these
hopeless regions at all, but turning your back on all such, go
straight through to Transylvania, where you will find in
profusion all those charms of which the Wienerwald has been
so cruelly robbed!
 CHAPTER LIII.

A WEEK IN THE PINE REGION.

OUR quarters at the shelter-hut in the pine valley were so
satisfactory, and its situation so delightful, that instead of
remaining only two nights, as had been originally intended,
we stayed there a whole week, exploring the valley in all
directions, making sketches of the principal points, and
collecting supplies of the rare ferns and mosses with which
the neighborhood abounded, along with the alpen-rose,
which we often discovered still flowering at sheltered places.
A thorough dose of nature enjoyed in this way acts like a
regenerating medicine on a mind and body wearied and
weakened by a long strain of conventionalities. It is
refreshing merely to look round on a beautiful scene as yet
untainted by the so-called civilizing breath of man, who, too
often attempting to paint the lily, invariably vulgarizes when
he seeks to improve the work of the Creator. What unmixed
delight to see here everything unspoiled and unadulterated,
each tree and flower living out its natural life, or falling into
beautiful decay, without having been turned aside from its
original vocation, or distorted to an unnatural use to
minister to some imaginary want of sensual, cruel, greedy,
rapacious man; to find one little spot where nature yet
reigns supreme; to be able to gaze around and say that
those splendid fir-stems will not be cut up in a noisy saw-
mill, nor yet defiled by vulgar paint; those late scarlet
strawberries hanging in coral fringes from pearl-gray rocks
will not be sold at so much a pint and cooked into sickly
jams; those prickly fir-cones will not be abstracted from their
rightful owners, the red-coated squirrels, to adorn the
tasteless veranda of some popular beer-house; the swelling
outlines of those glorious blue gentians will be flattened in
no improved herbarium, nor those gorgeous butterflies
invited to lay down their young lives to further the interests
of science; those brown leaping trout will, thank Heaven,
never, never figure on an illuminated menu card as truites à
la Chambord, to flatter the palate of some dissipated
sybarite! The pure light of the north star alone will point out
my direction, and neither Kant nor Hegel will rise from his
grave to torment me here.

THE PINE VALLEY.[82]

It is wonderful how soon one gets accustomed to roughing

it, and doing without the comforts and luxuries of daily life,
and it is delightful to discover that civilization is only skin-
deep after all. On the second morning it seemed no
hardship to perform our toilet at a mountain spring
shrouded in a pine-tree boudoir; empty bottles were very
worthy substitutes for silver candlesticks; and for brushing
our dress and cleansing our boots, a wild Wallachian
peasant quite as useful as a trained femme de chambre.
Dress and fashion, uniforms and coffee-houses, the
wearisome chit-chat of a little country town, as well as the
intricacies of European politics, had all passed out of our
lives as though they had never existed, leaving no regret,
scarcely even a memory. It seemed hardly possible to
believe that such useless and unnatural things as false hair,
diamond ear-rings, military parades, cream-laid note-paper,
calling-cards, sugar-tongs, intrigue, envy, and ambition
existed somewhere or other about the world. Were there
really other forms of music extant than the lullaby of the
water-fall, and the wild pibroch of the wind among the fir-
stems? other sorts of perfumes than the pine wood
fragrance and the breath of wild thyme?
While we were thus revelling in the pure ozone above, two
emperors were meeting in some dull corner of the dingy
earth below,[83] and all Europe was looking on and holding
its breath, in order to catch some echo of the royal syllables
interchanged.
For our part, we completely skipped this page of European
history, and felt none the worse of it. Everything changes
proportion up here, and a real eagle becomes of far more
absorbing interest than a double-headed one. We were
virtually as isolated as though cast on a desert island in the
Pacific; and but for one messenger despatched to assure us
of the welfare of our respective families, we had no
communication with the world we had left.
Here we had a hundred other sources of interest of more
absorbing and healthier kind than the so-called pleasures
we had left below. First there was the water-fall, a never-
failing element of beauty and interest. It was delightful to
sketch it, sitting on a moss-grown stone at the edge of the
torrent; it was yet more delightful to clamber up to its base,
and clinging on to a rock, receive the breath of its spray full
on our face, and enjoy at close quarters the musical thunder
of its voice. Not far from this was the place where, three
years previously, the great avalanche had swept over the
valley, felling prostrate every tree which came in its
passage. All across one side of the glen, and half-way up the
opposite hill, can still be traced the ravaging march of the
destroying forces; for here the woodman never comes with
his axe, and each tree still lies prostrate where it was
stricken down, like giant ninepins overthrown; and here they
will lie undisturbed till they rot away and turn to soft red
dust, mute vouchers of the terrible power of unchained
nature. One felt inclined to envy the bears and eagles for
this glorious sight, of which they alone can have been the
fortunate spectators.
Another point of interest indicated by our guides was the
bridge of fir-stems over a steep ravine, where years ago a
terrified flock of sheep, pursued by a bear in broad daylight,
had leaped down over the precipitous edge, upwards of
three hundred breaking their legs in their frenzied attempts
to escape.
The shepherds who lived above in the stony valley came
frequently down to our shelter-hut, and we used to find
them comfortably ensconced at our camp-fire, in deep
conversation with the guides. In their lonely existence it
must have been a pleasant experience to have neighbors at
all within reach, and our hospitable camp-fire was doubtless
as good as a fashionable club to their simple minds. They
brought us of their sheep’s milk and cheese. The latter,
called here brindza, was very palatable, and the milk much
thicker and richer than cow’s milk, but of a peculiar taste
which I failed to appreciate.
There was a shepherdess, too, belonging to the
establishment; but let no one, misled by the appellation,
instinctively conjure up visions of delicate pastel-paintings
or coquettish porcelain figurines, for anything more utterly
at variance with the associations suggested by the names of
Watteau and Vieux Saxe, than the uncouth, swarthy, one-
eyed damsel who inhabited the bergerie, cannot well be
imagined. The male shepherds were four in number—two of
them calling for no special description; the third, a boy of
about fourteen, with large, senseless eyes and a fixed,
idiotic stare, looked no more than semi-human. The most
distinguished member of the party, and, as we ladies
unanimously agreed, decidedly the flower of the flock, was a
good-looking young man of some twenty years, with
straight-cut, regular features, a high brown fur cap, and a
wooden flute on which he played in a queer, monotonous
fashion, resembling the droning tones of a bagpipe. He had
come from Roumania, he told us, and had been for a time
tending flocks in Turkey, where he had picked up something
of the language. It was a curious country, he observed, and
the people there had curious habits—such, for instance, as
that of keeping several wives; the richer a man was, the
more wives he kept. Our young shepherd shrugged his
shoulders as he made this remark in a supercilious manner,
evidently of opinion that women were an evil which should
not be unnecessarily multiplied; and certainly, judging from
the solitary specimen of female beauty which the stony
valley contained, no man could feel tempted to embark in a
very extensive harem.
We afterwards ascertained that the interesting shepherd
with the fur cap and wooden flute had committed a murder
over in Roumania, and been obliged to fly the country on
that account. This disclosure rendered us somewhat more
reserved in our intercourse with our romantic neighbor, and
though we could not exactly put a stop to his visits, we
avoided over-intimacy, and always felt more at ease in his
society when there was a gun or revolver within handy
reach.
Our Wallachian guides proved thoroughly satisfactory in
every way—active, obliging, and full of inventive resources.
They were very particular about keeping their fast-days as
prescribed by the Greek Church, and would refuse all offers
of food at such times. When not fasting they were easily
made happy by any scraps of cheese or bacon left over from
our meals, or by a glassful of spirits of wine judiciously
adulterated with water. On one occasion a parcel containing
a dozen hard-boiled eggs, grown stale (to put it mildly) from
having been overlooked, was received with positive rapture
by one of these unsophisticated beings, who devoured them
every one with a heartfelt relish not to be mistaken.
Ham, sausages, and bread and cheese, formed the staple of
our nourishment in this as in other Transylvanian mountain
excursions—for after the first day, of course, no fresh meat
could be procured. Also, the Hungarian paprica speck—viz.,
raw bacon prepared with red pepper—is useful on these
occasions, as it gives much nourishment in a very small
compass. I never myself succeeded in reaching the point
demanded by Hungarian enthusiasm for this favorite
national food; so that all I can conscientiously say for it is
that, given the circumstances of a keen appetite, bracing
mountain air, and no other available nourishment, it is quite
eatable, and by a little stretch of indulgence might almost
be called palatable. The Magyars, however, pronounce this
bacon to be of such superlatively exquisite flavor as only to
be fit for the gods on a Sunday! So I suppose it can only be
by reason of some peculiarly ungodlike quality in my nature
that I am unable to appreciate this Elysian dish as it
deserves.
The Roumanians have, like the Poles, a certain inbred sense
of courtesy totally wanting in their Saxon neighbors; it
shows itself in many trifling acts—in the manner they rise
and uncover in the presence of a superior, and the way they
offer their assistance over the obstacles of the path. One
day that I had hurt my foot, and was much distressed at
being unable to join a longer walk, I found in the evening a
large nosegay of ripe bilberries, surrounded by red autumn
leaves, lying at the foot of my sleeping-place—a delicate
attention on the part of our head guide, who wished thereby
to console me for the pleasure I had lost.
The peasants were always pitying us for the disadvantages
of our chaussure: how could we be so foolish as to submit to
the torture and inconvenience of shoes and stockings,
instead of adopting the comfortable opintschen they
themselves wore? And they almost succeeded in persuading
me to make the attempt on some future occasion, although
I feel doubtful as to how far a foot corrupted by civilization
could be induced to adapt itself to this unwonted covering.
We celebrated our last evening in the pine valley by
ordering an extra large bonfire to be made. Accordingly,
three good-sized fir-trees were felled, and bound together to
form a sort of pyramid. A glorious sight when the flames had
scaled the heights, turning each little twig into a golden
brand, and drawing a profusion of rockets from every branch
—far more beautiful than any fireworks I had seen.
One of our guides, called Nicolaïa—the tallest and wildest-
looking of the group—especially distinguished himself on
this occasion. He had evidently something of the
salamander in his constitution, for he seemed to be
absolutely impervious to heat, and to feel, in fact, quite as
comfortable inside the fire as out of it. By common consent
he was generally assigned the part of cat’s-paw, to him
being delegated the office of taking a boiling pot off the fire
or picking the roasted potatoes from out the red-hot
embers. Standing as he now was, almost in the centre of the
glowing pile, supporting the burning fir-trees with his sinewy
arms, while a perfect shower of sparks rained thickly down
all over his ragged shirt and bare, tawny chest, it required
no stretch of imagination to take him for a figure designed
by Doré and stepped straight out of Dante’s Inferno.

Our last morning came, and with heartfelt regret we

prepared to leave the lovely valley where we had spent such
a truly delicious week. An additional pack-horse having been
sent for from the village below, we were surprised to see the
animal in question make its appearance led by the
Roumanian cure of the parish, who, having heard that a
horse was required, had bethought himself of earning an
honest penny by hiring out his beast and enacting the part
of driver. Anywhere else it would be a strange anomaly to
see a clergyman putting himself on a level with a common
peasant, attired in coarse linen shirt and meekly carrying
our bundles; but here this is of every-day occurrence. The
Roumanian peasant, however rigorously he may adhere to
the forms of his Church, has, as I said before, no inordinate
respect for the person of his clergyman, whose infallibility is
only considered to last so long as he is standing before the
altar; once outside the church walls he becomes an ordinary
man to his congregation, and not necessarily a particularly
respected or respectable individual. This particular popa
was, as it appeared, not only accustomed to serve as driver,
but likewise as beast of burden himself—as he genially
volunteered to carry all the mosses and ferns we collected
on the way. I am ashamed to say that we basely accepted
his services, and loaded him unmercifully with the spoils of
the forest, thus unceremoniously apostrophizing him: “Here,
popa, another hart’s-tongue;” or, “Take this ivy trail, will
you?” till he was wellnigh smothered in sylvan treasures.
Our path to the foot of the mountains, where our carriages
were to await us, was a walk of about three hours; but soon
after starting, our sacerdotal porter having volunteered to
show us a short cut, which should take us down in two-thirds
of that time, we gladly grasped at this proposition and at
the prospect of seeing a new part of the forest; and our
other guides being on ahead with the horses, we blindly
intrusted ourselves to the guidance of the holy man, who
forthwith began to lead us through the very thickest forest-
mazes, over rocks and torrents, through bogs and brier, up
hill and down dale, till our clothes were torn, our hands were
bleeding, and our tempers were soured. “The way must be
very short, indeed, if it is so bad,” was the reflection which
at first kept up our spirits; but we had yet to learn that
brevity and badness do not always go hand in hand, and
that an execrable path may be lengthy as well. Like jaded
warriors overcome by the fatigue of an excessive march, we
now disburdened ourselves of our rich spoils, having no
further thought but to find our way from out this bewildering
labyrinth of smooth beech-stems. Clumps of exquisite
maidenhair ferns, but now so tenderly dug up, were
callously cast aside, and the much-prized layers of velvety
moss were brutally left to perish. All noble instincts seemed
dead within us, our weary limbs and empty stomachs being
all we cared for. The forest had suddenly grown hideous,
and we wondered at ourselves for ever having thought it
beautiful. The priest was a ruffian luring us on to our
destruction. Utterly losing sight of his sacerdotal character,
we abused him in harsh and vigorous language, which he
meekly bore—I must say that much for him. Perhaps he had
heard similar language before, and was accustomed to it.
Whether the popa had lost his way and did not wish to
acknowledge it, or whether, as I rather suspect, he had
never been in the forest before, remains an unsolved
mystery; the result was, however, that after nearly seven
hours of remarkably hard walking we were still lost in the
depths of the forest, and apparently no nearer our
destination than when we had set out.
At this juncture one of the ladies lay down on the ground,
declaring herself incapable of going a step farther. She was
nearly fainting with fatigue and hunger, for all our provisions
had been sent on with the horses. The predicament was a
most unpleasant one; for although the popa swore for at
least the twentieth time that we should arrive in less than
half an hour, we had been too cruelly deceived, and our
confidence in him was gone. Half an hour might just as well
mean three or four hours farther; and even if he spoke the
truth our unfortunate companion was far too much
exhausted to proceed.
After a brief consultation we determined that, leaving two
gentlemen in charge of the invalid, some of us should go on
with the miscreant priest as guide, sending back a horse
and some restoratives to the spot. This plan proved
successful; for after about three-quarters of an hour more of
clambering and climbing, we reached the forest edge, and
found our guides waiting for us and much perplexed at our
nonappearance.
“The devil take the popa!” was their hearty and unanimous
exclamation when we had related our adventure; “who
could be fool enough to follow the priest? Did we not know
that it was bad-luck even to meet a popa?” they asked us
pityingly; and certainly, under the circumstances, we felt
inclined for once to attach some weight to popular
superstition, and inwardly to resolve never again to trust
ourselves to the guidance of a Roumanian popa.
 CHAPTER LIV.

LA DUS AND BISTRA.

THIS first taste of the delights of a Transylvanian mountain
excursion had but stimulated our desire for more enjoyment
of the same kind. After revelling so unrestrainedly in the
pure mountain air, it was not possible to settle down at once
to the monotony of every-day life. Some touch of the
restless, roving spirit of the gypsies had come over me, and
I began to understand that the life they lead might have a
fascination nowhere else to be found. I positively hungered
for more air, more sunshine, for deeper draughts of the pine
wood fragrance, further revelations of the mountain
wonders. I could not afford to waste the very last days of
this glorious summer weather cooped up within narrow
streets; and as one or two of my late companions were of
the same way of thinking, another expedition was speedily
resolved upon.
It was, however, not without difficulty that we organized this
second excursion, which could not possibly be attempted by
two ladies without at least an equal number of gentlemen.
Especially if there were going to be any more fainting-fits, a
second protector was an imperative necessity; and who
could tell (women being proverbially incalculable in their
doings) whether we might not both select the self-same
moment for swooning away? As yet only one of the stronger
sex had been secured, and a second seemed to be nowhere
forthcoming. As I before remarked, it is no easy matter to
find a person with exactly the requisite qualifications for a
mountaineering companion, and I am inclined to believe
that Diogenes must have been contemplating some such
ascent when he ran about the streets of Athens with a
lantern. We had gone over the list of our dearest friends,
and had rejected most of them, feeling convinced that we
should get to detest them in the course of the first forty-
eight hours. Of those few who remained some were unwell
and others unwilling; some had no time and others no
boots; the cavalry officers rarely cared to walk at all, and
infantry officers were of opinion that they had quite enough
walking already in their usual routine of military duty; and it
is mournful to have to record that out of a population of
about twenty-two thousand inhabitants, not another man
could be found both willing and able to walk up a hill with a
couple of ladies.
Our plan, therefore, seemed doomed to dire
disappointment, when a bright thought struck me—the very
brightest I ever had. Besides the population of 13,000
Germans, 3737 Roumanians, 2018 Magyars, 238 Jews and
Armenian gypsies, and 443 infants, shown by the latest
statistical return of the town, Hermanstadt could boast of
something else—namely, one Englishman; and on this one
solitary countryman all my hopes were accordingly fixed.
The gentleman in question, who had made his appearance
here some months previously along with his wife and child,
had long been a source of deep and perplexing interest to
the inhabitants of Hermanstadt. None of them knew his
name, and no name was required, “Der Engländer” being
sufficient to describe the fabulous stranger who had found
his way to these remote regions. No one spoke of him in any
other way, and his bills and parcels were sent to him
invariably addressed to “Der Engländer.” His wife and his
hat, his umbrella and his stockings, his boots and his baby,
were as many sources of puzzling conjecture to these
worthy people, who regarded him with all the deeper
suspicion just because the life he led was so apparently
harmless.
What had brought him to this out-of-the-way corner of
Europe? was the question which troubled many a Saxon
mind; and more than one was of opinion that he was a
British spy sent by Mr. Gladstone for the express purpose of
studying the military resources of the country and
corrupting the population. No one would, I think, have been
much surprised if some dark crime had been brought home
to him, or if a supply of nitro-glycerine had been found
concealed in the baby’s perambulator—the two most
suspicious circumstances about him being, that he had
occasionally been seen looking on at the military parade,
and had an uncanny habit of taking long walks in the
country. It was, however, precisely this last ominous
symptom which had directed my thoughts to him on this
occasion; and having formed a slight acquaintance with Mr.
P—— and his wife, I felt sure that he would prove equal to
the occasion.
A deep analysis of international character has led me to the
conclusion that, in a contingency like the present, one
Englishman may be fairly balanced against a trifling
majority of some twenty thousand other mixed races; so I
put forward my candidate, expressing a conviction that my
countryman would in no way fall short of the national
standard which demands that every Englishman shall do his
duty.
“Very well,” said my friend, half reluctantly, “let us ask ‘Der
Engländer,’ if you really think it safe.” So after I had pledged
my honor that the country’s security would in nowise be
imperilled, I secured the valuable and agreeable
companionship of Mr. P——, and we set out once more, a
small party of four people, with the requisite number of
guides and baggage-horses.
This second expedition was to be conducted on a somewhat
different principle from the first; for, instead of taking up our
quarters at one given point, we proposed wandering over
the mountains in true gypsy fashion, sleeping wherever we
happened to find shelter in shepherds’ huts or foresters’
lodges, or, in the absence of these, camping under a sail-
cloth tent we carried with us. It had been planned that we
were to remain out fully ten days, returning by a different
route, and making a short excursion into Roumania.
We drove to the foot of the hills, and then commenced our
ascent from a Roumanian village, where the white-veiled
women plying the distaff in front of their doors sent us
courteous salutations as we passed. The weather was
radiantly beautiful, the atmosphere of a faultless
transparency, without a breath of air to hasten the falling
leaves, or a cloud to mar the effect of the deep-blue vault.
There were still wild flowers enough—campanulas, gentians,
and wild carnations—growing on the steep grassy slopes, to
make us fancy ourselves in midsummer; and the gaudy
insects disporting themselves thereon—butterflies blue and
purple, gold and scarlet grasshoppers, and shining bronze
beetles—were as many brilliant impostors luring us on to
the belief that winter was still far away.
But the furry caterpillars scuttling across our path at
headlong speed, in their haste to wrap themselves up in
their warm winter cocoons, knew better; and so did the ring-
doves and martens, which, with other tribes of migrating
birds, were all winging it swiftly towards the south, making
dark streaks in the blue sky overhead.
For our part, we felt it almost too hot to walk uphill in the
sun, and were thankful when, after an hour’s ascent, we
gained the shade of the dense pine forests which, without
admixture of beech, clothe all this part of the country.
There is no sense of monotony in these beautiful pine
woods, though one may walk in them for many days without
reaching the end of the forest, for no two parts of it are
alike, and surprises await us at every turn. Thus one region
is distinguished by a profusion of coral ornaments, the huge
red toadstools, sprouting everywhere on the emerald moss,
looking like monster sugar-plums which have fallen from
these gigantic Christmas-trees; then suddenly a new
transformation takes place, and we are walking in a
mermaid’s grove far beneath the sea—for are not the trees
here adorned with tremulous hangings of palest green sea-
weed? Yet this is no other than a lichen, the Usnea barbata,
or bearded moss, also called Rübezahl’s hair, which with
such strange perversity will sometimes seize upon a whole
forest district, thus fantastically decking it out in this long,
wavy fluff, hanging from each twig and branch in fringes
and bunches like a profusion of gray-green icicles; while
elsewhere, under apparently the self-same conditions of soil
and vegetation, we may seek for it in vain.
Farther on we come upon a scene still more weird and
suggestive, as we seem to have stepped unawares into a
land of ghosts. Hundreds of dead fir-trees, bleached and dry,
are standing here upright and stark. Untouched by the
storm, and unbroken by old age, with every branch and twig
intact, they have been stricken to the heart’s core by a
treacherous enemy, the Borkenkäfer (Bostrichus
typographus), a small but baneful insect, which for years
past has been plying its deadly craft, and, vampire-like,
sapping their life away. It is a relief to quit this death-like
region, and return to the exuberant life expressed in every
line of those gorgeous trees, growing scarce fifty paces
ahead of their stricken brethren, whose lower branches,
weighed down beneath the burden of their own
magnificence, have sunk to the ground, where they lie
voluptuously embedded in the rank luxuriance of the moss-
woven grass. Yet here, too, the deadly insect will come, in
scarce half a dozen years, to turn those emerald giants into
staring white ghosts. Day by day it is creeping nearer, and
though they know it not, those deluded trees, their days are
already counted. Let us pass on; life is not blither than
death after all!
Our first halt was made at La Dus, a small group of huts
tenanted in summer by Hungarian gendarmes, there
stationed for the purpose of keeping a lookout on smugglers
and possible military deserters, who may hope to evade
service by concealing themselves among the shepherds, or
going over the frontier into Roumania. The immediate
surroundings of this little establishment are somewhat bleak
and desolate, the forest having been of late much cleared
out at this spot. A tiny cemetery behind the houses seems
to act the part of pleasure-ground as well; for right in its
centre, separating the seven or eight graves into two rows,
is a primitive skittle-ground—which curious arrangement
can only be explained by the supposition that here the
skittles had the right of priority, the dead men being but
dissipated interlopers, who, having loved to play at skittles
during their lifetime, desired to be united to them even in
death. The remains of a camp-fire I observed in one corner
was another sign of the peculiar way the defunct are treated
in this obscure church-yard, the ashes on closer
investigation showing the charred wrecks of some of the
crosses and railings missing from more than one grave.
In a wooden châlet reserved for the occasional visits of
inspection of a head forester we obtained night-quarters,
proceeding next morning on our way, which again took us
through similar pine woods, reaching this time a
comfortable shooting-lodge lying deep in the forest of
Bistra, where we were made welcome by a hospitable
Roumanian game-keeper and four or five remarkably
amiable pointers, which threatened to stifle us with their
affectionate demonstrations.
The weather had now begun to change, and a small
drizzling rain had already surprised us on the way.
Reluctantly we acknowledged that the caterpillars were by
no means so devoid of sense as had appeared at first sight;
and those migrating winged families, which had seemed so
unreasonably anxious to start for Italy, were now slowly
rising in our estimation, and as we were very comfortably
installed at the game-keeper’s lodge, we resolved to stay
there two nights in order to give the weather time to
improve before venturing on to higher ground.
This intervening day of rest was spent pleasantly enough in
walking about and sketching, despite occasional showers of
rain; while the gentlemen proceeded to shoot haselhühner
in the forest. For the benefit of those unacquainted with
these delicious little birds, I must here mention that they are
about the size of a partridge, but of far superior flavor. They
are mostly to be found in pine forests, where they feed on
the delicate young pine-shoots, along with juniper-berries,
sloes, and heather-nibs, which gives to them (in a fainter
degree) something of the sharp aromatic taste of the
grouse.
Close to the game-keeper’s lodge there was a dashing
mountain torrent of considerable volume, and this point had
been selected for the construction of a klause (literally
cloister)—or to put it more clearly, a monster dam—across
the torrent-bed, with movable sluices. By means of the body
of water obtained in this way, the wood of the forest is
conveyed to the lower world. The river-banks are here
enlarged till they form a small lake, and the dam, built up
securely of massive bowlder-stones, is, for greater
preservation against wind and weather, walled and roofed in
with wooden planking, which gives to it the appearance of a
roomy habitation. In connection with this lake are numerous
wooden slides or troughs, which, slanting down from the
adjacent hills, deposit whole trunks at the water’s edge,
there to be hewn up into convenient logs and thrown into
the water. When a sufficient quantity of wood has been thus
collected the sluices are opened, and with thunder-like noise
the cataract breaks forth, easily sweeping its wooden
burden along.
Even greater loads sometimes reach the lower world by this
watery road, and occasionally twenty to twenty-five stems,
roughly shaped into beams for building purposes, are
fastened together so as to form a sort of raft, firmly
connected at one end by cross-beams and wooden bands,
but left loose at the opposite side to admit of the beams
separating fan-like, according to the exigencies of the
encountered obstacles, as they are whirled along. Two men
furnished with lengthy poles act as steersmen, and it
requires no little skill to guide this unwieldy craft
successfully through the labyrinth of rocks and whirlpools
which beset the river’s bed. The perils of such a cruise are
considerable, and used to be greater still before some of the
worst rocks were blasted out of the way. Sometimes the
whole craft goes to pieces, dashed against the bowlders, or
else a fallen tree-stem across the river may crush the sailors
as they are swept beneath. From this fate the navigators
may sometimes barely escape by throwing themselves
prostrate on the raft, or by leaping over the barrier at the
critical moment; or else, when the obstacle is not otherwise
to be evaded, and seems too formidable to surmount, they
find it necessary to make voluntary shipwreck by steering
on to the nearest rock. The thunder-like noise of the cataract
renders speech unavailing, so it is only by signs that the
men can communicate with each other.
This particular klause is not in use at present, as there are
similar ones in neighboring valleys; so the little colony of
log-huts built for the accommodation of workmen is
standing empty, and single huts can be rented at a
moderate price by any one who wishes to enjoy some weeks
of a delightful solitude in the midst of fragrant pine forests.
 CHAPTER LV.

A NIGHT IN THE STINA.

AS on the second morning the rain had stopped, we thought
we might venture to proceed on our way, the next station
we had in view being the Jäeser See, a mysterious lake lying
high up in the hills, of which many strange tales are told.
This meeresauge (eye of the sea, as all such high mountain
lakes are called by the people) is the source of the river
Cibin, and believed by the country-folk to be directly
connected with the ocean by subterraneous openings. The
bones of drowned seamen and spars from wrecked ships are
said to have been there washed ashore; and popular
superstition warns the stranger not to presume to throw a
stone into its gloomy depths, as a terrible thunder-storm
would be the inevitable result of such sacrilege. According
to some people, the Jäeser See would be no other than the
devil’s own caldron, in which he brews the weather, and
where a dragon sleeps coiled up beneath the surface.
No wonder we felt anxious to visit such an interesting spot,
and that we pressed onward without heeding the driving
mists which every now and then obscured our view. We had
now reached the extremity of the pine region, and were
walking along a mountain shoulder where short stunted
bushes of fir and juniper afforded shelter for countless
krametsvögel (a sort of fieldfare), which flew up startled at
our approach, uttering shrill, piercing cries. Several birds
were shot as we went along; but as we had no dog to seek
them out, they were mostly lost in the thick undergrowth
where they had fallen.
The sun had now hidden itself, and a sharp piping wind was
blowing full in our faces. We struggled on manfully
notwithstanding, for some time, in face of discouragement;
but when at last the mist had turned to a driving snow-
storm, blinding our eyes and catching our breath, we
forcedly came to a stand-still, to consider what next was to
be done. There was no shelter to be obtained by going on,
as our guides explained; even did we succeed in reaching
the lake, which was doubtful in this weather, there was
neither hut nor hovel near it, nor for many miles around,
and we ruefully acknowledged that our much-vaunted sail-
cloth tent would afford but scanty shelter against such a
storm as was evidently coming on. It was too late to think of
returning to the forester’s lodge, being near four o’clock,
and darkness set in soon after six. By good-luck, as we
happened to remember, we had passed a seemingly
deserted shepherds’ hut about half an hour previously, the
only habitation we had seen that day. By retracing our steps
we might at least hope to pass the night under cover.
It proved no such easy matter, however, to find the place in
question, for the heavy mists which accompanied the snow-
storm enveloped us on all sides as with a veil, and we could
not distinguish objects only twenty paces off; and although
the hut stood out upon an open slope of pasture, we passed
it close by more than once without suspecting. At last,
despatching a guide to ascertain the exact bearings, we
waited till his welcome shout informed us that our place of
refuge was found, and a few minutes later we had reached
the stina.
This hut, very roughly put together of logs and beams, had
been evacuated by the shepherds some ten days
previously; its walls were very low, the roof
disproportionately high; there were no windows, and none
were required, for there were as many chinks as boards, and
fully more holes than nails about the building, and these, in
freely admitting the wind and the rain, furnished enough
daylight to see by as well. Yet such as it was, it was infinitely
better than our flimsy tent, and we felt heartily thankful for
the shelter it afforded.
The hut inside was divided off into two compartments, one
for living and sleeping, the other a sort of store-room where
the shepherds are in the habit of keeping their milk and
cheeses. Some rude attempt at furnishing had also been
made; one or two very primitive benches, some slanting
boards to serve as beds, and a rickety table, weighted down
by stones to keep it together. Bunches of dried juniper were
stuck at regular intervals along the eaves of the roof inside
by way of decoration; perhaps, also, as a charm to keep the
lightning away. Some little objects carved out of wood,
knives, spoons, etc., came likewise to light in our course of
investigation.
There was no such thing as a fireplace or chimney, but a
heap of gray wood-ashes in the centre of the stamped earth
floor testified that a fire could be made notwithstanding,
and only the patient smoke of many summers could have
polished those beams inside the hut into that shiny surface
of rich brown hue.
We took the hint, and presently the welcome sight of
dancing flames lit up the scene. At first a dense smoke filled
the building, and there seemed really no choice between
freezing and suffocation, when some inventive spirit
bethought himself of knocking out a portion of the roof by
means of a long pole, and so making an improvised
chimney. The current of air thus effected instantaneously
carried off the dense smoke-clouds, and left the atmosphere
comparatively clear.
Like fire-fly swarms the sparks flew upward, probing the
mysterious darkness of the cavernous roof; and now as the
blast swept by outside, shaking the walls and fanning the
flames to an angry growl, the dead wood-ashes were
likewise stirred to life, and, wafted aloft in the guise of
fluttering white moths, they joined in a whirling dance with
the golden fire-flies.
We had suspended our drenched cloaks from the cross-
beams near the fire, and were beginning to prepare our
supper, when a startling interruption gave a new current to
our thoughts. One of the guides who had been collecting
firewood outside now rushed in, exclaiming, “A bear! a bear!
There is a young bear up there among the rocks.”
Breathless we all hurried to the door, and Count B——
seized his gun, trembling with joyful anticipation, and
almost too much agitated to load. The snow-storm had
momentarily relaxed its violence, and there, sure enough,
on the rising ground a little above the hut, we espied a black
and shaggy animal gazing at us furtively from over a large
bowlder-stone. It could be nothing else but a bear.
With palpitating hearts we watched the huntsman steal
upward till within shot, terrified lest the bear should take
alarm too soon. But no; this was not the sort of
disappointment in store for us! The animal let itself be
approached till within a dozen paces; it was a perfectly ideal
bear in all respects, coming as it seemed with such obliging
readiness to be shot at our very threshold.
Delusive dream! too beautiful to last! One moment more
and the shot would be fired; we held our breath to listen—
and then—oh, woful disappointment!—the gun was lowered,
and the would-be bear-hunter called out in heart-rending
accents, “It is only a dog!”
Only a poor half-starved dog, forgotten by the shepherds on
their descent into the valley, and which probably had been
prowling round the hut ever since in hopes of seeing his
masters return. The animal was shaggy and uncouth in the
extreme, gaunt and wild-looking from hunger, with glaring
yellow eyes which gazed at us piteously from out its bushy
elf-locks. Even at a very short distance, the resemblance to
a bear was striking.
We called the poor outcast, and would fain have given him
food and shelter; but he was scared and savage, and
misunderstanding our benevolent intentions, could not be
persuaded to approach. We had therefore to content
ourselves with throwing food from a distance, which he
stealthily devoured whenever he thought himself
unobserved.
After this bitter disappointment we returned to the hut, and
there made ourselves as comfortable as circumstances
would permit, completing our cooking arrangements, not
without a sigh of regret for the delicate bear’s-paws we had
just now been expecting to sup upon; though a brace of
haselhühner shot the previous day in the Bistra forest, and
now roasted on a spit, gave us no cause to complain of the
quality of our food.
Our next care was to prepare our sleeping-couches, for here
there was not even a sprinkling of straw to soften the hard
boards. Luckily, these forests contain an endless supply of
patent spring mattresses, and a few armfuls of fresh-cut fir-
branches, with a rug spread over, makes as good a bed as
any one need desire. A Scotch plaid (my faithful companion
for many years) hung along the wall kept off the worst
draughts, and a roaring fire sustained the whole night
prevented us from perishing with cold. Our sleeping-boards
were close alongside this improvised hearth, with barely
room enough to pass between without singeing one’s
clothes; yet while our faces were roasting, our backbones
were often as cold as ice, so it became necessary to turn
round from time to time when in imminent danger of getting
over-done at one side. Opposite us slumbered the guides,
taking turns to sit up and tend the fire.
Many a massive log was burned that night, and not only
trunks and branches, but much of the rustic furniture as
well, was pressed into service as fuel. The shepherds will
require to furnish their house anew next summer.
It was late ere sleep came to any of us, and when it came at
last it brought strange phantoms in its train; visions of
ghosts and sorcerers, of bears and bandits, flitted
successively through our brain; and scarcely less strange
than dream-land was the reality to which we were
occasionally roused by alternate twinges of cold and heat—
the smouldering fire at our elbow, the slumbering guides,
and the white moths and fire-flies whirling aloft in the
frenzied mazes of a wild Sabbath dance, to which the
moaning wind, like the wailing voice of some unquiet spirit,
played a mournful accompaniment.
When morning came we reviewed our situation
dispassionately. The storm was over, and the day, though
dull, was fair as yet; but the horizon was clouded, and some
peasants coming by told us of snow lying deep on the
mountains we were bound for. We could no longer blind
ourselves to the fact that summer was over, and that the
troublesome mists, which but a fortnight ago could easily be
dispersed by the sun’s disdainful smile, were now the
masters up here.
It was clearly impossible to proceed farther under the
circumstances; so, remembering that discretion is often the
better part of valor, we resolved to cut short our expedition,
postponing all further explorations to a more favorable
season.
When our little caravan was set in motion, I turned round to
take a last look at the hut which had sheltered us, and
which most likely I shall never see again. There, motionless
on a neighboring rock, crouched the gaunt figure of the
hungry dog, gazing intently before him. Then, as I watched,
he crept stealthily down till he had reached the half-open
door of the empty stina, where, after a cautious
investigation to assure himself of the coast being clear, he
entered, and was lost to my sight. Doubtless he thought to
warm himself by the fire we had left, and to discover some
food-scraps remaining from our meals.
That dog haunted my thoughts for many days afterwards,
and I could not refrain from speculating on its fate, which
can only have been a tragic one. Did it perish of cold and
hunger, or else fall a prey to the wild beasts of the forest?
After having but yesterday unconsciously enacted the part
of the bear, perhaps Bruin himself came to fetch it on the
morrow. It would, after all, have been more merciful if the
error had lasted a little longer, and a kindly bullet been
lodged in its unsuspecting heart.
 CHAPTER LVI.

FAREWELL TO TRANSYLVANIA—THE
ENCHANTED GARDEN.
SO the end of our Transylvanian sojourn had actually come,
and like many things whose prospect appears so
unconditionally desirable when viewed in the far distance,
the realization of this wish now failed to bring altogether the
anticipated satisfaction.

THE CAVERN CONVENT, SKIT LA JALOMITZA.[84]

Whoever has read Hans Andersen’s exquisite tale of the fir-
tree will understand the indescribable pathos assumed by
commonplace objects as soon as they are relegated from
the present tense into the past; and those who have not
read this fairy tale will understand it equally well, for is not
the story of the fir-tree the history of each of our own lives?
I had indeed often longed to be back again in the world; I
had yearned to be once more within reach of newspapers
and lending-libraries, and to be able to get letters from
England in three days instead of six. Of course I would
return to the world some day or other; but that day need not
have come just yet, I now told myself, and I should have
liked to spend one more summer in face of that glorious
chain of mountains I had got to love so dearly.
All at once I became acutely conscious of a dozen projects
not yet accomplished—of points of interest as yet unvisited,
of pictures I had not yet looked upon, of songs I had not
heard. The proud snowy Negoi I had so often dreamed of
ascending now smiled down an icy smile of unapproachable
majesty upon my disappointment; the dark pine forests I
had expected to revisit seemed to grow dim and shadowy as
they eluded my grasp, and with them many other objects of
my secret longing. That other mountain, the Bucsecs, where
live those solitary monks, snowed up during the greater part
of the year in their cavern convent scooped out of the rock;
the noble castle of the great Hunyady, pearl of mediæval
citadels; those wondrous salt-mines of Maros-Ujvar, whose
description reads like a vision in a fairy tale; and those
rivers whose waters may literally be said to “wander o’er
sands of gold”—the thought of these, and of many other
such items, now rose up like tormenting spectres to swell
the mournful list of my blighted hopes. There were dozens
of old ruined towers whose interior I had not yet seen,
scores of little way-side chapels I had proposed to
investigate. Why, even in this very town of Hermanstadt
there were nooks and corners I had not explored, church-
towers I had not ascended, and mysterious little gardens as
yet unvisited. Precisely the most inviting-looking of these
gardens, the most mysteriously suggestive, and the one
which showed the richest promise of blossom peeping over
the wall, had hitherto baffled all attempts at entrance.
Nearly every day for the last two years I had passed by that
garden, which towered over my head like a sea-bird’s nest
perched on a steep rocky island, and always had I found the
gate to be persistently locked against the outer world. Was I
actually going to leave the place without having set foot
within its enchanted precincts? without having plucked that
head of golden laburnum just breaking into flower, which
nodded so mockingly over the wall? and all at once an
irresistible longing came over me; I felt that I must enter
that garden, must gather that flower, even were it defended
by dragons and witches.
And my wish did not seem to be impracticable at first sight
—the garden, as I knew, belonging to the cure, a jovial-
faced old man, with whom I had merely a bowing
acquaintance, but who, I felt sure, would be delighted to
show me his garden. Accordingly one forenoon, about a
week before my departure from Hermanstadt, I sent my two
boys with a calling-card, on which was indited my request in
the politest terms and most legible handwriting at my
command.
The small messengers I had despatched to the presbytery
came back even sooner than I had expected, but their mien
was crestfallen, and their eyes suspiciously moist.
“What is the matter?” I asked, in surprise. “Have you not
brought me the key of the garden? Did not the cure say
Yes?”
 CASTLE VAJDA HUNYAD BEFORE ITS RESTORATION.
“He said nothing; we never saw him. The whole house was
full of doctors and of pails of ice,” was the somewhat
incoherent explanation. “And then there came an old woman
with a broom and made us go away.”
Evidently the subject of the broom was too painful to be
dwelt upon, for the moisture in the eyes showed symptoms
of reappearing. Further inquiries elucidated the situation.
Alas! it was but too true; the cure had been seized with a
stroke of apoplexy that morning; and after waiting for two
whole years, I had appropriately selected that very moment
to request the loan of his garden key!
Two days later he died, and was buried with much pomp;
and then, after waiting for three days more, I thought I
might without indelicacy repeat my request, applying this
time to the sacristan.
The branch of laburnum had now burst into full flower, and
the more I gazed the more absolutely impossible it seemed
to leave the place without it.
This time, in consideration of the broom and the old woman,
I had despatched a full-grown messenger, desiring him on
no account to presume to return without the key; but the
answer he brought, though polite, was yet more hopeless,
and he, too, had come back empty-handed. “Have you been
to the sacristan?” I sternly inquired. He had, as he humbly
informed me, and not only to him, but likewise to the next
priest in rank, as well as to the sister and nephew of the
deceased, and to his best friend.
“The gentlemen were all very polite, and much regretted
not being able to oblige me,” he said; “but the garden gate
had been closed with the official seal immediately after the
death, and this key, along with all others, deposited at the
gericht (court of justice) till a successor should be elected.”
“And when will that be?”
“In about six months probably.”
In six months! They dared talk to me of six months, when I
should be gone before as many days! And what cared I for
their hypocritical expressions of regret, now that I knew
them to be dragons in disguise? Hope was now dead within
me, for even British pertinacity cannot cope with
supernatural agency, and expect to penetrate realms
defended by witches and dragons.

Driving to the station, we passed for the last time by the

impenetrable stone-wall which masked the object of all this
useless longing and effort, and which, like all unattainable
things, looked more than ever desirable on the balmy May
evening we turned our backs upon Hermanstadt. In vain my
eyesight strove to penetrate the dense screen of flowery
shrubs hiding from my view—I know not what. Perhaps an
old temple with shattered columns, or a fountain which has
ceased to play? Maybe an ancient statue draped in ivy, or a
tombstone bearing some long-forgotten name?
Naught could I see but the dense-grown tops of gelder-rose
and bird-cherry pressed tightly together, and one clustering
branch of overblown laburnum dropping its petals in amber
showers on to the road.
Were you mocking me, or weeping for me, enigmatical
golden flower? Shall I ever return to gather you?

THE END.
 TRANSYLVANIA.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Turkish sway does not seem to have been a very
oppressive one, if we are to believe this account of how the
Turkish tax-collector used to gather his tithes:
“In a cart harnessed with four horses, the Turkish tax-collector
used to drive round the villages in Transylvania; and when he
cracked his whip the people came running out and threw, each
according to his means, a piece of money into the vat.
Sometimes it was but a groat, sometimes even less, for there
was but little money in the land at that time; but the Turk was
satisfied with what he got, and drove on without further ado.”
[2] The late Count Beust.
[3] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian Carpathian
Society.
[4] The Hungarian name of is Nagy-Szeben, and its Roumanian
appellation Sibiiu.
[5] This, however, may be doubted, as I do not believe that,
under any circumstances, a natural amalgamation between
Germans and Magyars could ever have come about. There is a
too deeply inrooted dislike between the two races.
[6]

“There is space in the smallest hut

To contain a happy, loving couple.”

[7] This abuse, however, is entirely confined to the villages, the

towns showing a far more favorable rate of increase among the
Saxon population.
[8] The assertion that the Transylvanian Saxons—taken as a
body—show a yearly decrease is, however, incorrect, as has
been conclusively proved by Dr. Oskar von Meltzl, in his recent
interesting work, “Statistik der Sächsischen Landbevölkerung in
Siebenbürgen.” By the author’s own acknowledgment, however,
the increase within the last thirty-two years has been but
insignificant; while of 227 Saxon communities established in the
country 92 have diminished in number between the years 1851-
1883 to the extent of nearly 11 per cent.
[9] Dr. Fronius.
[10] New-year’s gift from the honorable brotherhood.
[11] The late King of Bavaria, Ludwig II., made an attempt at
reviving these brotherhoods, such as they existed in Germany in
the Middle Ages. He himself was the head of the confraternity,
and designed the costumes to be worn by its members, who,
with their long pilgrim robes, cockle-shells, and wide flapping
hats, were among the most conspicuous figures at the royal
funeral last summer.
[12] This would seem to be an allusion to the Roumanian
fashion in some districts of twisting up the veil into a horn-like
shape on the head.
[13] The borten is the high, stiff head-dress worn by all Saxon
girls, and which they only lay aside with their marriage.
[14] St. Catherine is throughout Germany the patroness of old
maids—likewise in France, “coiffer la Sainte Catherine.”
[15] Out of the several slightly different versions of this song to
be found in different districts I have selected those verses which
seemed most intelligible.
[16] Two fir-trees were often planted before Saxon peasant
houses.
[17] So in the Altmark the newly married couple used to be
served with a soup composed of cattle-fodder, hay, beans, oats,
etc., to cause the farm animals to thrive.
[18] In Sweden the mother takes her seat on the coffer
containing her daughter’s effects, and refuses to part with it till
the son-in-law has ransomed it with money.
[19] On the rare occasions when the Saxon peasant consults a
physician, he is determined to reap the utmost advantage from
the situation. An amusing instance of this was related to me by
a doctor to whom a peasant had come for the purpose of being
bled. Deeming that the patient had lost sufficient blood, the
doctor was about to close the wound, when the Saxon
interposed. “Since I have come this long way to be bled,
doctor,” he remonstrated, “you might as well let ten kreuzers’
worth more blood flow!”
[20] The Roumanian peasant has a passion for white snowy
linen. Usually it is his sweetheart on whom devolves the duty of
keeping it clean, or, when he has no sweetheart, then his
mother or sister.
[21] In Sweden, when the guests sit down to the bridal banquet,
an old woman decked in a wreath of birch-bark, in which straw
and goose-feathers are interwoven, and grotesquely dressed up
with jingling harness, is led in and presented to the bridegroom
as his consort, while in a pompous speech her charms are
expatiated upon. She is chased away with clamorous hooting,
whereupon the bridesmen go out again, and after a mock
search they lead in the bride.
[22] Supposed to denote fruitfulness.
[23] There is a story told of a village (but whether Hungarian or
Roumanian I am unable to say) which, up to the year 1536,
used to be inhabited by cripples, hunchbacks, lame, maimed,
and blind men only, and which went by the name of the
“Republic of Cripples.” No well-grown and healthy persons were
ever suffered to settle here, for fear of spoiling the deformity of
their race, and all new-born children unlucky enough to enter
the world with normally organized frames were instantly
mutilated.
The inhabitants of this village, turning these infirmities to
account, made a play of wandering over the country begging
and singing at all fairs and markets, and trading on the
compassion excited by their wretched appearance. They had
also their own language, called the language of the blind, and
were in so far privileged above the useful and industrious
citizens as to be exempted from all taxes.
[24] The Council of Constantinople, 869, forbade the members
of the Oriental Church to keep the feast of the pagan goddess
Kolinda, or Lada, occurring on the shortest day. These Kolinda
songs appear to be of Slav origin, since we find the Koleda
among the Bohemians, Serbs, and Slavonians, the Koleda
among Poles, and the Kolad with the Russians. Yet further proof
of this would seem to be that unmistakable resemblance to the
Slav words Kaulo, Kul, Kolo, a round dance—applying, no doubt,
to the rotation of the sun, which on this day begins afresh.
Grimm, however, in his Mythology, makes out the name to be
derived from the Latin Calendæ.
[25] The meaning of this I take to be, that the dangers we
recognize and run away from are smaller than those we
encounter without knowing it.
[26] The Hospodar Negru, or Nyagou as he is sometimes called,
reigned from 1513 to 1521. Long detained as hostage at the
Court of Sultan Selim I., he had the opportunity of studying
Oriental architecture, and himself directed the building of a
celebrated mosque which had, we are told, no less than 999
windows and 366 minarets. This edifice so delighted the Sultan
that he set Nyagou at liberty, presenting him with all the rich
materials remaining over from the building of the mosque, in
order to erect a church in his native country. Returning thither,
he is said to have brought with him the celebrated architect
Manoll, or Manolli, by birth a Phanariot, who, with his wife
Annika, is immortalized in this ballad.
[27] A prose translation of this poem appeared in Stanley’s
“Rouman Anthology,” 1856.
[28] This allusion to prayer and magic in the same breath is
thoroughly characteristic of the Roumanian’s religion.
[29] By B. Alexandri.
[30] By K. A. Rosetti.
[31] The real name of this celebrated Wallachian rebel, born in
1740, was Nykulaj Urszu. Under the reign of the Emperor Joseph
II. he became the chief instigator of a revolution among the
sorely oppressed Transylvanian Wallachs, who, rising to the
number of thirty thousand men, proceeded to murder the
Hungarian nobles, and plunder, sack, and burn their
possessions. Hora’s project was to raise himself to the position
of sovereign, and he had already adopted the title of King of
Dacia when he was captured, and, together with his
confederate Kloska, very cruelly put to death at Karlsburg in
1785.
[32] Both Greeks and Romans attached an ominous meaning to
a dream of falling-out teeth.
[33] “Der Aberglaube in seiner bunten Mannigfaltigkeit bildet
gewissermassen eine Religion für den ganzen neideren
Hausbedarf.”
[34] Dracu, which in Roumanian does duty for the word devil,
really means dragon; as for devil proper the word is wanting.
One writer, speaking of the Roumanians, observes that they
swear by the dragon, which gives their oaths a painful sense of
unreality.
[35] This would seem to suggest a German or Scandinavian
element—the thunder-god Donar, or Thor, who with his hammer
confirms unions.
[36] This spirit corresponds to the Polednice of the Bohemians
and the Poludnica of Poles and Russians. Grimm, in speaking of
the Russians in his “German Mythology,” quotes from
Boschorn’s “Resp. Moscov.:” “Dæmonem quoque meridianum
Moscovitæ et colunt.”
[37] Also practised by the Saxons.
[38] This plant, Ocimum basilicum, is much used by the
Roumanians, who ascribe to it both medicinal and magic
properties.
[39] The Serbs have also a corresponding day, called the
Theodor Saturday (Todoroma Sumbota), on which no work is
done, on account of the sintotere, a monster, half man half
horse, who rides upon whoever falls in his power.
[40] Similar customs exist among the Hindoos, Slavs, and Serbs.
[41] Also believed by most Slav races.
[42] Also usual in Moldavia.
[43] St. Elias is also known in Serbia as “Thunderer;” Bohemians
and Russians have a thunder-god named Perum; the Poles,
Piorun; the old Russians had Perkun, and the Lithuanians
Perkunos—all of which may be assumed to be derived from the
Indian sun-god, Surjar, or Mihirar, who, as personification of fire,
is also named Perus.
[44] Swine have been regarded as sacred animals by various
people, which is probably the explanation of the German
expression of sauglück (sow’s luck), and of the
glückschweinchen (little luck-pigs) which have lately become
fashionable as charms to hang to the watch-chain.
[45] Also practised by the Saxons.
[46] Likewise in Bavaria.
[47] Believed by most Slav races.
[48] Likewise in Poland.
[49] The original signification of this seems to have gone astray,
but was probably based on some former worship of the horse,
long regarded as a sacred animal by Indians, Parsees, Arabs,
and Germans.
[50] See “Saxon Superstition,” chap. xxix.
[51] Also believed by most Slav races.
[52] Archæologists have derived this word from Pri, which in
Sanscrit means fruitful, and Hu, the god of the Celtic deluge
tradition, and likewise regarded as the personification of fruitful
nature.
[53] So in India the Matris, known also among Egyptians,
Chaldeans, and Mexicans. A corresponding spirit is likewise
found in Scandinavian and Lithuanian mythology; in the latter,
under the name of the medziajna.
[54] Surely a corruption of “great Pan,” who, it would seem, is
not dead after all, but merely banished to the land beyond the
forest.
[55] The ancients used likewise to cook for their household
demons (cæna dæmonum).—Plaut. Pseudol. Also, the Hindoos
prepared food for the house-spirit.
[56] Instances of weather-makers are also common in Germany.
We are told that there used to live in Suabia long ago a pastor
renowned for his proficiency in exorcising the weather, and
whenever a thunder-storm came on he would stand at the open
window invoking the clouds till they had all dispersed. But the
work was heavy and difficult to do, and the pastor used
frequently to be so exhausted after dispersing a storm that
large drops of perspiration would trickle down his face.
[57] An old German saying, “Hier liegt der Hund begraben”—
and which is equivalent to saying, That now we penetrate the
true meaning of something not previously understood—has
been explained in the same way in Büchner’s “Geflügelte
Worte:” There the dog lies buried; that is why the tree bears
fruit.
[58] The Greeks also observed this at their banquets in order to
appease the gods.
[59] In the Harz and Westphalia Tuesday is considered the
luckiest day for entering on a new service.
[60] This custom, which appears to be a very old one, is also
prevalent among various Slav peoples, Poles, Serbs, etc. In
Poland it used to be de rigueur that the water be poured over a
girl who was still asleep; so in each house a victim, usually a
servant-maid, was selected, who had to feign sleep, and
patiently receive the cold shower-bath which was to insure the
luck of the family during that year. The custom has now become
modified to suit a more delicate age, and instead of formidable
horse-buckets of water, dainty little perfume-squirts have come
to be used in many places.
[61] The word Götzen in German is exclusively used to express
pagan gods.
[62] In the original the phrase runs:

“This grows not in my garden.”

[63] The present river Strell.

[64] Evidently funeral urns.
[65] The solitary inns standing on the wide pusztas are called
csardas, and have given their name to the national dance.
[66] This ballad, which in the original is called “Kalai Wodas,”
and begins thus:

“T’ushtyi, t’ushtyi, Barshon Gyuri,

Thai besh tuke pre tri vina,”

is, with slight variations, sung all over Transylvania, often by the
gypsy smiths, who mark the time on the anvil as they sing; the
dialogue between husband and wife, which forms the last part,
being usually divided between two voices.
[67] Such names as “Velvet George,” “Black Voda,” etc., are
very common among the gypsies, and have probably had their
origin in some peculiarity of costume or complexion.
[68] The Milky Way.
[69] Since writing this, Crown-prince Rudolf has terminated
another successful bear-hunting expedition in Transylvania
(November, 1887), the booty on this occasion being a dozen
head.
[70] The technical name of the Haselhuhn is Tetrao bonasia.
They reside chiefly in pine woods.
[71] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian
Carpathian Society.
[72] It was to me a curious sensation in this out-of-the-way
place to come across a copy of my great-grandfather’s work,
“Gerard on Taste,” translated into German. I had not been
before aware of any such translation existing.
[73] Not only the furriers, but many other guilds, flourished here
in a remarkable degree, the goldsmiths in particular taking rank
along with Venetian and Genoese artists of the same period.
After the middle of last century, the guilds began to fall into
decadence; and finally, when the old restrictions on trade were
abolished in 1860, they began to disappear. Yet the guild
system, in all its essentials, was here kept up much longer than
in any part of Germany; and even long after it had nominally
exploded, many little customs relating to the guilds were still
retained—as, for instance, that of all members sitting together
in church, each corporation having its arms painted up above
the seats. It is only within the last twenty years that this custom
has fallen into disuse, for Mr. Boner, writing in 1865, makes
mention of it as still extant. Also, to this day, in several of the
Saxon towns it is quite usual to see signboards bearing such
inscriptions as “lodging-house for joiners,” tailors, etc.
[74] In justice to Saxon national feeling, I have been specially
requested to mention the fact that neither of these two young
German murderers was of Saxon extraction.
[75] As a curious instance of the precariousness of human life, I
may here make mention of Colonel P——, a distinguished
countryman of ours, then occupying a diplomatic post at
Vienna. This gentleman, who had an unwholesome liking for
witnessing executions, having accidentally learned that
Hermanstadt boasted two candidates for the gallows, had
requested a Transylvanian acquaintance to send him timely
notice of their hanging, in order that he might assist at the
spectacle. This morbid desire was, however, not destined to be
satisfied, as long before the slow march of justice had
culminated in a death-warrant, Colonel P—— himself had been
carried off by the far more rapid Egyptian fever.
[76] I failed to obtain any reliable information as to when and
how this dance had been here imported, but it seems to have
been in use for a good many generations past.
[77] Why the elephant was also buried is not very apparent, as
it is hardly to be supposed that it was killed by the same shot
which slew the pacha.
[78] According to others, the name of Kronstadt would be
derived from the Kronenbeeren (cranberries) which grow
profusely on the surrounding hills.
 [79] It is of this monarch that the people still say, “King Matthias
is dead, and Justice along with him.” He was, in fact, a sort of
Hungarian Haroun-al-Raschid, going about in disguise among
his people, rewarding them according to their deserts.
[80] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian
Carpathian Society.
[81] These feathers, of a bluish color, we identified as those of
the garrulous roller, Coracias garrula; and as this bird is never to
be found at the aforementioned height, it must apparently have
been crossing the mountains to migrate southward, when its
travelling arrangements were disturbed by the watchful falcon.
[82] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian
Carpathian Society.
[83] The meeting of the Emperors of Austria and Russia at
Skiernevice, in September, 1884.
[84] Reprinted from a publication of the Transylvanian
Carpathian Society.

[Transcriber’s Note: A number of typesetting errors in the

original where ‘e’ and ‘c’, and ‘u’ and ‘n’ appear to have
been used interchangeably have been corrected without
note. In addition, the following changes have been made to
this text:

Page ix: Sehaguna changed to Schaguna.

Page 27: suéde changed to suède.
Page 47: Engene changed to Eugene. Forgarascher
changed to Fogarascher.
Page 125: Gerando changed to Gérando.
Page 168: Cogalnitseheann changed to
Cogalnitscheanu.
Page 209: Schäsburg changed to Schässburg.
Page 210: Maros-Varshahely changed to Maros-
Vasharhely.
Page 236: Grellnan changed to Grellman.
 Page 281: badak changed to hadak.
Page 339: Vizkana changed to Vizakna.
Footnote 26: Nyagon changed to Nyagou (twice).]

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