HUNGARIAN SKETCHES
IN
PEACE AND WAR.

FROM THE HUNGARIAN OF
MORITZ JÓKAI.

WITH PREFATORY NOTICE BY
EMERIC SZABAD,
Author of "Hungary Past and Present."

EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO.
HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO., LONDON.
JAMES M'GLASHAN, DUBLIN.
MDCCCLIV.

CONSTABLE'S MISCELLANY
OF
FOREIGN LITERATURE.

VOL. I.

EDINBURGH: THOMAS CONSTABLE AND CO.
HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO., LONDON.
JAMES M'GLASHAN, DUBLIN.
MDCCCLIV.

EDINBURGH: T. CONSTABLE, PRINTER TO HER MAJESTY.

CONTENTS.

PREFACE.

Jokai is one of the most popular of the Hungarian prose writers of fiction that sprang up a few years before the late war. His wit, flowing style, and vivid descriptions of Hungarian life as it is, joined to a rich fancy and great intensity of feeling, soon made him a favourite with Hungarian readers.

Among the earlier of his productions, those best known are a novel entitled, "The Common Days," and a collection of minor tales, published under the title of "Wild Flowers."

The present volume has been written for the most part since the late memorable national movement, and embodies descriptions of several of the direst scenes in the civil war which devastated Hungary from the year 1848 to 1850.

Most of the Hungarian literati were, at the close of the war, either roaming in foreign countries, or wandering in disguise through their native land; and the field of literature for a long time threatened to remain neglected and barren—a monument of national grief and desolation! Those patriotic writers who had for years wielded the pen with the noblest impulses thought to do their duty best by letting their highest faculties lie dormant; and laid aside the lyre rather than bring unacceptable offerings to a fatherland laid low, and at the mercy of foreign swords. And who will deny that there is sometimes great virtue in silence, and that the tongue that speaks not is often more eloquent and heroic than that which dares to utter sublime truths even at the foot of the gibbet? Many of the noble-hearted of Hungary resigned themselves to such a martyr-like silence, and persevere in it to the present day; while the great bulk of the people, unwilling to enhance the triumph of their victorious enemies by a show of unavailing lamentation, followed their example. Pesth, which had been the scene of literary activity, was at once deserted; the bards of Hungary, abandoning their homes to the wantonness of a foreign soldiery, went back to the districts whence they had come, there to mingle with those peasants whose chivalry and patriotism afforded constant themes to their lyres. Their renewed intercourse with their rustic countrymen served again to revive their hopes, quenched as in the grave.

In the sketches of Jokai, the reader will find many original delineations of Hungarian life among the middle-class nobility—a race of men whose manner of life and thought cannot fail to be interesting, however cursorily described. But the Hungarian peasant is in his way no less attractive. Nothing can be wilder than his dress, consisting of a sheepskin cloak (bunda), or a similar habit of the coarsest cloth, a shirt, scarcely reaching below the waist, and wide linen drawers, to which boots do not often form the necessary complement; yet his easy demeanour, delicate feelings, and especially his language, are such as to put him on a level with the educated classes. In conversation he will often use a more dignified style than a noble, who, by his exclusive privileges, has had ample scope for oratory in the county assemblies—select with astonishing tact the best lyrical productions of the day, and immortalize the lay by a tune of his own composition. These qualities of the Hungarian rustic—an insight into whose character will be given to the reader by a few camp scenes contained in this volume—must appear the more striking if we remember that the class to which he belongs was for centuries in a state of serfdom, from which it was only liberated by the late Revolution.

Independently of the various other calamities which prevented the development of the physical and mental resources of Hungary during the last three hundred years, the feudal system alone was an insurmountable barrier in the way of progress. The privileged classes were for the most part devising how to kill the time, while the labour of the peasant provided them with the means of gratifying their propensities, rarely disquieted by the backward state of the country, which in their eyes seemed all perfection. Properly speaking, it was only since the year 1825 that matters had begun to exhibit a material change in this respect. Many of the most conceited and thoughtless among the nobles had gradually allowed themselves to be convinced that arts and sciences might add to the charms of an easy life; and that national greatness demanded something more than hospitable roofs, fertile plains, and vast herds of cattle. The political and literary activity displayed by Counts Szecheny and Kolcsey found noble followers, and produced unexpected and astonishing results during the last twenty-five years. Still, compared with other countries, the progress of literature was slow; and the works of the most popular authors, though thrown off in comparatively small impressions, were long of reaching second editions. The cause of this result must be sought in the fact that reading is by no means universal among the Hungarians. Among the nobles, who had the means of buying books, only a few cared to do so, while the condition of the peasants prevented them from becoming in any way the patrons of literature. This apathy was undoubtedly owing in great part to the absence of a central national government; the effect of Hapsburg rule had always been to crush the political institutions of the country, and repress its noblest efforts, regarded as the sure forerunners of revolution. The Court of Vienna, besides excluding from public office and emolument such as were known for their independent principles and national feelings, now began gradually to arrogate to itself the right of censorship—an institution which alone would have sufficed to cripple the intellectual progress of the country.

Such, however, was the mental activity of the present generation, that Hungarian literature, despite the numerous obstacles it had to encounter, made rapid progress, and created in the minds of the people a spirit of inquiry and a desire after intellectual pursuits hitherto unknown. Never before had the cultivated tongues of the West been so much studied, or so many valuable translations made from the German, French, and English literatures. That the influence of the first was originally the strongest, and that several of the leading writers in philosophy and history took for their model the German school, will appear no matter of surprise. The rising writers of a more recent date, however, insensibly turned their attention to the more lively literature of France, and afterwards to that of Britain; and while some read with rapture the fictions of Scott, Bulwer, and Dickens, politicians learned to admire the doctrines of Adam Smith and Jeremy Bentham. Of poets, none were more extensively read and more generally admired than Byron and Moore. Thus did the merely literary progress march on boldly and combine with the new political movement to further a change which had already made itself felt in every grade of society, and which was the more remarkable and satisfactory from having followed a too long period of stagnation.

A few words will suffice, and perhaps not be superfluous, to bring to the English reader's mind the deplorable causes of this long neglect.

The fifteenth century, which illumined the sky of Italy, and thence reacted on the rest of Europe, brought for Hungary nothing but an endless series of wars, distinguished by dazzling military achievements, against the hosts of the Sultans, and turning out in the end but useless victories, productive of most ruinous effects and general exhaustion. The next age proved still more disastrous. The race of the Hunyadis, who in the preceding century had struck terror into the hearts of the Ottomans, had disappeared; the weak princes that ruled after them perished among the carnage of battle, to leave the crown of St. Stephen vacant, and to open a way for the Hapsburgs to the Hungarian throne. At this juncture, coinciding with the great religious movement in Germany, which was rapidly spreading to the banks of the Theiss, the position of Hungary became more desperate than ever, although the events that followed far surpassed the gloomiest anticipations. While the majority of the people chose a native for their king, a part of the aristocracy declared for Ferdinand of Austria. The rival kings, unable to vanquish each other, called in to their aid the two most powerful monarchs of Europe. The former invoked the assistance of Solyman the Great; Ferdinand found a willing ally in his brother, Charles V. Thus it happened that, till the beginning of the eighteenth century, Hungary presented the aspect of a vast camp, exposed to the insolence of foreign mercenaries and the tyranny of the Hapsburg emperors, and at once protected and laid waste by its allies the Turks. Unfortunately, the Mussulman military colonies, which subsisted in Hungary from the time of Solyman to Achmet III., while adding to the distress of the people continually menaced by famine even during the years of temporary peace, were more ignorant than those whom they affected to protect, and therefore failed to produce on the Hungarians those effects which the Moors, in circumstances somewhat similar, had wrought upon the Spaniards. Nor is anything now left to call to mind the presence of the Turks in Hungary, except a few words that slipped into the Hungarian language.

The state of the country in the eighteenth century, somewhat relieved by the reign of Maria Theresa, was, after such a long series of calamities, not much calculated to foster the cultivation of science and poetry; nor did any fresh symptoms of the national life spring clearly into view before the beginning of the present century. True, that even amid the storms of the past generations, there appeared from time to time writers, whose names survive to the present day. But, with a few exceptions, chiefly in the department of poetry, all the works of that time were but insipid imitations which aspired to be thought original, but were little fitted either to please or to instruct.

After such a gloomy past as has been here shortly described, it will seem very natural, that with the awakening of the national mind the career of literature, suddenly interrupted by the late war, should be bold, steadily progressive, and triumphant, despite the narrow and contemptible canons of censors. As to prose fiction, it must be observed that it is of quite recent growth. The beginning of this species of composition was made about fifteen years ago by Baron Nicholaus Josika, who soon found successful rivals in Kuthy and Baron Eötvös. Jokai, who is now the favourite of the public, belongs, as has been already observed, to the younger staff of writers.

It would be a mistake to imagine, from the Eastern origin of the Magyars, that the tales and romances to be found in the Hungarian language bear any resemblance to the Arabian Nights, or the familiar poetry of the East in general. None of the writers above mentioned carries the reader to fairy realms, and superhuman characters. In plot, tendency, and execution, Hungarian prose fiction is identified with the modern novel of the rest of Europe—deriving, withal, its most pleasing characteristics from the peculiar features of Hungarian life and history, as well as from the native idiom, which differs entirely in its figures, and many of its expressions, from the other cultivated languages. It must, however, here be added, that the more the time approached to the great catastrophe, the more the general literature partook of a political character—a circumstance attributable to the censorship, which did not allow political questions to be discussed in their proper place. The novel or romance writer, not being so suspicious to the censor as the politician, often intermingled his love scenes and adventures with single touches, unfinished periods, and marks of exclamation, which escaped the vigilance and attention of the scissors-holder, but were only too well understood by those to whom they were addressed. Even the literary journals, sternly interdicted from meddling with politics, swarmed with allusions to the questions of the day; and while tending to cultivate the taste of the public, their usefulness was greater than might have been expected in rearing new labourers for the field of literature. In the presence of a public eminently conservative as regards book buying, not a tenth part of the more highly gifted youth would have gone farther than the composing of some slight specimens while at college, had it not been for the encouragement given by three weekly journals. The first of these periodicals, entitled the Honderu, was started by Lazarus Horvath, a gentleman who had travelled much in Europe, and was familiar with high life, and who is known as the unsuccessful translator of Childe Harold. The two other journals, started afterwards, were conducted by Frankenburg and Vachot. It was through the medium of these latter papers that the young bard Petöfi sent forth his wild, touching strains, and that Jokai, his intimate friend, became gradually known, when the unexpected events of 1848 changed the face of the whole country. Disastrous civil feuds, commenced on the one hand by the Slavonic population in the south of Hungary, and on the other by the Wallachians or Roumins in Transylvania, were followed by a desolating general war; and for nearly two years nothing was heard but the din of arms. Two or three daily papers alone testified that literary life was not yet extinct in the nation. As almost every one did who felt in any way capable of serving his country, Jokai followed the Government (obliged to abandon the capital to the Austrians in the beginning of 1849) to the town of Debreczin, on the other side of the Theiss, where he conducted for a short time a small political Journal. The rapid progress of the Hungarian arms in the same year, followed by the Russian invasion, was, as the reader may be aware, suddenly converted into a most disastrous defeat. The subjugated country was handed over to General Haynau; the nationality of its people was destroyed, and its noblest defenders fled into other lands, or awaited certain death in their own. The country people, struck with fear and amazement, confined themselves in sombre silence to their homes, which were filled with disguised literati, and other classes of delinquents; the different races of the population, their hands yet wet with blood, gazed confusedly on the ruins of their own working; the streets of Pesth, the gay capital, were deserted, and the single voice that broke the deep silence was that which pronounced in its official organ sentences of death, imprisonment, and confiscation. In such a state the country continued for several months, when even Haynau, a few days before being removed from his post, began to loathe his work, and to sign pardons as carelessly as he had hitherto subscribed sentences of death. It was at that juncture that a few straggling literati, gradually assembling at Pesth, commenced to issue a literary periodical, to which Jokai largely contributed. The press, it must be observed, was placed under the control of the police, established on an Austrian model. The head and chief members of the police belonging to the other parts of the Austrian empire, and totally ignorant of the Hungarian language, were naturally obliged to employ some natives to peruse the literary productions and translate their contents; after due consideration of these, the verdict was passed. The consequence of such a state of things was, that very frequently a single seemingly portentous phrase, or even the mere title, doomed to oblivion the most innocent work of the brain, while more substantial writing was allowed to make its way into the country, and frequently to be again prohibited, after having become familiar to thousands.

Most of the sketches contained in this volume, and which Jokai wrote under the name of Sajo, underwent this fate. The latest production of Jokai's pen is a novel entitled The Magyar Nabob, which is highly praised. His strictly historical pieces, depicting scenes of the civil war, though recalling the more vividly to mind the dreary and not yet forgotten past, were most eagerly read in Hungary; nor will the English reader peruse without deep emotion the fate of the Bardy family, contained in this volume.

Within the last two years, the state of literature in Hungary, if judged by the number of new books published, appears astonishingly progressive. The chief reason of this phenomenon may be found in the denationalizing measures of the Government, attempting to suppress the national idiom by excluding it from the public schools, and substituting in its place the German—a policy attempted without success by Joseph II. about the end of the last century.

That the people—though now perhaps more willing than ever to give their full support to literature—are inclined to look with some suspicion at the productions of a press in the hands of foreign authorities, and that many branches of a more serious nature than novel-writing must remain excluded from the sphere of literary activity in a country subjected to martial law, need hardly be remarked.

Besides, some of the more prominent and elder authors still persevere in their sad mournful silence, while others have sunk from a state of patriotic gloom into mental imbecility. But whatever shape Hungarian literature may henceforth assume, it is undoubtedly true that much that has issued within the last few years from the Hungarian press is worth translating; and I believe that the present volume, presented in a faithful and easy translation, and likely to be soon followed by several others of a similar class, will be found to introduce the English reader to scenes hitherto undescribed, and to characters as interesting as unusual.

Emeric Szabad.

HUNGARIAN SKETCHES.

DEAR RELATIONS.

One evening, towards the end of summer, my uncle, Lorincz Kassay, the sub-sheriff of the county, was seated on a bench before his porte-cochère, which stood wide open, without bar or gate, as beseemed the entrance to the house of an hospitable Hungarian gentleman.

True, half a dozen dogs, nearly as large as bears, were lying lazily about the court, and might have rendered the entrance embarrassing to persons of hostile intention; but as for strangers in general, these honest guards were too well accustomed to see them treated as the angels were by Abraham, to take any further notice than by a friendly bark, and a slow shake of the tail.

Uncle Lorincz Kassay sat enjoying his pipe, and calling across the road to his assistant, who was likewise seated at the door of his house, enveloped in the same comfortable fumes. The conversation might have been carried on with more facility had one of these worthy gentlemen crossed to the other side—the road being wide, and a stentorian voice necessary to make one's-self understood—but the mud lay so deep between the two houses, that it was severe work for carts and carriages to get through; and when it was absolutely necessary to cross the road, the passenger was obliged to make a considerable circuit, by the garden and meadow, holding on by the rail, besides returning the same way: consequently Uncle Lorincz and his ally found it less troublesome, and more convenient on the whole, to exert their lungs in the manner above mentioned.

Meanwhile my readers may be curious to learn how I am related to this worthy gentleman; but this indeed I cannot tell. I only know that he is called by all who know him Lorincz Kassay, bacsi;[1] and I would advise my friends likewise to adopt him as such, for he is a thoroughly honest and honourable country gentleman, and will never give them cause to blush at his name. Let us keep up the good old Magyar custom of calling our elders by the familiar titles of uncle and aunt, while we are privileged to those of nephews and nieces.

[1] Bacsi, contraction for batya—"elder brother," or "uncle."

Uncle Lorincz belonged to that medium class whose duty is to manage the laws and rights of the people, keep up their national prerogatives, look after their interests, in short, to labour without noise or fame,—a man of whom neither history nor poets speak, for the upright and honourable man is not so rare a character among us as to render it necessary to emblazon his name in history; and what could a poet make of an honest man who has neither romance enough to carry off his neighbour's wife, nor to shoot his best friend through the head for looking askance at him? Such a man as Uncle Lorincz, for instance, who comes into the world without the aid of star or horoscope, grows up without becoming a virtuoso on the piano, goes through his classes satisfactorily, and without occasioning any mutiny, and, finally, returns like a dutiful son to his parents, who assist him to look out for a good wife, whom he marries without any poetical occurrences; and who, when his parents are gathered to their fathers, inherits their blessing and their property unencumbered by debt—for this class of our countrymen consider debt as a species of crime; their principle being that an honest man should not spend more than his income. This principle had taken such root in Uncle Kassay's mind, that, rather than run up an account at the shoemaker's, he has been known, in his scholar days, to feign illness and keep his room, when his boots needed mending, until the necessary money arrived from home; and the same sense of honour, combined with the most lavish hospitality, characterized him through life.

Having been directly called upon by the county, he had accepted the situation of szolgabiro or sheriff—which the Hungarian takes upon himself ex nobili officio—from a generous sense of duty, rather than for the lucrative advantages attached to it, which by no means compensate for the dinners he is obliged to give; but he readily makes a sacrifice for the honour of the employment, and the confidence of the people in that incorruptible conscience which is chosen as the earthly providence of an entire district, to keep order and administer justice among twenty or thirty thousand people.

At the time our story commences, Lorincz and his worthy assistant were actually discussing some affair of great moment across the road, when their attention was attracted by shrill voices, and, looking in the direction of the sounds, they perceived a conveyance which it will be worth while to describe at length, as such things are not to be met with every day, particularly now that railroads are making so great innovations in our old habits and fashions.

It was a gentleman's calèche; the leather was somewhat spotted and gray, which may be easily accounted for, however, by the continual roosting of poultry on its roof. When or where the machinery had been contrived, it would be impossible to decide, for, according to historical date, suspended calèches existed in the days of Lajos I. The form of the body might be compared to a water-melon cut in half, which body was so convulsed by its four high springs at each irregularity of the road, that the tongues within ran the risk of being severed in twain when they attempted to speak, while their owners would certainly have been pitched out, had they not held well on by the sides. It was as impossible to open the doors as it was to shut them, for which reason they were permanently secured by well-knotted ropes. Above the two hinder wheels a large bundle of straw was attached, which threatened at every jerk to light on the heads of the inmates. Before this worthy ancestral memorial three very quiet horses were attached, a pie-bald, a bay, and a white, all three up to their ears in mud, and assisting one another with their shaggy tails to whip the reins out of the coachman's hand, while their hides exhibited various graphic traces of the whip.

In truth, the noble animals did not lack good-will, but only the necessary capabilities for the station they now filled, being honest cart-horses, neither born nor bred to draw an iron-springed calèche; and, sensible no doubt of their inability, they paused every ten minutes to draw breath instead, and to regard each other with doleful expressions.

On one of these occasions—namely, when the horses paused, and did not seem disposed to proceed further—one of the four individuals inside thrust forth a head, and called in a shrill voice to the coachman to stop.

The voice proceeded from one of the fair sex, whom we cannot at present describe, as the shawls and mufflers in which she was enveloped only permitted a glimpse of her respectable nose to be seen; three other individuals filled the vehicle. Beside the lady sat a figure in a fur mantle, whose only visible points were a vast beard and a meerschaum pipe, the bowl of which must have been guarded by some singular providence, from having its neck broken at every jolt of the carriage.

Opposite to mamma sat a hopeful sprig, whose head was so well thrust into his lambskin cap, that only two scarlet ears protruded to view, turning and perking with unwearied scrutiny to suit their owner's curiosity. The last place was occupied by a smaller boy, whose large wondering eyes were fixed on the muddy world around, and whose legs and feet coming constantly in contact with those of the gentleman opposite, obliged the latter to draw up in the most inconvenient manner possible.

The horses having again paused, the lady, working her way with great exertions through various cloaks and mufflers, called to the coachman as before to stop, and, addressing one of the bystanders, who stood gaping at the carriage, asked various questions relative to the position of Mr. Lorincz Kassay's house; and having received satisfactory answers, she once more muffled herself in her wrappings, and desired Marczi to proceed; on which he gave a lash to one horse, and the half-turned pole giving a blow to the second, the third took the hint, and they all three began to move, and proceeded in order for a few minutes, until they arrived in the village, where they once more paused and hung their heads, while the lady, for the third time, called to Marczi to stop, fixing as usual on some person whom she wished to address.

This time, the gentleman of the fur cloak and meerschaum pipe, losing all patience, cried out, "Zsuzsi, my dear, why the tartar are you calling to Marczi again, when the plague is our having to stop so often?"

"Cannot you see, you thick-skull?" rejoined the fair lady sharply, "that is just the reason I call to him to stop, that folks may not see we cannot get on!"

Fortunately the last person addressed happened to be the sheriff's footman, who offered to conduct them to the house, desiring the coachman to follow, which was easy to say, but not so easy to put in execution, until the good steeds had recovered breath in due time.

Meanwhile, Uncle Lorincz, observing that the carriage was coming to his house, blew the embers out of his pipe, and arranging his beard in two points, advanced to meet his guests. After a good deal of labour, the vehicle at length struggled into the court, and, unfortunately, in the confusion occasioned by the general efforts to rise from the heaps of wrappings, the good man managed to tread on some sensitive member of his wife's foot. She returned the compliment with a thrust from her elbow, which caused him to stumble, thereby bringing the hot bowl of his pipe in contact with the face of his youngest boy, who, uttering a cry of pain, raised both hands to protect his face, at the same time striking up the pipe, which broke between the old gentleman's teeth.

"Which of you did that?" cried he furiously, pulling the piece out of his mouth, and raising his hand threateningly over the heads of the youngsters. But before the stroke of chastisement could be administered, Marczi, throwing back his muddy coat, directed it so skilfully as to fall right over the boys' heads, filling the eyes of the whole party with dust and mud; and in the confusion of this unexpected attack, the delinquent thought fit to make his escape as best he could out of the carriage, smearing his clean white trousers with the wheels. All these accidents took place in a much shorter period than I have taken to describe them.

The sub-sheriff, his footman, and other retainers, had now come up to the assistance of the travellers, and after many ineffectual efforts to open the carriage doors, they were obliged to give up that point, and lift out the inmates like so many bundles.

The noise had brought down the lady of the mansion, who waited at the foot of the stairs to welcome her guests. She was a comely little round-faced woman, attired in a simple but well-made costume, to which the small flounced apron and blue-ribbon cap gave an air of coquettish smartness. She held by the hand a little, dark-eyed, strawberry-lipped maiden of about six years old, who, half hiding behind her mother's dress, looked like an amourette preparing to take aim.

The travellers being at last safely landed, the lady advanced to Uncle Lorincz with an air of amiable confidence, and began a formal introduction.

"Dear and worthy cousin, I have the pleasure of presenting to you in my own person Susanna Sajtari, a cousin on the maternal side; being en route, we could not think of passing our dear cousin's house."

"Welcome, welcome; God bless you!" cried Uncle Lorincz, saluting the lady with several hearty kisses on each cheek. "I am overjoyed at this unexpected happiness; pray come in, the servants will carry up everything directly."

"Allow me to present my husband," began the lady.

"Whist! don't tell my name," interrupted the gentleman in the fur cloak; "let me see if my dear cousin remembers me," and laughing heartily, he seized both of Uncle Lorincz's hands, and waited for him to remember.

It was rather an embarrassing situation for Uncle Lorincz, who had not the slightest recollection of ever having seen his dear cousin before.

"Pooh! how can he recognise you in that cap?" cried his faithful partner, snatching from her husband's head the prodigious two-eared fur cap, and exposing a good-natured countenance, with a large, bald forehead, and features which we meet in a thousand faces, without ever distinguishing one from the other.

"Ay, do you know me now?" asked the worthy gentleman in a tone of confidence.

Uncle Lorincz blushed to the ears, and would have given his best meerschaum to have been helped out of the unpleasant dilemma.

"Oh! certainly, I remember—quite well," he replied, rubbing his forehead with the tip of his forefinger; "perfectly remember; only the name will not come into my head."

"Well, do you remember when we sat together at the Gyor elections in 1830?"

"Exactly, the name is on the tip of my tongue."

Among the four thousand people who had assembled for the Raab elections ten years before, it would have been difficult to recall the features of one in particular.

"Well, I am that Menyhert Gulyas"—

"Gulyasi!—exactly, so you are! Welcome with all my heart!" cried Uncle Lorincz, much relieved at being at length freed from such a tax on his memory, although not a bit the wiser even after hearing the name.

"And these are my two sons, Sandor and Peter," continued the worthy lady. "Go and kiss your aunt's hand, boys."

Sandor and Peter rushed forward in obedience to their mother's command; the younger succeeded in taking possession of his aunt's hand, which he fervently pressed against lips and nose, while she slily put the other behind her back.

"You are too old to kiss hands, my dear nephew," she said, at the same time proffering her cheek to Sandor, who was so embarrassed at the idea of kissing his aunt, that he scarcely knew what he was about; and, after the ceremony, was thrown into such a tremor, that he trode successively on his father's, mother's, and brother's toes.

The great house-dogs now approached to take their part in the patriarchal reception, thrusting in their cold noses, and licking the hands of the guests. And here we must observe, the house-dog is an infallible index of his master's character. Where the great fellow comes forward with marks of affection, you are always sure of a hearty welcome; but where, on the contrary, he lies still and growls, you may expect the question: "When will you be pleased to continue your route?"

Having entered the hall, the compliments were renewed, according to the Hungarian fashion: "Hozta Isten (God has brought you); receive us into your good graces," &c. &c. Bundas and pelisses, shawls and kerchiefs, began to unwind from the persons of the travellers, and by degrees each assumed his natural form.

The worthy father of the family was a simple, good-natured looking man of about fifty, though the blackness of his teeth, caused by incessant smoking, made him look considerably older. An amiable grin played on his large, good-humoured countenance, while the colour which bloomed on his cheeks might have still passed for that of the spring-time of life, had not the deeper tint in his nose told more of autumn, and the good red grape.

He wore a green dolmany, descending to the knees, with broad braid, and oval buttons; and, standing with his hands behind his back, and his two spurred feet apart, he looked round on the company with a good-natured smile.

His worthy partner was a short, spare figure, with a tolerably good-looking face, the most remarkable feature of which was the nose. This nose could be turned up or down, and twisted right and left, at its owner's inclination, to suit the pleasure or displeasure she desired to express; and the family had learned to interpret its various evolutions so well, that in strange company their eyes were constantly fixed upon it, as the steersman's on the prow; and good Mr. Menyhert Gulyasi has been observed, on more than one occasion, to stop short in the midst of his speech at some sudden contortion of the leading feature of his better half.

Nephew Sandor was a long strip of a youth, with smooth, puffy cheeks, and a snub nose. Nature had amply provided him with hands and feet, of which he seemed painfully aware; for he kept the former in perpetual motion, as if endeavouring to get rid of them, while the latter had a peculiar call for stumbling over and treading on everything they came in contact with.

The smaller boy never left his mother's side, holding fast by her dress—finding it at the same time a convenient place of refuge for his nose.

When the guests were made tolerably comfortable, and their hosts had sufficiently insisted on their considering themselves at home, the lady of the house disappeared for a few minutes to give some hasty orders in the kitchen, to the execution of which, sudden cacklings of various feathered tribes in the court-yard bore conclusive testimony.

When she returned, Uncle Lorincz invited Menyhert and nephew Sandor to his own sitting-room, to smoke a pipe with him. Before reaching the apartment, however, it was necessary to pass through several doors, at each of which a scuffle ensued with nephew Sandor, who could not be prevailed on to enter before Uncle Lorincz. There was a cheerful fire in the open stove, with a large wood-basket beside it; comfortable arm-chairs were ranged around, and the pipe-stand stood forth invitingly with its many silver-covered meerschaums.

"Pray sit down," said Uncle Kassay, rolling out the arm-chairs, and showing his guests a good example.

Gulyasi seated himself opposite; but Sandor could by no means think of such a thing.

"He is not accustomed to much sitting," observed his father.

"Well, well, let him do as he likes," said Uncle Lorincz, leaving him to stand like a propping-post against the wall; for he was not aware that our nephew required to have the chair pulled under him, and to be forcibly pushed into it, before his modesty would allow him to accept such an offer.

"Take a pipe," said Uncle Lorincz, handing to him the tobacco-bag. The youth declined.

"Much obliged," said his father for him; "Sandor does not smoke." He did smoke, however; but was too well brought up to let strangers see that he knew anything of the comforts of life.

Uncle Lorincz and his guest were soon engaged in an interesting conversation, by which it appeared that Menyhert had his own ideas, and ventured to express them too, in the absence of his better half, and uninfluenced by the motions of her nose.

He declared, in the first place, that it would be much more prudent to make steam-horses to draw boats instead of steam-boats, and there would be no risk of the boats being blown up if the boiler burst. Then he remarked that it would be advisable to propose at the next Diet a prohibition of the cultivation of potatoes, as the increase of this article in the market would be highly prejudicial to the growth and sale of wheat.

Then he uttered imprecations against the new system of pasturage, by which Government proposed introducing sheep instead of the great studs which had hitherto been kept on the heaths; "so that in case of war," continued the worthy gentleman, "the noblemen would be obliged to ride on sheep-back."

Finally, he expressed his opinion that the rising generation should be interdicted the use of mantles, as the students were in the habit of concealing their violins beneath them, and amusing themselves at the public houses, dancing and fiddling, to the neglect of their studies, thereby making this garment a cloak to all bad morals.

A loud "Ha, ha, ha! he, he, he!" suddenly broke forth from the corner in which Sandor was standing. Both gentlemen turned to see what was the matter.

"Father's shadow on the wall is so funny when he speaks!" exclaimed the youth, holding both hands over his mouth to restrain his laughter.

"Perhaps you are cold, nephew, as you are standing with your back against the stove?" said Uncle Lorincz, fearing that Menyhert was about to reprove his hopeful son. "Come, my boy, you will never get a wife if the girls catch you standing behind the stove."

"That would be a sad story," said the father, making grimaces to his son; "for we are now en route to get a wife for him."

"The tartar!" exclaimed Uncle Lorincz, turning to the stripling with interest; "so we have a bridegroom here! come, man, let us look at you a little nearer."

But it would have required a large pair of tongs to draw our nephew from behind the stove.

"And what does the young man say to the prospect of a fireside of his own? and who is the chosen fair one?" asked Uncle Lorincz.

Menyhert crossed his legs and looked up to the ceiling, as he was wont to do when discussing matters of weight. "Well, the girl is no other than Carolina Berkessy, the only child of my worthy friend, Gabor Berkessy, pronotarius of the county of Csongrad; her father promised her to my eldest son, when she was still in the cradle."

"Well, all I can say is, she is a very fine girl," replied Uncle Lorincz; "a very fine family altogether, and not a thing to be rejected, if he gives his consent."

"Gives his consent!" cried Menyhert, not without some offence; "and why should he withhold his consent?"

"Why, only because my nephew is rather young—that's all," replied Uncle Lorincz.

"What of that?" said his father proudly; "he has sense enough: I will venture to say that in any company. He attained eminence in every department at school—But what the tartar smells so strong? You are singeing your coat, boy! I desired you not to lean against the stove."

Sandor lifted up one of the flaps of his coat, in which a large hole was already burned.

"Sit down, you ass!" said Menyhert to his accomplished son, who eyed the damage, as if considering how to get it washed out.

Uncle Lorincz, seeing that the conversation was taking rather an unparliamentary turn, endeavoured to revive the former subject. "And probably my nephew has passed his examination too?" he asked.

"And with great credit," replied his father, forgetting the burnt coat; "that severe G——, who puzzled all the young men, was an examiner. Tell us what he asked you, Sandor; come, say it off."

Sandor was quite ready to say it all off, but he required to be pressed.

"Well: Quomodo"—

But at that instant the wood-basket swallowed up our nephew, who had sat down upon it, and, unfortunately, not having been intended for such service, the lid had broken under him, and he disappeared inside, with the exception of his hands and feet, which still remained without.

At this sight Uncle Lorincz could no longer contain himself, but burst into such a hearty laugh that he almost rolled off his chair. Happily, by dint of struggling, the basket overturned, and Sandor succeeded with some difficulty in creeping forth.

His father, having first looked to see that no bones were broken, prepared to make a terrible explosion; and it is impossible to say how the affair might have ended, had not the footman entered to announce that supper was ready.

Meanwhile Aunt Zsuzsi had also initiated her hostess in the mysteries of their journey, with all its circumstances, and various innocent additions, such as, that her son Sandor had attained the highest honours, and that all the girls in their neighbourhood were desperately in love with him, although he never looked at one of them, considering it his duty only to fall in love with whoever his parents should choose for him, and so forth. This interesting conversation was suddenly interrupted by loud cries issuing from the nursery; and little Klarika appeared, sobbing out that Peterke had first twisted her doll's neck, and then threatened to strike her.

"You naughty boy!" said mamma, as the little urchin came sliding in behind, "where shall I find a rod to punish you with? Is this the way you behave in your aunt's house? Come here, directly."

Peterke not only would not come out, but retreated under the bed, looking out from below at dear mamma, and neither threats nor entreaties could prevail on him to quit his position. Supper was now announced.

"Just stay where you are," said mamma, "and I shall lock the door till we return from supper."

The head of the family having entered with his guests, the whole party proceeded to supper, with the exception of little Peterke, and took their places round the table, which latter ceremony, however, did not take place without a good deal of trouble, each person paying compliments to his neighbour, during which the lady of the house was obliged to use force to make her guest sit at the head of the table; while a complete struggle took place at the opposite side between Uncle Lorincz and Sandor; the former, however, being the stronger of the two, at last succeeding in placing our nephew beside him.

"You must learn, my dear boy," said Uncle Lorincz, "what the high sheriff of Bihar taught me while I was his clerk; when I was invited to my principal's table, and I too pleaded for the lowest place—'Just sit down where you like,' said the excellent man, 'and rest assured, wherever that is, it will always be the lowest place.'"

When a blessing had been asked, the savoury gulyas hus[2] was brought round, the very name of which, even on paper, seems to emit that delicious flavour which every Hungarian housewife knows so well to give it.

[2] A favourite national dish. It is a stew or hash of beef, with onions and red pepper, and other spices.

After the gulyas came the fogas;[3] fortunately the footman carried it round, otherwise the company would have been obliged to draw lots who should be helped first. When it came to Sandor's turn, he declined, to the surprise of every body.

[3] A fish said to be peculiar to the Balaton or Platten Lake in Hungary, and to the Black Sea and the Wolga. It is the Perca Lucioperca.

"You don't eat fogas?" said Uncle Lorincz, opening his eyes wide.

"Thank you," replied his father for him; "he eats very little in general."

"Hm! perhaps the boy is particular," thought Uncle Lorincz.—"Well, there may be something else which he will be able to eat."

Then came a dish of good turos galuska,[4] the crisp pastry smiling from out of the rich curds and cream, and still hissing on the dish.

[4] Balls of pastry in curds.

"You will eat some of this?" said Uncle Lorincz, turning to his neighbour, as the dish came round.

"I thank you, I am not hungry; and I have a little headache."

But our nephew was as hungry as anybody else, and had not the slightest headache. The fact was, he was not accustomed to eat till after he had been pressed a dozen times, and his plate filled perforce.

For once, however, there was short work with our nephew's customs; for Uncle Lorincz, believing what he said, sent on the good turos galuska with a sigh, admitting it was certainly no cure for a headache; and consequently Sandor was obliged to keep up the farce during the whole time of dinner, while his eyes were actually starting from his head with hunger.

"Drink something, at least, if you do not eat—it will do your headache good," said Uncle Lorincz, taking up the good Eger[5] wine. But Sandor would never have forgiven himself had he not snatched aside his glass as Uncle Lorincz was in the act of pouring out the wine.

[5] From Eger or Erlau, a town between Pesth and Tokay.

"Much obliged," said his father, "but he does not drink wine."

"The tartar! he does not!" exclaimed Uncle Lorincz; "well, he is a rare child—neither eats, drinks, nor smokes! why, he will be a millionnaire! I am heartily sorry that you have got a wife for him already; otherwise I should have asked you to wait until my girl is marriageable."

Meanwhile there was another individual who followed quite a different course from that of nephew Sandor, and that was little Peterke.

Finding himself locked in, he first only pettishly came out from his stronghold, waiting for some one to coax him to come to dinner; but, finding that the door was locked, and that knives and forks were actually clattering without him, he took it quite to heart, and began calling to mamma to let him out.

"Never mind him, let him cry," said mamma, who found this little episode highly interesting. But the kindly Klarika, when she thought nobody was observing, hastily concealed a turkey's pinion and a large piece of apple-tart, and ran off with them to the nursery—contenting herself with this generous revenge for the havoc done to her playthings. On this the little urchin became quiet.

When supper was over, the mutual compliments were repeated, during which Sandor took an opportunity of thrusting into his pocket a roll of bread, which he had not ventured to touch at dinner.

Aunt Zsuzsi now opened the door with great solemnity, to release the little delinquent, whom they found dancing about with greasy cheeks, and holding up in triumph the remains of the turkey's leg.

"Oh, you rascal!" exclaimed mamma, catching hold of him, and wiping his cheeks; "go directly and kiss your aunt's hand, and beg her pardon for being so rude."

Peterke slid over, drawing his mouth and nose to one side, as if he expected that the hand he was ordered to kiss was preparing to give him a box in the ear; and it was only on being convinced of the contrary that he resumed his former confidence, and ventured to ask for another piece of apple-tart, on receiving which he had the complaisance to show the company, by way of a return, how a large piece of pastry might be crammed into two cheeks.

Who was enduring greater torment than our nephew Sandor all this time? Hungry as a wolf, with only a small white roll in his pocket—and how to eat it! Wherever he went, he was sure to be seen; his only resource was to wait till everybody went to bed, and then eat it in the dark; but the two gentlemen, meanwhile, got so deeply engaged in conversation, that there was no saying when it might end.

At last he summoned up courage to say he would go out a little, and walk in the garden.

"In the garden!" repeated Uncle Lorincz; "why, it is quite dark, and the mud is very deep."

"I will sit upon a bench."

"That will be a fine walk—ha, ha, ha!"

"Perhaps the air would do my head good."

"Well, do as you like, my boy; you are at home here."

Sandor, finding himself at liberty, descended to the garden in great delight. Just below the back window of Uncle Lorincz's apartment, which looked out upon the garden, stood a winter pear. Uncle Lorincz thought he heard this tree shaking, and going to the window, he could distinguish our nephew pulling the unripe pears, and cramming them into his mouth.

"Well, he is a strange youth!" thought Uncle Lorincz, as he returned to his seat.

Before retiring for the night, the guests took leave of their kind hosts—declaring that they must set out at break of day, and would not disturb them—after which they were conducted to their apartments, and soon lay buried in the great down feather-beds and snow-white pillows, with their neat laced and ribboned covers. The coachman had been desired to harness the horses at four o'clock, and not to awake anybody; but when our provident guests rose in the morning, they found the whole household on foot, and a comfortable breakfast prepared, of coffee, rolls, cold meat, and plum brandy. This time, Uncle Lorincz gave his bashful nephew no peace until he had actually forced down his throat all that was eatable and drinkable—seeing that he was in the habit of being thus treated. When breakfast was over, there was a mutual interchange of affectionate speeches, and Uncle Lorincz once more packed up his guests in their cloaks and furs, thrusting a long cylindrical bottle of plum-brandy into Uncle Menyhert's pocket, while his wife put a large, fresh-baked cake into Aunt Zsuzsi's hand, and little Klarika provided the young Sphinx with an ample supply of cold pastry; and after exacting from their guests a promise to visit them again on their return, they all took leave—Uncle Lorincz accompanying them a few miles on horseback, to point out the best road across the plains.

And now we must beg our readers to draw on their three-leagued boots, and step into the neighbouring county. Here, too, the roads lie deep in mud; for the rain continues during seven weeks in these districts, as it does in the East Indies. Here, too, are villages on the highroad, and houses with open doors, and travellers hastening towards them. But now it is question of a house whose doors are shut, and of travellers who do not stick in the mud.

A handsome carriage, drawn by four spirited grays, was driven by a young gentleman, while the smart-liveried coachman sat beside him.

The youth was slightly flushed with the exercise: he wore a low-crowned hat, and light summer dolmany, while his embroidered fur cloak lay across the seat. Guiding the horses dexterously over the difficult roads and rickety bridges, he finally turned aside about half way through the village, and drove rapidly towards a dilapidated house, before which he was obliged to rein up his horses, as the porte-cochère was closed.

"Hej! ho!" cried the coachman, leaping from the box, and knocking at the door.

"Go in at the side-door, and open the porte-cochère yourself, Matyi; but take the whip with you, or else the dogs will tear you to pieces."

The coachman did as he was desired. No sooner had he reached the court, than a terrible encounter took place between the dogs and Matyi, who swore and lashed away with his whip until he had succeeded in opening the gate.

The tumult brought out a buxom dame, whose appearance betokened somewhat more than a cook, and somewhat less than the lady of the house. Standing at the entrance, with her arms a-kimbo, she exclaimed in a sharp, shrill voice: "What diabolical noise is this, I should like to know? are the Turks or the French coming, eh?"

Meanwhile, Matyi having opened the porte-cochère, the carriage drove into the gateway; and the young man, leaping from the box, and throwing the reins to the coachman, stepped up to the dame, who eyed him askance, with an expression of dried plums, as if doing her best to make herself as disagreeable as possible to the new-comers.

"Ah! my sweet Boriska," said the young man gaily, "how handsome you have grown since we last met! I thought you were to be married that carnival; but I suppose it was premature, eh?"

"Well, you have grown ugly enough yourself, Master Karely, since I saw you last: you were a pretty child, but I should not have known you again."

"Thank you, Boriska, dear. Is my uncle at home?"

"Where else should he be?"

"Because I have come to see him, with my mother and sister."

"What! are they here too?" said the dame, fixing her sharp eyes on the carriage, like a two-pronged fork. "Well, I can't understand how folks can leave home, and wander abroad for weeks."

"Call my uncle, there's a dear girl, and you can help one another to scold."

The beauty cast another sour glance at the vehicle, and disappeared into the kitchen. Karely, meanwhile, opened the carriage door, and the mud being deep in the gateway, he lifted out the two ladies in his arms. One was his mother—a calm, ladylike person about forty, with a sweet, melancholy expression: the other was his sister—a merry, mischievous looking little fay of about twelve, with bright sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, and a constant smile on the never-closed lips.

"Welcome kindly! We will not wait for them," said Karely, laughing, as he lifted them out and opened the door, which Boriska had shut behind her.

Our readers having had a slight glance at the travellers, I must inform them that the lady who has just arrived is Mrs. Erzsebet Hamvasi, sister of Abraham Hamvasi, to whose house they have come, and which had been left equally to the lady and her brother by their parents—although Erzsebet Hamvasi, subsequently Tallyai, had left her brother in undisturbed possession, only desiring an occasional reception when en route.

As Karely opened the door, Boriska appeared at the farther end of the room, calling into the stove: "Come out; you have guests here." To which a voice from within responded: "Let them wait." After a few minutes, a door opened behind the stove, and a man of spare bent figure advanced towards the travellers. His face was disfigured by small-pox, and rendered grotesque by a pair of stiff gray moustaches, which grew straight forward from under the nose, leaving only the extremities of the lips visible, and giving him very much the appearance of an otter. He wore an old stuff coat—too cool for winter and too warm for summer—the sleeves of which were turned up to the elbow; for he had just come out of the stove, which he had been plastering, and both hands were covered with mortar.

To judge by his countenance, he certainly did not seem endeavouring to look pleased to see his dear relations; and though the lady greeted him amiably, he did not seem much inclined to open the other side of the door at which she was standing, waiting for her brother's welcome.

"What! so many of you!" he exclaimed, pushing open the door with his elbow; "where the tartar are you all going?"

The lady shook her head placedly, and pointing to her brother's dirty hands—"How now, dear brother!" she said, in a half reproachful and half jesting tone; "must you really do such work yourself?"

"It is no shame to work," replied her brother; "never trust to others what you can do yourself."

"I would kiss your hand, dear Uncle Abris, if you would put on gloves," said Karely, laughing.

"Easy enough for fine gentlemen like you to speak, but a poor man must do what he can.—Boris! bring me a bowl of water to wash my hands, for these gentle folks are ashamed to stand in the room with me."

"Dirty the dishes, indeed!" cried Boris sharply; "there is the tub."

Master Abris went and washed in the tub; then, lifting up the bed-quilt, he wiped his hands and face in the sheet, with so many grimaces, that it was evident he was undergoing an unusual penance.

The guests meanwhile entered the sitting-room. Every room has its own peculiar perfume. On entering some apartments an agreeable friendly odour, which we cannot account for, greets the sense, while others are so close and so unpleasant that we involuntarily retreat. The apartment of Uncle Abris was among the latter. The walls were soiled and daubed with pencil scrawls of several years' standing; there was a thick carpet of straw and feathers beneath the beds; the furniture was an inch deep in dust, and it was impossible to see out of the windows, which had cobwebs in every corner.

The lady sighed deeply as she entered this apartment; one could almost read on her countenance, that she was recalling brighter days, when everything in the house looked very different from what it did now.

Uncle Abris, having very coldly kissed each of the party, endeavoured to smile a little; but not succeeding, he gave it up, and his features resumed their usual hard, anxious expression.

His guests would gladly have taken off their cloaks, but where should they put them down? It would have been ruin to clean clothes to come in contact with anything in the room.

"I should like to sit down somewhere, Uncle Abris," said Sizika, looking round her with innocent scrutiny.

"Well, my dear, here are plenty of chairs, and a sofa," said Uncle Abris.

"What! may I brush off all this pretty dust?" asked Sizika roguishly. "I thought it was put here to dry."

Karely laughed; while his mother put her finger to her lips, and shook her head; and Uncle Abris answered quietly, "Dust we are, and unto dust we must return, and therefore we need not despise dust;" and, in order to strengthen the golden precept, he lifted the flaps of his coat, and, wiping three chairs for his guests, seated himself on a fourth.

The lady placed herself down opposite to her brother. One was silent, the other did not speak; and so they remained nearly an hour. Occasionally one or other would sigh deeply, "Heighho!" on which the other would reply, a quarter of an hour after, "Ay, ay!"

Karely having gone out to look at the horses, Erzsike went to the window, and, wiping one of the panes with her pocket handkerchief, tried to look through it. You must not be perplexed, dear readers, at our having first called this merry little fairy Sizika, then Erzsike; both denominations come from the same source, and there is perhaps no name in the Hungarian language which admits of so many variations to represent the various gradations from the utmost refinement to the greatest coarseness; hence the tender, caressing Siza, the gay, roguish Erzsike, the robust, noisy Erzsu, and the dirty, untidy Boske.

It never entered Uncle Abraham's head to ask his guests if they wanted anything; he only sat and sighed. Matyi, the coachman, a smart lad from Lower Hungary, now entered; he had been a csikos,[6] and was an inveterate specimen of cleverness and roguish insolence.

[6] Csikos, who take care of the horses and studs of the vast meadows or heaths, called puszta.

"Is there any hay to be sold here, sir?" he asked, saluting the master of the house.

"Hay! hay! for whom do you want hay?"

"Not for myself, sir, but for my horses—that is, not for my horses, but for my master's."

"Well, let's see; I believe I can give you a little," said Hamvasi, weighing each word, as he took the key of the barn from his pocket, and went out. The guests could hear the murmurs of Boris outside the door:—"The tartar take them all! to come to an honest man's house with four horses, just that they might devour more hay, as if two were not enough!"

Master Abraham gave the key to Matyi, making him promise not to drop any of the hay about, because it was dear; and, after watching till he had returned, he re-entered, and resumed his seat without speaking.

In a few minutes, Matyi came in again: "Where shall I find a tavern sir?"

"A tavern! what do you want a tavern for?"

"Not for the horses, sir, but for myself. I want to get a glass of wine."

"Well, I will give you one just now," said Uncle Abris, and taking the key of the cellar, he went out, desiring Matyi to wait at the entrance.

Boriska stormed and dashed about, scolding and holding forth to herself.

Scarcely had the old gentleman re-entered and silence resumed her reign, than Matyi appeared a third time: "Boriska wants to know, sir, what she shall cook for supper?"

"Supper! are you used to sup?" asked Uncle Abris, turning to his guests.

"That we are," replied Karely quickly, before his gentle mother had time to say the contrary.

Master Abris sighed deeply, rose and went into the kitchen, whence he was heard talking in a low voice to Boriska, who, on the contrary, spoke as loud as possible, so as to be heard in the next room.

"What! that beautiful fowl!—have you lost your senses? I make a fire now! there is no wood cut. Let them eat cheese, there is plenty of bread. Indeed I shall not open the pot of preserves—I can't knead puddings, I've a sore hand. I am not a cook; and why don't you keep one, if you want to turn innkeeper?"

All this was heard distinctly by the guests within. And now, for once, Uncle Abris really got into a passion, and, going out to the court, he struck down a renowned cock with the rolling-pin, and, lighting a fire himself, he set to work to pluck it, till Boriska, seeing it was in vain to oppose, snatched the cock from his hands and turned him out of the kitchen.

In about two hours the banquet was ready. The unhappy cock had been burnt to a cinder, and his bones were not harder than his flesh. The half-baked bread stuck to the knife when it was cut, and to the palate when it was chewed; and the dishes were so full of salt and cayenne that tears came into the eyes of the eaters.

The lady sat at the head of the table, and scarcely tasted anything; she sighed deeply on seeing the worm-eaten holes in her dear mother's table-linen, the well-known knives and forks loosened from their deer's-horn handles, and the old family plate all bruised and broken. What may not a man come to who has no wife to keep his house in order!

During supper Uncle Abris, having taken some wine, ventured to break the silence, and asked his sister whither she was en route.

She replied, smiling, that they were going to visit Gabor Berkessy.

"What! to that detestable man!" exclaimed Uncle Abris, somewhat under the influence of the wine.

"Why is he a detestable man?" asked Karely, half amused, half annoyed.

"Because when I was a student in Debreczen he informed upon me once for visiting a tavern. I was punished by twenty-four hours' confinement, and I have never forgotten it since."

And yet it was good thirty years ago!

"And what are you going there for, if I may ask?" continued Uncle Abris.

The lady did not answer; on which Siza took up the conversation: "We are going to look out for a wife. Mr. Berkessy has a daughter who would just suit my brother."

"Hm!" replied the old man, ungraciously looking over his shoulder at Karely; "you are still a child."

"That is just the reason we want to get him married," replied Sizike demurely. "He is a good lad, but somewhat unsteady; when he has a wife, his understanding will come. And then," she continued, "it is much better to marry young, than to grow old, and fall into the hands of some virago."

The child spoke these words with such peculiar gravity, that Karely could scarce restrain his laughter; her mother shook her head, and Uncle Abris looked as if he were sharpening his teeth to devour her.

"Hm! you know how to talk at least; can you bake bread too?"

"Oh! that I can, uncle, though I do not know that I could dress the szalonna[7] for it."

[7] Szalonna is a kind of fat which they are fond of eating with bread in this district; but the same name is applied to the wet dough which is found in badly-baked bread.

Uncle Abris saw that he was losing ground, and moved back his chair, which was a signal to the rest of the party to rise; and, after the usual ceremonies on leaving table, the guests asked to be shown to their apartments, whither Uncle Abris conducted them, giving each a candle, which he begged them to put out as soon as they went to bed.

There were rooms enough in the house, but it was melancholy to see them. Pease, maize, and onions lay in every corner; and the beds were just in the condition in which they had been left by the last occupants.

Karely went to the smaller of the two rooms which had been allotted them, and in a few minutes he was in bed.

"Dear mamma, we shall freeze here," said little Sizike, feeling the ice-cold pillows; "what shall we do?" and knocking at Karely's door, she asked if he were asleep.

"What do you want, Sizike?"

"We cannot undress here, Karely, there are no curtains on the windows."

"Well, blow out the candle."

"O dear! I am afraid in the dark!"

"Then lock the door."

"The door will not shut properly."

"Well, wait, Boske, I will get up and sleep there, and you can come here with mother," and, jumping up and out of bed, he dressed and came into the next room, putting the ladies into his.

"And now confess, Erzsu," he said, trembling with cold; "why did you cheat me out of my warm bed into this cold one?"

"Because you had warmed it already," replied Erzsike, merrily.

There is nothing gayer than the childish mirth between brother and sister. Even the mild lady laughed heartily. But it was no easy matter to get warm, even under feather beds. Such rooms attract the cold all the winter; and even in summer, if the weather is damp, one is apt to get chilled and cold. Scarcely had our travellers fallen into an uneasy sleep, than an inconsiderate cock crew loudly just under their windows.

"Karely, do you hear the ghost of the cock we ate last night?" cried Sizike, waking up.

It was out of the question trying to sleep again; and in a short time they all rose and dressed, feeling in every limb as if they had been beaten.

There is a great art in making beds. In some beds you fall asleep immediately on lying down: the pillows, which have been placed out in the sun, have still the freshness and natural heat which they have attracted; the mattresses and feather-beds are so skilfully arranged, that every limb feels at home, and on whichever side you lie, you awake on it next morning; while in others, turn which way you will, you can never find a place—now shivering, now perspiring, you try to sleep, but start up in a fright,—the woodworm gnaws and bores, the bed creaks and cracks. If at last you do fall asleep, it is to dream of robbers, and when you awake you cannot turn your head. Strange that no book has yet been written on this very necessary science!

Our travellers had still a grievous ordeal to go through, and this was breakfast. They would gladly have avoided it; but Uncle Abris gravely declared, that having fulfilled his part of the obligation—having roasted the coffee, and boiled the milk—they must not be wasted. So they all sat down; and although the coffee was a little burned, and the milk a little run, and the rolls somewhat stale, no one grumbled; but, finishing as quickly as possible, prepared to depart. The carriage then drove up, and Uncle Abraham assisted his guests into it. He now smiled in good earnest. "They are off at last, and will want nothing more"—it was easy interpreting his smile. Having kissed them all, and wished them a prosperous journey, he thought he had passed all dangers, when Matyi exclaimed: "I quite forgot to drink that glass of brandy which your honour wanted to give me."

Uncle Abris once more grew pale, and retreating into the parlour, came out with a glass about as large as a thimble.

"Is this all for me, sir?" asked Matyi, holding up the little glass in surprise; and having emptied it, he looked round, as if to say, Was there anything in it?

"Will you have half a glass more?" asked Uncle Abris, with extraordinary generosity.

"Thank you, sir," replied Matyi; "I am afraid of overturning the carriage. Bless your honour! bless you, Boriska! we shall be back again in a week."

It was lucky that the horses now set off, for the party could no longer contain their laughter. Uncle Abris and Boriska thrust their heads out of the door, and it was not until the carriage had totally disappeared from view that they ventured to return into the house.

Boris never ceased scolding all that day. "Is it for this, indeed, one has relations—that they may come and lay waste the house, while we are stinting all the year round just to stuff these locusts! The cows don't eat so much in a week as they used for their horses; and that little, saucy girl could only make bullets of the good bread, and throw it about. She will eat it some day though, I'll answer for that, the delicate dear! And then the work they gave folks!" In fine, good Mrs. Boriska summed up her complaints by declaring, that if they ever set foot in the house again she should leave it, and let Master Abris shift for himself; and then, slamming the door in his face, she left him to his solitary reflections.

Our readers are by this time aware that there is a certain Gabor Berkessy who has a marriageable daughter, to obtain whose hand two marriageable young men are hastening from different parts of the country, accompanied by their respective families, as beseemed.

We entreat our readers' patience to accompany us once more to a third county, and then we shall all hasten to Uncle Berkessy's together.

In the capital town of the county of S——, a young widow resided, called Julia Csalvari. It was the general opinion among the ill-natured gossips of this town that the fair widow was a great coquette. The fact is, that Julia, during the few years of her wedded life, had been kept very strictly by her husband—an old gentleman, who was miserly, stupid, and jealous in an equal degree; and consequently, after his death, the restrained feelings of a vivacious nature burst out the more vehemently. Her husband had left her the mistress of a considerable fortune, and thus the handsome young widow found herself surrounded by admirers, who flattered her vanity without touching her heart. She rode, gave soirées, and frequented balls, and dressed in great style; all this was enough to make her be spoken of in the capital town of S——. Besides, an old gentleman who had formerly been an assessor, who was a sort of uncle of Julia, and lived with her as protector and secretary, supplied the good neighbours with constant theme. Everything that occurred in Julia's house was repeated by him in the noble and bourgeois casinos of S——; even that she never wore the same pair of silk stockings more than once, and that she was vaccinated every year! In short, the smallest circumstances, from love-quarrels downwards, might be procured fresh-hatched every morning from Uncle Nanasy, who was thus continually getting into scrapes—at one time running the risk of being called out by one of his niece's reported admirers, while at another some discarded cavalier threatened to thrash him; and more than once he was obliged to remain at home for fear of being shot through the head. And then he had even more to endure from the fair Julia's caprice than from the dangers without. But all this did not cure the old gentleman: he still gossiped as much as he could, denied as much as he could, and bore the results with wonderful patience.

Julia's relations constantly pressed her to marry, and give up this sort of life; but Julia was little disposed to exchange her present freedom. And indeed she was so wilful and capricious, that had she preferred any one person in particular, she was quite capable of rejecting his suit, and never seeing him again, if her relations urged her to marry him. Her marriage was thus put off from year to year; as soon as anything serious began to be reported, some quarrel was sure to take place on one side or other, and not unfrequently the whole affair would pass over, while those most nearly concerned knew nothing of it.

About the time when our story commences, Uncle Nanasy entered the kitchen one afternoon to discover what was being cooked, after which he announced himself to the dame de compagnie, to ascertain in what humour his fair niece was to be found that day; and having satisfied himself on that point, he entered Julia's room, to tell her all that had been spoken of in the cafés that morning. He found her at her toilet; her maid was curling her long golden hair, while she reclined carelessly in her arm-chair and played with the silken tresses, which descended to the floor.

"Good morning, my sweet pretty little niece!" lisped Uncle Nanasy, tripping over to Julia with galopade steps, and seizing her small hand, which he covered with kisses from the wrist to the tips of the nails, exclaiming between each one: "Ah, what a dear little hand! how charming to get a box on the ear from such a soft hand! And how is my sweet little niece to-day? whose head is she going to turn with these long ringlets à l'Anglaise? Ah, you merciless Penelope! do you know that a duel took place on your account this very morning? The handsome Lajos, that dark-eyed youth, got a cut across his forehead, he, he, he!—he is a lucky man. Let me arrange this ribbon—there's a love, just through these tresses. See, is it not tastefully placed? would not Uncle Nanasy make a capital tirewoman?—he, he, he!"

Julia did not wish to laugh at all this nonsense; and turning to her maid, desired her to bring her shoes.

"No, I shall not allow anybody to bring them but myself!" cried Uncle Nanasy, holding back the maid, and running to fetch them; then, kissing them a dozen times, he placed them before her, while Julia took off her small embroidered slippers, and let Uncle Nanasy put on her satin shoes, as little embarrassed by his presence as if he had been her maid. Then rising, she continued her toilette before the Psyche; while Uncle Nanasy stood by, exclaiming, "How angelic! how lovely!" until he almost poked his chin out of joint with admiration and wonder.

"Nanasy bacsi," said Julia gravely, and still looking at herself in the mirror, "I am going to intrust you with a very serious affair, and one about which you must not gossip until it has been duly brought into execution."

"Well, my love; am I not the most trustworthy keeper of secrets?"

Julia frowned. "I am not joking, bacsi; but I tell you seriously, that if you speak of this affair to anybody before it takes place, I will tear your hair."

"Nanasy bacsi will be grateful for the favour," said the old gentleman, pulling off his peruke and holding down his head, which was as smooth as a water-melon. At this sight, the waiting-damsel burst into an immoderate fit of laughter; on which her mistress, frowning, ordered her to leave the room.

Uncle Nanasy tried every means to amuse his niece—put on his wig awry, opened his snuff-box with a variety of grimaces, performing pirouettes and courtesies of the renaissance era; but all in vain—Julia would not laugh.

When they were alone, she shut the doors, seated the old gentleman on the balzac, and standing before him—"Listen to me now, Nanasy bacsi," she began; "I am going to be married."

Nanasy bacsi became all surprise and curiosity.

"You must go to-day," she continued, "to V——, find out the high sheriff, and get me a dispensation.[8] You need not come back from there, but go straight on to Pesth, and order all that is requisite for a wedding—what that is, you know better than I do; arrange everything for this day week at the latest. I want to have it all over by that time."

[8] A dispensation is required when the marriage is not proclaimed three times in the church.

"Depend upon me, my angel—in three days all shall be ready, or you will hear that Nanasy bacsi is no more."

"You must have my bridal dress made in Pesth, within the shortest time possible."

"Depend on me, my darling; I shall employ the most celebrated milliners, Varga or Sovari—and if I do not bring the most magnificent bridal dress within a week, advertise me in the papers as a stray dog, for which the lucky finder will receive five florins!"

"Write to my relations at the same time," continued Julia, "and invite them to the ceremony on this day week; but for this you will have time enough in Pesth. I have ordered the carriage, and now you have nothing to do but to get into it and drive off."

"Yes, my dear, I understand; but what am I to say to our relations?"

"Why, what have we been talking about?—that I am going to be married!"

"Yes, but to whom?"

"Why, is it necessary to know that too?"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha! why, that is the facit of the matter."

"How odd!—well, say Kalman Sos."

"Kalman Sos—Kalman Sos; I have heard the name once before. How do you spell it—with two o's or two s's?"

"With as many as you like!"

"Who, or what is this fine young man?"

"A poet!" replied Julia, with a grave sigh.

"But what else?"

Julia stared at her uncle, partly in surprise, partly in anger, as if to say, How simple you old people are! and then, with a disdainful shrug, she replied, "Fate was generous enough, I think, in bestowing on him a rich mind, without adding a rich position too."

Nanasy bacsi did not understand this logic, but contented himself by thus filling up the rubric: Whoever he may be, actor, dancing-master, or what else, she will certainly be able to manage him.

Julia left the old man to think what he pleased, while she prepared with her own hands all that was necessary for his journey—not forgetting his shaving materials—wrote her commissions in a pocket-book, in which she placed a heap of uncounted notes, and, thrusting it into Uncle Nanasy's pocket, she assisted him to put on his great-coat and fur cloak, drew his travelling-cap over his head, and would not let him breathe until she saw him seated in the carriage, that he might have no time to betray her secret.

Nanasy bacsi, however, bursting with the importance of his mission, happened to meet one or two friends as he was passing through the town, and, thrusting his head out of the carriage, without stopping, he told the first that his niece was going to be married in a week, the second, that he was on his way for a dispensation, and the third, that he was going to Pesth for dresses and confectionary; and, in about an hour afterwards, the whole town was talking of the secret marriage, and guessing who the happy bridegroom might be—for Nanasi bacsi had not told his name, husbanding his news, like all true gossips, that he might have something new to relate when he came back.

Meanwhile, Julia returned to her room, with the placid conviction of having arranged all her affairs to satisfaction, and gave orders to her servants not to admit any person except Kalman.

In a short time the sound of steps echoed along the corridor, and Julia assumed her sweetest smiles; for our readers are no doubt aware that, under such circumstances, namely, when one is in love, even the sound of a boot-heel may be recognised. In this respect, only the editors of newspapers have a finer instinct—who, it is said, tell, even from the sound of a step in the street, whether it is the postman with subscribers or a poet with his verses. In this case the magnetism was reversed; Julia expected the poet, not the postman, and she was not deceived—

Kalman Sos opened the door.

He was a pale, interesting youth—not that his paleness alone made him interesting, but he entered the room as Hamlet is expected to enter with the skull, and, walking with pathetic steps towards Julia, he raised the fair lady's hand to his lips, where he held it for a long time, and would probably have been holding it still, had not Julia withdrawn it, exclaiming, "Something is the matter, Kalman, that you are so sad to-day?"

"Sad I am, indeed!" replied the poet.

"For mercy's sake!" exclaimed Julia, in alarm, "what has taken place?"

"Nothing, nothing," replied Kalman, but in a tone which left his fair bride to surmise the worst; and then, sinking into an arm-chair, he gazed vacantly before him.

"Yes, yes, there is something the matter with you," cried the lady, really frightened; "I entreat, I desire you will tell me instantly!"

The poet rose à tempo, and once more taking Julia's hand, he gazed long and earnestly into her eyes. "Do you believe in presentiments?" he asked at last, in a faltering voice.

"How! Why?"

"Have you never known that feeling, something like a waking dream, which overtakes us in our gayest hours, as if some cold hand passed across the brow, and the smile which had risen on the lip dies away; as if suddenly a magic mirror rose before us, reflecting our own countenance, but pale and dark, as if warning us not to rejoice?"

"O stop!" cried Julia, on whom these words made an uncomfortable impression; "it is not right to speak of such things; let us talk rather of our wedding. Have you heard from your relations yet?"

Kalman assumed a Byronic look, and, turning up his eyes, "You are happy, Julia," he replied; "ah! you are still a child, and can rejoice at everything."

"Now, what nonsense, Kalman! you know I am at least five years older than you are, if not more."

"Ah, Julia! years alone do not constitute time. You are still a child at eight-and-twenty, while I am an old man at twenty-four. Not he who is furthest from the cradle is the oldest, but he who is nearest the grave. It is the weight of days, not their number, that brings wrinkles. I have suffered as much as would suffice for a life of fifty years!"

"Poor Kalman!" sighed Julia, laying her fair hand on the poet's shoulder. Her delicacy prevented her asking what the deuce had caused him so much suffering; besides, Kalman might have been shocked at hearing her give utterance to such an expression.

"See!" continued Kalman, "at the very moment when I first beheld your angel face, and my heart began to burn with the thought that I might possess you—call you mine for ever—an ice-cold whisper seemed to say, 'Rejoice not, all is uncertain till the day has come.'"

"But it is certain now," replied Julia, "for I have sent for the dispensation, and invited my relations; we shall celebrate the wedding this day week."

"Ha! this day week! do you not know that will be the thirteenth of the month!"

"Indeed, I did not consult the calendar."

"Ah, Julia! that number has a fearful influence over my fate!"

"Well, let it be the previous day."

"Julia, you speak as securely as if you held the hand of fate within your own."

"Well, if you wish it, and I have no objection, should I speak otherwise than of a certainty?"

Kalman raised his finger, and with it his eyes, so that Julia began to think he had discovered a spider's web hanging from the ceiling, and was pointing it out to her. "Fate hangs over us," he exclaimed, "and fate is capricious, Julia; broken hearts and withered hopes are offerings in which she takes delight. Ah, Julia! you are happy if this feeling has never breathed across your soul; if within your bosom's world there are no magic chords on which the hand of prophecy strikes wildly; it would have banished the roses from your face, as it has done from mine."

Julia was getting tired of all these unpleasant visions and magnetic influences; and to give the conversation another turn, she seated herself at the piano, and began to play a gay fantasia.

Kalman leant his elbow on the back of her chair; his dark countenance seemed to pierce the future, while his eyes glared, and his hair stood erect—Julia could observe all this in the opposite mirror. Then, again, he folded his arms and drooped his head on his bosom, till, no longer able to bear the excess of his feelings, he started up, struck his forehead, and exclaimed, in a state of exultation, "Ah! one such moment were sufficient for life; to hear those sweet accents, and, hand in hand, heart to heart, expire together, breathing forth our souls in one long embrace. Julia, do you not desire to die with me?"

"Indeed it will be very nice, when we have both of us reached a good old age; meanwhile let us live a little while together."

Kalman gazed at Julia with an expression of pity: he felt with pain how far beneath his own must that mind be, which could not comprehend the fearful ecstasy of two persons dying together, who have nothing at all the matter with them. He rose and paced the room several times, like a wandering spirit who had no other calling than to terrify the living; then seizing his hat with suicidal determination, he stepped up to Julia, and exclaimed, in heart-rending accents: "Farewell, farewell! Heaven grant that my forebodings be not realized!" And then, tearing himself from her, he rushed out of the room as if in desperation.

Poor Julia was truly in despair, and fearing she knew not what, despatched her servant after Kalman, to see that he did not harm himself; and it was not until the man returned, and assured his mistress that he had seen the young gentleman in the casino eating roast-meat and green garlic, that she could at all compose herself.

Julia was occupied all that afternoon by visitors; and, much to her surprise, she received calls from various persons who had not crossed her threshold for several years before, who all endeavoured, by hints and delicate advice, to allude to the secret which she thought was already twenty miles off—in fact, the whole town seemed perfectly aware of her intended marriage.

She had now no other resource but to shut herself up in her own apartment, and to see nobody. Reflecting upon Kalman's late visit, she reproached herself for her prosaical remarks, which must have ill accorded with the poet's sublime rhapsodies, and endeavoured to force on her imagination some of those strange feelings, which she supposed might resemble the unpleasant sensations caused by a cold in the head, derangement of the stomach—and having worked herself up to a state of nervous excitement, she sat down to her escritoire, and began a long letter to her bridegroom.

As she was in the act of revising a composition which she herself scarcely understood, her maid entered the room with a letter.

Annoyed at being interrupted, Julia snatched it from her hand, and glancing hurriedly at the address, recognised Kalman's handwriting.

Seriously alarmed, she held the letter in her hand without daring to break the seal, in case she should read: "When these lines meet your eye, the writer will be"—the thought was too horrible! Motioning to her maid to quit the room, she opened the epistle with a trembling hand: there were four pages closely written.

"Adorable Julia!—Angel never to be forgotten!—Have you ever seen two stars so close to one another in the blue vault of heaven, that with the naked eye you might take them to be but one, and which, ever since their creation, have been revolving round one another—when suddenly an unexpected phenomenon takes place: one of these two stars, impelled by an irresistible power, quits his companion, and rushing forward through the universe, becomes a comet, whose fate is to wander beyond the worlds, threatening the trembling stars with destruction." . . . .

Julia's patience was not sufficient to go through four pages of astronomy, and turning impatiently to the end of the letter, she read as follows:—

"As my father's wishes in regard to me are iron fetters, which enchain me like Prometheus to the rock; and since he absolutely insists upon my marrying the daughter of Gabor Berkessy, pronotarius of the county of Csongrad, there remains no alternative but to die or—to obey. Were I to consider myself alone, it were bliss to choose the former. But I can think of you alone—the despair, the derangement, probably, my selfishness might cause you; and therefore I live and obey for your sake, my adorable Julia! for your peace alone; and with tears in my eyes, and anguish in my heart, trace these few lines, each word of which is a dagger in the soul of him who can never forget, and lives alone in your remembrance.

Kalman Sos."

And these were the fatal forebodings, the mysterious visions! Julia fell from the stars.

After a moment's brief reflection, however, the fair lady coolly folded the letter, without deigning it a second perusal, and throwing it into the fire with the one she had just written, she rang the bell; then writing a few hurried lines, she sealed the note and handed it to her maid, saying: "Desire the groom to get a fleet horse instantly, and ride after Nanasy bacsi to the sheriff's: should he find him there, he may leave the letter and return; if not, he must go on to Pesth. My uncle generally lodges at the Golden Eagle; but let him find him out, and spare no expense."

Uncle Gabor Berkessy was a man of about sixty years of age, with hair and beard snow-white; but though old in years, he was as young in spirit and as active in limb as a youth of twenty.

He was the life and soul of every company, without ever offending by his jests. His anecdotes were celebrated in the country; and when he began to tell a story after dinner, it was impossible for the company to keep their seats; and finally, when he himself joined in the laugh, it might have been heard at the end of the town; for the thundering peal could only be compared to what a lion's might be, if the risibility of that mighty king of beasts could be excited. On more than one occasion, when he had happened to be present at a comedy, the actors were obliged to stop in the midst of their performance. First it began slowly—ha! ha, ha! ha, ha, ha! holding his handkerchief to his mouth, and pretending to cough; until at last, as if a bomb had burst within him, the fearful sounds would break forth—ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! tears would roll down his cheeks, he would strike the board before him with his fist, stamp on the ground, and engage the attention of all the spectators; so that at last, whenever an actor heard the first ha! he hurried over whatever was to be said, knowing that he had no chance afterwards of being listened to at all.

I have descanted rather at length on Uncle Gabor's laughing faculty, because, according to my theory, if a man can laugh heartily, he must not only be a good-hearted, but a well-informed man; and as such Berkessy was acknowledged in all the district. His countenance was a faithful interpreter of his mind: the jolly round face and laughing eyes, with their silver lashes; the knolly, flexible brows; the healthy teeth and red lips; and the expression of goodness, impossible to mistake, impressed on every feature, gave such a charm to his countenance, that it was impossible not to feel comfortable in his vicinity; and even the Christmas Legatus would have taken courage in his presence.

Uncle Berkessy was thirty years old when he married; and his wife was an excellent soul, with whom he lived sixteen years of peaceful life, without however being blessed by children. At last, when least expected, the blessing arrived in the form of a little girl.

The happy pair were now twice as happy as they had been before; the little Linka was the joy and light of their eyes, and the hope and glory of both. They lavished upon her all the affection and tenderness of their nature, hastening to gratify her slightest fancies—for every thought seemed concentrated in their only child; and, strange providence! this indulgence not only did not spoil her, but rendered her from day to day more amiable and more loving. The slightest hint from her mother's eyes was sufficient to direct her, and she knew no greater happiness than that of pleasing her parents; all their care and tenderness found a kindly grateful soil within her gentle heart, and was richly repaid. How unlike to most indulged natures, which are generally like vinegar—the more sugar you put in, the stronger will the acid be.

Lina was scarcely ten years old when she lost her mother—the greatest loss a little girl can experience. All a father's attention can never make up for the want of a mother's care; much will remain unobserved by him which could not escape the ever-watchful spirit of a tender mother.

Although this misfortune did not change Lina, she was more thoughtful afterwards; but the cares of a household devolving upon her, left her no time to indulge in melancholy. A great safeguard for a young girl are her household cares: they teach her to respect herself, they banish sadness, keep down the passions and false feeling, and give true life to the young mind.

The little girl was the greatest comfort in her father's bereavement: and as she grew up, her sweetness and amiability, and excellent management, were the surprise and admiration of all the families around; and no less than three suitors, as we have already seen, were on their way to Uncle Berkessy on matrimonial speculation. Our sweet little heroine's exterior, though pleasing in the extreme, was not such as is called in the language of poets, beautiful. And here I cannot help observing, that the manner in which these poetical gentlemen dictate to the world in general is certainly most unfair. According to their ideas, it is only a perfect beauty who dare lay any claim to happiness; while all the others, whose faces cannot be compared to lilies and roses, are born only to be deceived, and but for their wealth would never appear in a romance at all. Real life, however, gives them the lie; for we see family happiness bloom even in households where the ladies are not painted for annuals. And how many a mild and unpretending being do we find gifted with that delicacy and true poetry of mind, which give to features not created for a painter's model an attraction and loveliness that it would be impossible to describe, for we can scarcely say what it is we find so agreeable; and although we might turn with cold indifference from a mere sketch of the features, no sooner do we see them lighted up by a smile, or hear an accent of sympathy cross the lips, than a sweet fascination rises within us—the eyes, the lips, the whole countenance, wins new attractions; the soul assumes its power over the clay, and charms into beauty what in itself is not so. Fortunately, nature seldom bestows on any one the consciousness of being less handsome than her neighbour; for that woman could scarcely be good-humoured, who, when she looked in the glass, could not discover something which rendered her countenance agreeable, and which others also will no doubt remark after some observation. These ideas may, I fear, hurt the classic understanding, and the lovers of art will be shocked to hear that the not beautiful can also be subjects of poetry; but if mankind has so increased upon earth as to mottle the Olympic regularity with many variations, who can help it? The negro and the Laplander have their beauties; and some are even bold enough to affirm that the mind of itself may render beautiful.

All these deviations must not weary you, gentle reader, for you know it is now a question of matrimony, and therefore you must read patiently and not in vain.

Day was just dawning; the sound of bells broke the silence of the village, and, one by one, the green blinds opened as the sun shed his first rays on the windows of Uncle Berkessy's house. Two windows alone remained closed—those of the room in which the old gentleman slept; the others were all open, and the rooms filled with the fresh morning air. The valuable old furniture was already dusted, and the polished floors were shining like mirrors. In the first room, a great glass chiffonnière stood opposite the windows, ornamented by pillars supported by gilded angels. Among the china and cut crystal arranged within, was that which Uncle Gabor's grandmother had received as a bridal gift, and which she used until she was eighty-two years old, and left in the same admirable order to her children. At the other side of the room, stood two large beds, on whose heavy curtains a stag-hunt was portrayed. Although nobody slept in those two beds, they were turned down every sunny day, and the great feather pillows placed within the double windows to air. Opposite the beds stood an antique cabinet, ornamented by various carvings and pillars, of which it would be difficult to discover all the quaint recesses and the secret drawers. Between the windows stood an ancestral mirror, with its frame of ornamental cut glass, the centre of which was decorated by a garland of everlasting flowers, which might have hung there at least half a century. In one corner stood a large cabinet clock, and in the other a high spinning-wheel, used by grandmamma in ancient times; and which was always kept in the same corner from a feeling of respect, although nobody ever used it. And, as we are come on matrimonial speculations, I may inform you, gracious reader, that the lower part of the chiffonnière contains real old silver-plate for forty-eight persons; and that the large cabinet is filled with the finest table-linen, among which is still preserved that which grandmamma had spun with her own hands. And now we shall proceed into the next room. This had been fitted up with the newest furniture by Uncle Gabor as a surprise on one of his daughter's birthdays, and was filled with comfortable arm-chairs, spring sofas, and elegant work-tables. There was a grand pianoforte too, and a glass chiffonnière, in which all her little birthday and holiday gifts were arranged. The rich worsted-work carpet was an example of the young lady's personal industry, for, besides keeping the house in perfect order, she found time for various other female employments. A pretty bookcase was filled with choice books, selected by her father, while on her little embroidery table lay the Athenæum and the Regelo,[9] with extracts from the latest Hungarian works.

[9] Regelo—title of a literary magazine.

Lina's sleeping apartment opened from this room; surprising neatness and order reigned in every part of the little sanctuary; and the snow-white curtains of the bed and windows pleasantly contrasted with the dark, polished floor. The airy windows opened on the garden, from whence the large harvest roses peeped in. A pretty brass cage, with a canary bird, hung on the wall; and whenever its mistress appeared, the little tenant would sing as if its small heart were going to burst. Beyond this room was an ante-chamber which opened into the old gentleman's apartment, which we will not disturb, as he is still asleep.

In the opposite wing of the building were the guests' chambers, the kitchen, servants' rooms, and store-rooms; and beyond these was a pavilion, provided with comfortable seats, in the centre of which a fountain played; and here the host was wont to sit and smoke with his guests, sheltered equally from sun or rain.

The court-yard was already full of business and activity; the reapers preparing to set out, the old gray-headed labourer leading his oxen with their decorated horns to the well; the footman was standing at the door of the out-house polishing his master's silver-spurred boots, so that he might have shaved in them. A comfortable odour of soup proceeded from the open kitchen-door, and in a few minutes, our little lady herself stepped across the corridor, and appeared in the court to distribute bread and brandy to the reapers. Her cheeks were flushed, for she had just come from the fire, and a neat white handkerchief was arranged round her head. For the young girls, who were as yet innocent of the virtues of brandy, she had prepared a good warm soup, that they might not go hungry to their work. It was not with any idea of parsimony, but rather to see that each person had sufficient, that she came out herself; and she was never contented till every person had partaken of her gifts. Having wished their young mistress a hearty Aldja Isten (God bless you), the reapers then set out in the greatest good humour, the young lads and lasses singing and jesting, and the elders walking soberly together.

Lina still lingered a few minutes to enjoy the fresh air, and listen to the tinkling bells of the oxen as they disappeared, and then she called her flock of poultry, which had collected round the millstone where the labourers had breakfasted, and distributed their portions also; after which, she returned to the kitchen to superintend the roasting of the coffee for her father's breakfast; for when she left it to the servants, they were sure either to roast it unmercifully, or burn it, or do something else which gave it an unpleasant taste. Covered fireplaces were not yet known in those days—everything was cooked on the flames or hot embers, and consequently the proper management of the fire was then a source of much greater trouble to cooks, who had to guard against smoking, burning, or singeing their dishes; and cooking was at that period a far more difficult business than in these more enlightened times.

Meanwhile, the footman had covered the table, and the old gentleman, being awakened by the rattling of cups and spoons, soon made his appearance in complete attire, with his polished silver-spurred boots, and his fur dolmany thrown across his shoulders; his thick gray hair was uncovered, and a pipe, quite full, in his mouth. The footman wished him "a happy good morning," while three huge greyhounds sprang from under the table to meet him. Having patted and caressed them all, Uncle Gabor walked into the kitchen to light his pipe, well knowing that he should find his daughter there. Linka's hands were full, and, as her father entered, she exclaimed, in the sweetest voice imaginable, "Good morning, dearest father; just hold out your hand here one instant, dear papa."

"For what?" exclaimed the old gentleman, holding out his hand at the same time.

It was just that Lina might stoop down and kiss it, for both her hands were occupied.

The old gentleman patted his daughter's face, and then, taking a bride's eye (a bright-burning ember) between his fingers from the fire, he lit his pipe and stood watching Lina's operations. When breakfast was ready, Lina prepared her father's coffee; she knew exactly how black and how sweet to make it, and the old gentleman was so spoilt in this respect, that he could never drink coffee except at home.

We have now seen the little lady at her various occupations, but we have still to see her when she scolds, for this is infallibly requisite in good housekeeping, and to overlook faults is in itself the greatest fault; but the question is, how to scold that your servants may neither fear nor laugh at you; and Lina could scold both gracefully and agreeably—indeed the manner in which it was done was generally the means of establishing good humour.

While she was sipping her coffee, out of a cup not much larger than a nut-shell, all at once she heard a noise of barking and running in the kitchen, as if some person was hunting her little greyhound.

She immediately jumped up, and ran into the kitchen. "Who is teasing my little dog?" she asked, in a voice of dove-like anger.

The servants all laughed, and the footman, trying to compose his features, replied, "It was Feeske, who was leaping up on the fireplace."

"Well, and must you strike the poor dog for that!—he feels it just as much as you would."

"Nobody beat him, Miss; only he put his head into the milk-ewer, and could not get it out again."

"Yes, because you are all so disorderly.—Come here, little Feeske! You should not have left the milk-ewer on the fireplace—come here, my poor little dog; did these bad people hurt you?"

She was obliged to break the ewer to free the little dog's head.

"Sure it's the pretty ewer that's to be pitied," said one of the servants, laughing.

"Well, I would not let the dog suffer for the sake of a ewer;" and then she returned to her father with a beaming countenance. "Have I not scolded them all well!"

Towards the end of breakfast, the footman entered with the letters and newspapers, which the messenger brought weekly from town.

Uncle Gabor opened the Jelenkor newspaper, and followed Espartero and Zummalacarreguy with great attention, while Linka glanced over the peaceful columns of the Regelo—for it was only in the evening that she had time to read it through. As she opened the last page, her eyes fell on a sonnet, entitled, "To Lina B——ssy." She started as if she had looked into a book of incantations, and closed the paper so suddenly, that the old gentleman, who was just standing before the cannons of a naval engagement, cried out, "What's the matter, my child?"

"Nothing at all, papa," replied Linka, changing colour, "only the paper nearly fell out of my hand."

So far was true. Uncle Gabor hastened back to the engagement, lest anything should have taken place in the mean time.

Lina folded the paper quite small, and thrust it into the pocket of her apron; then, taking up her watering-pot, she glided noiselessly out of the room, and ran into the garden. She was determined not to read the paper. She would either burn it, or put it away where nobody should find it. With this firm intention, she began to water her carnations and violets, all the time turning in her mind where she could most conveniently hide the sonnet—for, after all, it would be very hard-hearted to burn it.

At last she remembered the glass-house, and hastened thither with the intention of putting the paper under one of the great cactus pots. She looked round on entering, to see that she was quite alone. Loneliness is the godmother of every weakness, and when she took the paper out of her pocket she could not withstand the temptation of looking once more into it—nobody would see if she blushed—and, with trembling hands, as if she were committing something very scandalous, she unfolded the paper, and read with a beating heart the lines addressed to her.

The verses were of that kind which our young literature produced about twenty years ago—for we have always had a young literature, which never attained maturity—whose constrained inspirations, insipid taste, and high-sounding problems, had at least this one advantage, that, possessing no feeling at all, they were incapable of exciting any. Lina, blushing deeply, was forced to recognise herself in "the rosebud whose perfume is intoxicating bliss;" as "Heaven's loveliest angel, the night of whose glossy ringlets might form a pall beneath which it were ecstasy to expire, while the sunny radiance of her dark eyes would wake to life again." The sonnet was signed, "Kalman S—s."

Lina knew the youth. She had frequently met him in Sz——, at the county meetings, and having read the lines, she did not think them so very dreadful after all, except of course in a poetical point of view.

As she was still holding the open paper in her hand, a voice called from the garden door, "Miss Lina!"

Starting up, she once more thrust the paper into the pocket of her apron, and, turning very pale, ran to the door.

"Guests have arrived, Miss Lina! make haste home," said the servant, who had been sent for her.

An ancestral conveyance, with three unhappy horses, was standing at the door!

Our readers will guess to whom it belonged.

Lina took the handkerchief from her head, smoothed her hair with her hands, and hastened into the room, where numerous voices were to be heard all talking together with exclamations of joy.

It was just themselves, dear reader; the good-natured country gentleman, the dictatorial lady, our nephew Sandor, and his amiable little brother, Peterke.

They had passed the night in the neighbouring village, for a variety of excellent reasons; of which the principal were, first, that the horses might rest, so as to be able to gallop into Uncle Gabor's court next morning; and, secondly, that the family might equip en gala for the occasion.

The worthy dame wore a large cap decorated with rainbow-coloured ribbons, the border of which encompassed her face, like the portrait of the sun in an almanac. Her dress, of bright-green silk, was short enough to show the embroidered petticoat beneath; a large bronze buckle secured her waist-band almost under her arms, and the tout ensemble was relieved by a silver-coloured shawl with crimson flowers, thrown negligently over her shoulders.

Uncle Menyhert was shaved, and his hair brushed up smartly; his shirt-collar would fain have stood upright, but not having quite enough of starch for that, was obliged to be satisfied with the good intention; his waistcoat had been white piquet, but was now somewhat yellow. A huge watch betrayed itself in his side-pocket, partly by its size, partly by its ticking, which seemed to take part in every conversation, and was worn round his neck by a thick silk cord resembling a sword-belt. Instead of the green attila, he now wore a chocolate-coloured coat, whose long narrow tails nearly reached the ground, and his light Hungarian hose were exchanged for pantaloons of yellow angine, very wide above and narrow below. All this was crowned by a long cylinder hat, which was now placed on the table for universal admiration.

Our nephew Sandor wore his Juratus attila, with a vest of cherry-coloured velvet. It was clear he felt himself a different man in the attila to what he had been in his bonjour. The latter completely cast him down, humiliated, and put him to shame; the attila inspired him with confidence and courage.

He now neither stood behind the stove nor kissed the footman's hand; in short, he had become quite superior to himself, and jested with everybody. This is characteristic of his age: when a youth of that time of life has an inferior coat, he will be sure to get out of your way, to avoid saluting you; whereas if he happens to be satisfied with his appearance, he will cross you on every occasion, and expect you to salute him.

Even the cadet had undergone a change. He had been washed and combed, and boxed into submission. Indeed, at the last station he had undergone a severe chastisement, to prevent any misbehaviour at Uncle Berkessy's; and having cried the whole way thither, he was now tolerably quiet and subdued.

As Lina entered, Aunt Zsuzsi rose, and, running across the room, threw her arms round her neck, to the utter derangement of cap and frill, and, with a face beaming with triumph, she led forward the blushing girl, and introduced her to the other members of her family. "Well, you rascal!" she exclaimed, turning to Sandor with motherly pride, "have we not chosen a fine girl for you, eh? You do not deserve her, I can tell you!"

Our nephew looked at Lina with a rueful smile, as if he had expected something far prettier; but it may have been the extreme tightness of his boots which made it an unpleasant gymnastic exercise to rise from his seat.

This cordial introduction at first surprised Linka, and, with a modest blush, she took refuge beside her father, as if soliciting his protection against such an unexpected attack. The old gentleman, observing her embarrassment, put his arm playfully round her. "No! you shall not carry off my little Linka so easily, my dear niece!" he exclaimed.

"Ah, but we shall indeed," replied Aunt Zsuzsi, "or else we shall leave Sandor with you."

"That's right! with all my heart, I shall be delighted if you will leave both the boys with me. They shall be my sons."

At these words, little Peterke, in great alarm, stationed himself between his father's knees, and began crying out, "I will not be that bacsi's son—take me home, I will stay with tate (daddy)."

Uncle Gabor burst into one of his fearful laughs, while papa lifted up the little urchin, and placed him beside his mother. "Hang on there, my brave boy."

"Never mind," said Aunt Zsuzsi, "when we take him to be married, I daresay he will not cry at being left with a pretty girl. If my uncle had but one little girl more for him!"

"Hush, wife!" interrupted Menyhert, feeling himself called upon to say something wise; "don't you see who you are speaking before? Here is a young innocent girl, who blushes at the very name of marriage; we must not mention these things before the girls, till it comes to their turn. I must say, I think it is a most excellent custom of the Turks not allowing the bride to see her bridegroom"—

But at that instant Menyhert, happening to glance towards his wife's nose, perceived in its evolutions such marked symptoms of displeasure, that he began to stammer, forgot what he had been saying, and finally broke down entirely.

"Shall we go and look at the stud?" said Uncle Gabor.

"With all my heart," replied Menyhert, glad to change the subject, and speculating on the handsome curricle and four which Uncle Gabor would give his daughter on her marriage.

"Meanwhile, I shall go and take a look at the garden," said Aunt Zsuzsi.

"And gather pretty flowers," exclaimed Peterke, springing up.

"No, no, you little fool," said dear mamma, "you must not touch the flowers; but you may catch as many butterflies and beetles as you like."

Sandor seemed undecided whether he should go and look at the horses, or undertake to gather butterflies and beetles too; and Lina waited to see what her father would say, when the prudential Aunt Zsuzsi interposed: "We will leave the young people together; let them amuse themselves speaking, and get acquainted: such innocent intercourse should never be hindered. Come away, fathers."

It was useless to oppose Aunt Zsuzsi's plans, and so the parental society went out together, leaving the young people to get acquainted; and the latter, seeing there was nothing else to be done, resigned themselves to the innocent intercourse.

Linka, having recovered her presence of mind, sat quietly down to her embroidery-table in the window; while Sandor drew himself up, and began admiring a large oil-painting of a pretty shepherdess on the wall opposite, the frame of which seemed to attract his particular notice.

"You are thinking," said Lina, to begin the conversation, "that that portrait is very like me, are you not?"

"Like you?" said Sandor; "ohoho! what an idea!"

"It has much more colour than I have."

"Oh! much more."

"And is much taller than I am."

"Oh! much taller."

Linka began to think that she had at last met some person who was perfectly sincere. "I do not know," she continued, "why that painter should have made me prettier than I am."

Sandor perceived that he had been giving very stupid answers, and hastened to repair his fault. "That is to say, Miss Lina, the portrait is not prettier than you are; on the contrary, it is uglier, for one side of the face is larger than the other."

Lina, perceiving that the young gentleman did not understand painting or perspective, tried another theme.

"You have lived in Pesth, and are no doubt acquainted with some of the poets there?"

"O yes; indeed, there were several students among us who were terrible spendthrifts,[10] but I never spent much myself; six florins a month were sufficient for me."

[10] "Spendthrift," In Hungarian kolto, means also "a poet," as the verb kolteni signifies "to poetise," or "to expend."

Linka laughed heartily at what she supposed to be a pun of Sandor's. "Oh! I did not mean that kind of kolto," she exclaimed, "but verse writers."

"Ah, indeed!" replied Sandor, looking vacantly out of the window; "I did not see any such in Pesth."

"But you have read their works? for instance, Vorosmarty."

"O yes, certainly; that was what Kisfaludy wrote, was it not?"

"Ah no! Vorosmarty himself was the author."

"Aha! I know now: it was he who wrote Kisfaludy."

"How you are quizzing me! You cannot make me believe that you do not know the Magyar poets."

"Umph! singular! Well, if I do not know one, I know another; I am very fond of poetry, and I can repeat some verses by heart."

"Pretty ones? Perhaps you will write a few in my album; who are they by?"

"Well, the prettiest are by Vad Janos."

"Vad Janos! and who is Vad Janos?"

"Ah, now! you see you do not know him, although he was poetical præceptora."

"And has he published many works?"

"Why, I believe so. That beautiful poem called 'Spring;' then his 'Ode to a Sausage'—that's a capital thing; and then the 'Maize King's complaint against the Trailing Bean'—ah, that is superb!"

"And where are they all published?" asked Linka humbly.

"Why, in the Hippocrene," replied Sandor confidently.

"And what is that?" asked Lina again, with pious awe.

"It is the name of a newspaper."

"I have never heard of it," sighed the poor girl. "And where does it appear?"

"Why, in Koros."

"And who is the editor?"

"The students write it themselves,[11] whoever has the best hand; and then we take it about to all the pretty girls to read—that is, I never brought it to anybody," said Sandor, hastening to justify himself, lest he might be suspected of visiting pretty girls.

[11] This is really done in the smaller towns.

How many are there who never learn anything after they leave school, and grow old with the same ideas they brought from their classes! I had a schoolfellow about fourteen years ago, who could tell a pleasant anecdote pretty well. I met him again this year; we had only exchanged a few words, when he began the old anecdote.

While the two old gentlemen were looking at the stud, Aunt Zsuzsi had stepped into the garden—not exactly to look at the flowers, but to find out what sort of things Lina kept for the kitchen use; while Peterke ran up and down the beds, looking for butterflies and beetles. In the midst of his career, he happened to upset one of the bee-hives; and the bees consequently stung him so furiously, that his whole face was swelled like a bladder, and the eyes almost entirely disappeared. On hearing his cries, mamma ran up, and taking him by the hand, led him into the house. On any other occasion, he would have been severely punished, besides having been stung; but here everybody endeavoured to be sweet-tempered, as if the whole family were made of milk and butter.

This misfortune put an end to the innocent intercourse, and Linka ran away to get something for the dear boy's face. Each person proposed a different remedy—cold and hot applications, oil, brandy, &c. &c. In vain; the swelling still continued, and there was nothing for it but to go to bed.

Linka then went to superintend her kitchen duties, glad to have a few minutes to herself. She had not been long away, however, when sounds of wheels were heard again driving up to the door; but Linka paid no attention to the noise—she was too much occupied with the arrangement of her dishes. This did not prevent the inquisitive servants from running to the window to see who had arrived.

"Oh, Miss Lina," cried one, "what a beautiful calèche! and such a smart coachman!—not like that Matyi. See what beautiful linen sleeves!"[12]

[12] In summer, the coachman's dress is a coloured vest over a white linen garment with wide sleeves embroidered round the neck and shoulders; also wide linen drawers with fringes, and a broad hat decorated with feathers.

"Oh, Miss Linka!" cried another, "see what a handsome young cavalier has just got down off the box! and now he is helping out a fine lady and a little rosy girl. That is a youth for a bridegroom, Miss Lina."

But Miss Lina was very angry. "What are you all chattering about?" she exclaimed; "you had far better attend to your dishes."

They had scarcely turned from the window, when another sound excited their curiosity. The galloping of a horse was heard in the court; and presently afterwards, a voice, talking in an affected tone through the nose, addressed the old gentleman, who had come to the door to receive his guests.

"Permit me to introduce myself as Kalman Sos," said the horseman, "come to pay my respects"—

As Linka heard these words, she threw the egg-shells into the dish instead of the yolk, and snatching the Regelo from her pocket, without further reflection, she threw it into the fire.

"What have you done, Miss Linka?" exclaimed the portly cook; "all your burnt paper has got into my dishes."

And to put the comble to her distress, the old gentleman entered, his face beaming with pleasure, and, going maliciously up to his daughter, he looked in her face, and smiled knowingly without saying a word, while the poor girl only wished that the floor might open by some miracle and permit her to sink into the cellar.

"Do you want anything, dearest papa?" she ventured at last to ask.

"I do not want you to stay in the kitchen!"

"And why not, dear father?"

"Because you will be sure to salt everything to-day."[13]

[13] Sos, salt salted.

Poor Linka! if she could have blushed still more deeply she would have done so, for she understood her father's meaning too well; and, moreover, the cook increased her embarrassment, by adding, "Indeed, sir, you will do well to carry off the young lady, for she is not at all like herself, poor thing! and giving us much unnecessary trouble; only a few minutes ago, she put the egg-shells into the pudding instead of the yolk; and then she burnt"—

Lina tried to silence the cook, who, however, only talked the louder—so she was compelled at last to yield; and, taking her father's arm, she made up her mind with a sigh to the great sacrifice of leaving the kitchen and going to her guests. And what a place of refuge the poor girl had often found there on such occasions!

Meanwhile the guests were assembled in the sitting-room. On one side of the sofa sat Aunt Zsuzsi, endeavouring with great vehemence, and frequent application of her finger to the side of her nose, to explain something in an under tone to a mild lady, in whom we recognise Mrs. Tallyai, who was sitting beside her listening patiently to her tales.

Our nephew Sandor sat at the table, evidently a good deal put out by seeing so many strangers; although it never crossed his imagination that he had two rivals among them.

His father sat beside him, administering wise counsel about various matters, such as how to behave when he was addressed, how to sit at table and use his knife and fork, not to put his nail into the salt-cellar instead of the point of his knife, or to wipe his mouth with the table-cloth, or drink the water out of the finger-glass. With these and such-like salutary precepts did good Mr. Menyhert Gulyasi endeavour to enlighten his son, till the poor youth lost all the little courage with which his attila had inspired him.

Opposite Sandor sat Karely Tallyai—a handsome, manly youth, in whose gay countenance and easy manners no holiday restraint was to be seen. He was carrying on a jesting conversation with his sister, the little mischievous Siza, whose roguish eyes were ever and anon glancing at the opposite side of the table, while she constantly discovered something to arrange in her brother's neckerchief or ruffles, or an atom of down to pick off his coat, all of which she did with an air of mysterious prudery, as if "nobody but ourselves" was to remark it.

Last, though not least in his own opinion, stood Kalman the poet, apart from the rest, with his arms folded and his back against an arm-chair, his countenance vainly endeavouring to express unutterable sadness. Such expressions have great effect on young girls—the pale, moonlight face; the secret sigh; the sad smile when others laugh heartily; the retirement to a corner where he can be seen by everybody, when others are amusing and enjoying themselves; the gentle cough now and then—and if asked why, the laying of the hand with pensive calmness on the breast, the speaking of approaching autumn, of falling leaves, and of sweet sleep among those leaves; remarking that the sound of coughing is like knocking at the gate of another world, and such-like poetic similes. All this is certain of success if directed skilfully against a young and inexperienced heart.

Thus the three rival parties were arranged to begin the attack. The family of Gulyasi were no doubt the strongest; they claimed the old gentleman's earlier friendship and former promise, besides which, his own speculations too allotted them the first place.

Kalman considered himself quite dangerous enough to enter the lists in single combat, and without a second, having already opened the attack by pouring forth his secret vows in verse; while the least favourable place fell certainly to Karely. With an honourable heart, and lips that despised flattery, he had also the misfortune to possess a simple-hearted mother, who, instead of clothing her son in every virtue, even exposed his faults, declaring that he was a sad, wild youth, who spent a great deal of money, besides various other misdemeanours which she spoke of in the sincerity of her heart, so that poor Karely might have hung the basket on his arm[14] beforehand, as there was every chance of his receiving it.

[14] It was an old custom to present a basket as a mark of refusal to the rejected suitor.

Uncle Gabor entered the room with Lina on his arm, and led her up to Mrs. Tallyai. The young girl kissed her hand, and gracefully saluted the rest of the party. Then the two ladies placed her between them on the sofa, and it was really amusing to see how Aunt Zsuzsi contrived to occupy her whole attention, overwhelming her with praises, flattery, and ill-timed questions, while Mrs. Tallyai had not an opportunity of putting in a single word.

"What a pretty, dear girl! quite a child still, and yet such a good housewife. I saw your garden, quite an example—such cauliflowers! you must know they are my favourite vegetable. I have looked at your preserves, and they do the greatest credit to these pretty little white hands; but I must teach you by and bye to make medlar and grape jelly—when we are at Makkifalva, you know. You never tasted anything better—Sandor is so fond of it! indeed he is fond of all sweets, quite his father's son; but he had not hitherto seen the sweetest of all sweets!—Come, you must not blush so, you naughty girl, though I must confess it is most becoming."

The poor girl was actually sitting on thorns during the whole of this conversation, till, fortunately, Sizike interrupted it by running over and throwing her arms round her neck, which gave Lina an opportunity of withdrawing with her young companion into an adjoining room.

The two girls did not return till they were summoned to dinner, and then they were already per tu. Friendship is very quickly formed between girls, and, notwithstanding the difference of age—for Siza was yet a child—a "holy alliance" had been concluded in a few minutes, and it was evident that Lina looked more favourably on Karely than on Sandor, although Kalman still remained the most dangerous in her regard, and she never ventured to look except by stealth at the hero of the lines, conscious that his eyes were always fixed upon her.

At dinner, the two matrons sat at the head of the table, and Uncle Gabor at the foot, with the two girls at each side of him; Karely sat beside Linka, and Sandor opposite him, beside Siza. The poet sat beside Aunt Zsuzsi, and Menyhert beside Mrs. Tallyai. Soup was served, and the spoon being an innocent weapon, nothing particular took place during its requisition, except that Sandor, observing Kalman hold his spoon between his first finger and thumb, tried to imitate him, and at the first experiment emptied the soup over his coat. Afterwards, when the knives and forks came into requisition, and the first glass of wine began to inspire courage, Menyhert related his own heroic deeds of 1809—a period which Berkessy, on the other hand, did not exactly wish to recall. Kalman began eating with his left hand, and Sandor, desirous of following his example, pitched the meat off his fork into his neighbour's lap. Aunt Zsuzsi then talked of the want of principle in the young men of the capital, on which Kalman asked her if she had seen Janesi Parlagi;[15] and then again incurred her wrath by pouring out a glass of water backwards, on which the good lady declared that the next time he did so, she would not drink it.

[15] Janesi Parlagi, a popular play. The question was asked in derision of the "country bumpkin."

Sandor having been desired by his mother not to refuse anything, lest it might offend the young lady of the house, ate and drank of everything that came in his way. The good Eger wine seemed only to renew his vigour in attacking the dishes, inspiring him at the same time with as much confidence as if he were sitting among his Juratus colleagues, opposite the golden flask. He laughed and jested, stumbled into everybody's conversation, played on the bottles and glasses, and threw about balls of bread. At last, in the height of his merriment, he stretched his limbs under the table, and, having reached a little foot opposite, which he took for Lina's, began to press it gently with his own. The foot happened, however, to be Karely's, who, being deeply engaged in conversation with his neighbour, allowed this tender quiproquo to go on unnoticed.

Towards the end of dinner, when hearts and mouths were ever opening wider, that amiable confusion began in which everybody speaks at once, and nobody can hear himself, though he understands his neighbour. As one anecdote gave rise to another, the company laughed till the tears ran down their cheeks; and the ladies entreated the gentlemen not to make them laugh more, as they were already quite fatigued; while the young people laughed too, pretending to join in the joke, although it was something quite different they were laughing about. Reader, would you understand their mirth? You must be young, and in love.

Kalman the poet alone maintained a Parnassus repose of feature. His countenance was never discomposed by a smile, while his eyes were constantly fixed on the young lady of the house, or straight before him—not on Uncle Menyhert, but beyond him on the opposite wall, on which a large mirror was suspended. This mirror seemed to divide his attention with Lina; and to judge by his countenance, he was perfectly satisfied with the appearance reflected within—watching every motion of his hands as he ate his dinner, or picked his teeth.

Nobody seemed to observe him excepting little Sizike, whose mischievous eyes nothing escaped. Her naïve ideas kept the old gentleman in constant mirth; and once or twice he was very nearly breaking out into one of his terrible explosions, when, pointing to Sandor, who was stretching his foot under the table, she whispered: "See, bacsi, the student is disappearing!" in allusion to one of his own stories of a student who disappeared under the table.

The general gaiety had reached its climax, when Kalman rose from his seat, and, drawing his fingers through his hair, filled his glass, and coughed slightly, to signify to the company that he was about to speak.

The noise ceased; each person hushed his neighbour, and endeavoured to assume a befitting length of countenance. The poet gazed around him for a few moments, and then, raising his glass, began:—

"There is a sea, beneath which a lovely pearl lies concealed." . . .

"See, bacsi," whispered Sizike in Uncle Gabor's ear, "how Kalman looks at himself in the glass!"

Uncle Gabor glanced at the poet, whose eyes were fixed intently on the mirror with the most extraordinary self-complacency, totally unconscious of the mirth he excited.

"This pearl," he continued, with great pathos, "is dearer than Cleopatra's far-famed pearl, purer than those in the Brazilian emperor's diadem! To win this gem, it were small sacrifice to descend into the depths of the ocean: to die for it were bliss!" . . . .

"See, bacsi, how he offers himself the glass in the mirror," whispered Sizike again.

Uncle Gabor seemed ready to burst, like an over-heated steam-boiler. His vast chest rose and fell, his face grew purple, he clenched his fists.

Karely, meanwhile, observing that Sandor was pressing his foot very affectionately, and not wishing to leave the kindly intention unresponded to, felt for Sandor's corn, and trod upon it with all his strength.

"Yai!" roared Sandor in the midst of the pearly simile, giving the bottle before him such a push, that the red wine flowed to the opposite end of the table.

This was all that was wanting for Uncle Gabor. The restrained laughter now broke out in all its fury; he threw himself back in his chair, and struck the table till all the bottles danced. The young people laughed too; and the ladies were so startled at the wine which was running towards them, that they retreated from the table. Kalman alone maintained a profound gravity, waiting with dignified mien till the noise had subsided, to continue his speech; but in vain. Three times he made an attempt to recommence; but no sooner did Uncle Gabor look at him, or hear his voice, than the explosion was renewed, which he was utterly incapable of restraining.

Kalman was obliged to sit down at last without finishing his speech. The old gentleman was evidently annoyed, but it could not be helped; if Kalman had spoken from the pulpit, he could not have kept his gravity. To relieve the general embarrassment, Karely took up a glass and added gaily:

"May the pretty pearl of which our friend Kalman speaks long be an ornament amongst us, more especially as it does not grow on a cold shell, but adorns the bosom of a true-hearted son of Hungary, who, instead of salt sea-water, offers all explorers plenty of good Turkish blood!"[16]

[16] The Eger wine is so called, from the many battles fought there.

"Eljen! eljen!" cried the whole party: even Uncle Gabor heartily clapped his hands in approval. Kalman alone could not forgive Karely, for having followed up the effusion of his brilliant genius with such commonplace wit. But it is vain attempting to say wise things after dinner, and still more vain to expect people to listen to them.

As soon as the company rose from table, Uncle Berkessy invited his guests to drive out in his grounds with him; and all having readily accepted, orders were given to the coachmen from each party.

Menyhert went into the stables, to consult with Matyi as to the possibility of his horses undertaking the drive; and the result being unfavourable, it was agreed, on the promise of a pint of wine Matyi should receive on their return, that the latter was to pretend to be unfit to drive.

Meanwhile the other carriages had driven out, and the ladies were preparing to step in. Kalman brought forward his steed, with its tail cropped à l'Anglaise, and all were ready, when Menyhert appeared coming out of the stables in great wrath.

"What the tartar are we to do? my coachman is so drunk that it is impossible he can drive us. I am shocked to think that this should have taken place here, but I shall turn him off as soon as ever we go home."

"Don't annoy yourself, my good friend," exclaimed Berkessy, "there's plenty of room, and we can arrange so as to take you all in. Your lady will sit beside Mrs. Tallyai; Karely likes driving at all events, and the girls will not object to having a cavalier with them."

Kalman had just got one foot in the stirrup, when hearing that there was a place in the carriage beside Lina, he turned suddenly to Sandor, who was standing beside him admiring the horse, and asked, with amiable condescension, if he liked riding.

"That I do," replied Sandor grinning; "but I have no horse."

"Would you like to ride mine?"

"Really! may I indeed?"

"Most welcome; my back is already tired with riding all the morning, and I can get a place beside one of the coachmen."

It was not necessary to repeat the offer; Sandor put one foot into the stirrup, and, after dancing about a considerable time on the point of the other, succeeded in placing himself in the saddle. The rest of the party had arranged themselves according to Uncle Gabor's directions, and Kalman was fortunate enough to obtain a place in Berkessy's carriage opposite the two girls.

It was only now the company perceived that Sandor had mounted Kalman's horse, on which he made rather a remarkable appearance—his legs being very long, and the stirrups drawn up very short, consequently obliging his knees almost to meet round the horse's neck.

Unfortunately, this horse had the bad habit of rearing whenever he felt a stranger on his back; and he now began by throwing up his head with a strange, drawn-out neigh, backing by degrees, and finally rearing.

Aunt Zsuzsi now started from her seat. "Sandor!" she cried, "you fool! get off that horse directly; you will break your neck."

It would appear unnecessary telling a man to get off a horse whose intention it is to give his rider all possible assistance in dismounting. But Sandor neither heard nor saw; and if we apply the term of "all ear" to an attentive listener, we may perhaps affirm of Sandor that he was "all horse."

The steed, finding that Sandor did not fall off as he intended, neighed once more, and pricking up his ears, made a start for the gate, and then set off full gallop across the garden and over the meadow, bearing his unhappy rider with him, who in despair let go the bridle, and with both hands held fast by the saddle before and behind.

"My son, my son! he will be killed!" shrieked Aunt Zsuzsi, wringing her hands; "will nobody save him?"

"Oh, never fear," said her worthy husband; "he is safe enough, depend upon it, and a throw or two won't break his neck. Did you not see that he spurred the horse purposely? Let us go on, he will soon overtake us."

Whereupon the whips cracked, and the carriages proceeded at a quick pace along the road; Aunt Zsuzsi calling to every person she met, to ask if they had seen her son—nobody hearing her, of course, owing to the noise of the carriages.

Having arrived at Uncle Berkessy's farm, where the harvest was going on, they turned into a beautiful avenue planted on each side with trees; here and there the wheat and barley were in stacks, the maize was still ripening luxuriously, and the golden melon and citronil peeping out among the stubble. But neither corn nor melons had any charms for Aunt Zsuzsi—she could only think of her lost son; till Mrs. Tallyai having suggested the probability of Sandor's having returned home, the good lady became tolerably calm, and was able to estimate the value of each plot of melons, and bushel of corn.

Having amused themselves some time watching the reapers, the party drove home again. Aunt Zsuzsi's first word was to inquire for Sandor; but nobody knew anything about him.

The good lady then gave vent to her lamentations. "I am undone!" she exclaimed, "my son Sandor is lost for ever! One has been nearly stung to death by bees, and now the other is killed by a mad horse. Oh! why did we ever come here at all?—But it is all your fault, you old fool," she continued, turning to her husband; "why did you want to marry your son so young? Now he is gone for ever, and you may go after him yourself, with your ass of a coachman. And you, sir," she added, turning her wrath on Kalman, "how dared you let him mount your confounded horse? where is he now, I ask you?—where is my son Sandor?"

"And where is my horse?" exclaimed the poet, not less alarmed at the idea of Sandor's having carried off his horse, than the good lady at the horse's having carried off her son Sandor.

"Oh, heavens! how am I to go home without my son?" said Aunt Zsuzsi, bursting into tears.

"And how the tartar am I to get home without my horse?" said the sentimental poet, forgetting himself.

Not content with blaming her husband and Kalman, Aunt Zsuzsi included the whole family in her wrath: the girls because they had not taken Sandor with them, and Uncle Berkessy for having allowed him to drink so much wine, as otherwise he never would have dared to mount the horse; and finally, she broke out in invectives against the whole party for standing with their mouths open, instead of running to look for her lost son.

At last Menyhert's patience was exhausted: "What are you yammering about?" he exclaimed; "nobody made this fuss about me when I went to the elections at Raab, when several gentleman were shot there! Never fear! bad money is not so easily lost; depend upon it, he will come back again. They don't steal people in this country, and they won't begin with Sandor; and if the rascal does not return soon, we shall have him advertised."

These cruel words fell with indescribable bitterness on Aunt Zsuzsi's sensitive heart. That a father should speak thus of his lost son! She had no words to reply; but, rushing into the room where Peterke was lying eating cake, she threw herself on her only remaining son, and began sobbing bitterly, on which Peterke turned the cake out of his mouth and began roaring too.

Uncle Berkessy, much annoyed at the good lady's distress, sent messengers in every direction, on foot and on horseback, to search for the lost youth.

Meantime our readers may have no objection to follow too, and see what has become of him.

Having crossed the garden, the steed went full speed across the fields, and out into the highroad, where he continued in full gallop, Sandor having surrendered himself to his fate, wondering whether he should be carried off to Ukrania, as Mazeppa had been before him.

Now and then he ventured to look hastily round, and saw the place they had left always at a greater distance, till at last it disappeared entirely, and only the tower of the village church was to be seen; finally, that too disappeared, and he began to see the towers of some unknown town rising out of the horizon before him.

Now and then he called to the people he met on the road to catch the horse, but they all understood that they were to keep out of the way, taking it for granted that he was riding for a bet, or else that he was a messenger sent for a doctor or fire-engines.

It was six days since the pretty widow had sent Uncle Nanasy abroad to make preparations for her wedding and to assemble her relations. All her orders had been scrupulously attended to. And the estafette whom Julia had sent to recall him having arrived half an hour too late at each place, Uncle Nanasy returned to S—— without having seen him, and entered his niece's apartment with a huge bandbox under his arm.

"Here I am, darling!—I have executed all your orders," he exclaimed; "and here are your bridal dresses—this Varga made, and is it not splendid? And this is from Keresztessy, worthy of an empress! And here is the dispensation in my pocket—and the confections are in that great case outside—and all our relations will be here: went about myself, darling, and invited them all—But what's the matter? You are not pleased with the dresses?"

Julia, trembling with vexation and rage, had pushed away the box violently, and it rolled on the floor, crushing all the finery.

"Take these dresses out of my sight!" she exclaimed, in a voice choked with passion. "I don't want to see them—nor the dispensation, nor confections, nor relations, nor yourself either, you facetious, meddling, old fool!"

Uncle Nanasi's eyes and mouth opened wide at this unexpected reception; his jaws moved, as if endeavouring to articulate, though he was utterly incapable of pronouncing a syllable.

When a man discharges all the business confided to him in the most punctual way possible, just as he expects to receive at least a kiss in return, and instead of it, has a box thrown at his head amid a storm of abuse, what is he to suppose?

Nanasy bacsi was beyond supposition; and, to add to his amazement, his fair niece had thrown herself down on the sofa, and was sobbing bitterly.

At that instant the sound of horses' hoofs was heard in the court, and Julia's maid burst into the room with a look of astonishment, "Miss!—Madam!—gracious lady! Master Kalman's horse!"

"Don't dare to admit him," cried the lady, starting passionately from her seat.

"But it is not Master Kalman, only his horse, with a strange young gentleman."

"Who?"

Who, indeed, but the unfortunate Sandor, who had been carried across the district to the principal town of the neighbouring county, and set down before a strange house half dead with terror and fatigue!

Kalman had been accustomed to visit Julia every day on horseback, and on these occasions the fair lady used to feed the horse with sugar from her own delicate hands, so that when he passed up that street the animal would frequently carry his master perforce into the court of Julia's house, and now, having been six days absent, he had consequently been six days without sugar, and, naturally enough, finding himself unchecked, set off, and never stopped till he arrived in the court of Julia's house, where he stood still, and began neighing for the sugar.

This is the most natural way of explaining the psychology of the circumstance, at least as far as we are capable of comprehending the ideas of a horse.

Sandor tumbled off the horse's back as soon as it stopped, and tottered towards the wall with aching and distorted limbs: presently, he crept up to the door with great difficulty, just as Julia with her maid had appeared on the staircase to see who was there.

"Who are you?—what do you want?—how did you come here?" were the first questions put to the unhappy stranger.

"Don't ask me anything," groaned the horseman. "I am lost—I am dying—my back is broken—put me to bed and call a surgeon. I am just going to die!"

Julia saw with real sympathy that the youth was in great suffering, and, sending her servant immediately in search of medical and surgical aid, she put the tortured adventurer to bed, and bestowed every possible attention which female tenderness could suggest. At last the arrival of the doctors relieved her as to the state of the invalid—assuring her that the young man was only saddle-sick, and that a few hours of rest would put all to rights.

At Gabor Berkessy's, matters became more serious every hour. Mrs. Gulyasi would let nobody draw breath till she had turned out the whole household in search of her son, while she herself wandered about distracted, asking every new comer what they had done with her son! At last she was seized with violent cramps, and was obliged to go to bed to tea and warming-pans.

Poor Lina and Mrs. Tallyai kept watch by her bedside, and never closed their eyes all night; while Menyhert slumbered with a calm conscience in the next room, snoring so loudly that they were obliged to rouse him once in each five minutes for fear of disturbing the invalid.

At last, towards morning, she fell asleep, overcome by fatigue and groaning, and Mrs. Tallyai also sank down on the sofa to get a few minutes' rest, when all at once the footman was heard beating the gentlemen's coats in the corridor.

The two girls ran out eagerly and desired him not to make such a noise, as the ladies had only just fallen asleep.

As the footman retreated with the coats, Sizike observed something lying on the floor, and running over, picked up an open pocket-book, on the outside of which was printed in large golden letters, "Journal," and the initials "K. S."

Who could blame severely two young girls, when the journal of a young man—not entirely without interest in their eyes—had fallen into their hands, that they should be unable to withstand the temptation of peeping just a very little into it? At all events it was very natural. The two girls ran whispering and tittering behind a pillar, and hurriedly turned over the leaves of the mysterious book. It was full of verses; here and there dried flowers, or a forget-me-not of plaited hair peeped out between the leaves, which they carefully replaced, and amused themselves with reading the verses, stifling their laughter as they gaily snatched the book out of each other's hands. Suddenly Lina's eyes fell on some well-known lines. She looked again; they were indeed the very same which she had read the day before in the Regelo, with this slight difference, that they were not addressed to herself, but to Julia Cs——, and instead of dark hair and eyes, these spoke of forget-me-not eyes and golden hair; otherwise it was quite the same—every angel and charmer in its place, the same heartaches, the same readiness to die, and promises to meet in a better world!

Lina felt herself precisely in the situation of a person who accepts a compliment, and then perceives it was intended for another. She hastily closed the Journal and retreated to her room, to hide the blush of shame which covered her face, as if a hundred eyes were turned upon her. For once in her life, a feeling of vanity had crossed her heart; but now she was severely punished for it: all those beautiful similes and sweet words had not been written for her at all, but only translated from fair to dark! She was completely disenchanted.

The sun had already risen, when one of the messengers who had been despatched on Sandor's traces returned, with the consolatory news that he had discovered the young gentleman, and that nothing was the matter with him; on the contrary, he was in excellent hands, under the care of a beautiful lady, who would not let him go until he had entirely recovered from the fatigue occasioned by his ride—meanwhile, she hoped that his worthy parents would come and be her guests until the young gentleman was thoroughly restored.

At this news, Aunt Zsuzsi suddenly came to herself, rose from bed, and ordered her carriage; and without even waiting for breakfast, thanked her host for all his kindness, hurried her husband and little Peterke, with tied-up jaws, into the conveyance, and desired the coachman to drive for life and death to S——. The lad who had brought the message was seated beside the coachman as a guide, having forgotten the lady's name on his way back, but hoped to be able to find the house again.

Uncle Gabor shook hands cordially with Menyhert, who was already in the coach, exclaiming gaily: "But for all this our process must not fall to the ground—liquidum est debitum; and if it cannot be arranged otherwise, we must enforce the execution."

Menyhert laughed heartily, understanding an allusion to the long-promised marriage.

The whole household accompanied the carriage to the road, where they once more parted, and the horses set off as fast as they were able.

Uncle Gabor then returned to the house with his guests; Linka was evidently out of spirits that morning, while Siza could scarcely contain her joy on seeing the Gulyasis set off.

"Miss Lina's sunny countenance is clouded to-day," said the poet in a theatrical tone.

Lina, without condescending a reply, turned to Karely, with whom she began to converse, and they entered the house together.

Kalman was thunderstruck. "Why is Miss Linka so ungracious to-day?" he asked Sizike, who still remained out.

"Oh! did you not hear Mr. Menyhert Gulyasi threaten her father with an execution?"

"Who? the old gentleman?" asked Kalman, much shocked.

Siza had spoken carelessly, without an idea of being believed; but Kalman's look did not escape her quick eye—for at twelve years old she had more sharpness than most people have at forty. Without rectifying the mistake, she answered gravely: "Yes, certainly, old Berkessy; but you must not speak of it to anybody."

"Impossible!" cried Kalman, in great agitation; "he is considered a very rich man."

"Ah! there are many considered rich who are not really so," said Sizike; and, carelessly humming a tune, she tripped into the house.

Kalman paced up and down with folded arms: he was quite confounded. How could he imagine that a child of twelve years old should think of making a fool of him? He might indeed have doubted had he heard it from a grown-up person; but why should a child say such a thing, unless she had heard it from those around her? In that case, it would be better to return to Julia,—people said ill-natured things of her, to be sure, and she was rather volatile and capricious; but at all events she was rich, and very pretty. It might not be so difficult, after all, to begin again: a few well got up scenes—an attempt at suicide if necessary, and all would be right.

A horse was the only thing wanting—perhaps Berkessy would lend him one; and with this hope the poet entered Uncle Gabor's apartment. Berkessy was sitting on a large arm-chair, and Karely was standing before him.

Kalman paused as he approached, to consider how he should arrange his speech so that the old gentleman might suppose, and yet not suppose that it was no longer his intention to propose for his daughter. And here his evil genius again placed a looking-glass before him; and again forgetting himself, he drew up his collar, brushed up his hair, and the "Sir" with which he began his speech was apparently addressed to himself.

Uncle Gabor, who had been observing his strange attitude in the mirror, suddenly burst into one of his uncontrollable fits of laughter, which Kalman was obliged this time to take to himself. He grew red, then pale again, while his lips trembled with rage.

The old gentleman suddenly checked himself, and asked in the gravest tone—"In what can I oblige you, nephew?"

"Sir," replied Kalman, scarcely able to articulate with fury, "I thought—I expected to find in you a cultivated man, who despised the superstition of the last century, which considered a poet as something ridiculous."

"I do not consider poets ridiculous, sir," replied Berkessy gravely, "as the walls of my room and my library will prove, where you may see the portraits and the works of our best authors; but I despise that bastard poetry which sucks the parent stem, and grows green without ever producing fruit. I honour and revere those great minds, uniting brilliant genius with vast study, who fulfil their glorious career to the glory and honour of their country; but to mistake every reed whistle for an Æolian harp, is what I cannot do. The real poet elevates our mind by his ideas, while those who only call themselves so because they invent rhymes can but excite a smile; and if nature has given to my smile a somewhat louder tone than usual, it is not my fault. Really, my dear nephew, the properties I first mentioned are rather rare, while the latter certainly abound—and this you must not take amiss from an old man."

No dictionary hitherto published contains words sufficiently expressive of all that Kalman felt at this moment. To accuse a man of stealing a silver fork, is nothing in comparison of telling him he is a bad poet. At last, after a few moments' silence, he began in a dignified tone: "Sir, if I did not consider that I am in your house"—

"That need not incommode you in the least: in my house the guests are the masters."

"The insult you have offered me should be washed out with my blood," continued Kalman (he did not yet presume to say with anybody's else).

"I am not a surgeon," replied the old man, with quiet sarcasm.

Karely now stepped in between them, and taking Kalman's arm—"Comrade," he whispered, "you are playing a very ridiculous part, in disputing thus with an old gentleman."

"Why has he not a son, that I might demand satisfaction?"

"Take comfort, if that is all you want: I am his son, for I am going to marry his daughter, and I am ready to give you all the satisfaction you desire, but don't let us make a noise about it. I believe you are going home at all events; so, if you will drive with me to S——, we can settle this affair with our friends."

Uncle Gabor did not hear what the young men were saying; and as Karely declared that he was obliged to go to S——, and would take Kalman with him, he was quite satisfied, and ere long the two young men drove away in the Tallyai carriage.

Meanwhile the Gulyasis arrived happily at S——, and were received by the fair widow with the greatest amiability, and conducted to the chamber of the sick youth, in whom Aunt Zsuzsi recognised her lost son. He was reposing on a divan, arrayed in a rich silk dressing-gown, embroidered slippers, and gold-tasselled cap, formerly the property of the fair lady's husband.

Of course, Aunt Zsuzsi remarked nothing of all this at first, she could only see her long-lost son; and falling on his neck, she sobbed passionately for several minutes, after which she poured forth her thanks and compliments to the pretty widow for her son's extraordinary preservation, and the careful attendance bestowed upon him, repeating at least ten times over—"Oh! if my son Sandor had such a wife, I should be at rest as to his fate—I should then be sure of having placed him in good hands!"

Julia smiled charmingly, and brought the worthy family through all her fine apartments—showed them her porcelain, her silver services, and finally her jewellery. Aunt Zsuzsi was beside herself; praised everything to the skies, and scarcely knew what to look at first.

Meanwhile Uncle Nanasy took Menyhert up stairs into his smoking-room, and spoke a great deal of Julia's fortune, of her various merits, and of the brilliant alliance she would make for the first family in the country, and of her late husband's admirable arrangement, allowing his widow a handsome income in case of her marrying again—to all of which Menyhert listened attentively, and the hours passed rapidly away until dinner was announced.

During dinner, the surprise and admiration of the family reached its highest climax. They did not know which to admire most—the meats, or the dishes in which they were served. Little Peterke alone seemed perfectly decided in his opinion as to the tarts, and had his own way of proving it—what he could not eat he thrust into his pockets, and Julia helped him to fill his cap with sweetmeats.

"Well, Peterke," said Aunt Zsuzsi after dinner, taking the dear boy in her arms, "tell me which you like best, Aunt Julia or Aunt Lina?"

"I don't love Aunt Lina, because she would not give me chocolate when I asked her."

"Well then, you love Aunt Julia best, don't you?"

"Uhum!"

Mamma smiled, and gently patted the dear boy's cheek.

It was now the seventh day, and the report had already spread through the whole town, that the pretty widow was to be married on that day. Her relations began to arrive, and one calèche followed another till the house was quite full of gaily dressed people, among which the indefatigable Uncle Nanasy was seen receiving everybody, and looking more mysterious than ever.

"Where is the bride?" and "Where is the bridegroom?" was in every mouth; but, for once in his life, Nanasy bacsi answered discreetly—that Julia was at her toilet.

Meanwhile Julia had arrayed herself in her bridal attire, in which she really looked like a fairy queen, and was in the act of placing the wreath on her head when the door opened, and who should enter but—Kalman Sos!

Julia, who was standing before the mirror and saw him enter, had just time to check the start of astonishment which his appearance caused, and, turning calmly round, "O you bad man!" she exclaimed in a voice of gentle reproach, "to have put me to such an unmerciful trial. If I had not known you so well, I might have been quite desperate on your account."

"Then you never doubted me?"

"Doubted you! how could I imagine that you would forsake me, when everybody knew we were going to be married! I must have had a very low opinion of you indeed, had I thought for an instant that you could have so basely betrayed a woman who loved you. Oh, no! I knew it was only a poetical caprice on your part to prove the strength of my confidence. I knew you would return, and so I did not even put off my guests, but made all the preparations for the day appointed, so well did I read your character."

"Yes, Julia! you read truly," murmured Kalman, enchanted; "it was only a trial, which you have overcome, and my love will now be a thousand times stronger than ever."

Julia turned from her mirror, and, courtesying low, with a smile of bewitching coquetry, asked, "Am I pretty?"

"Oh, lovely!—Oh, angelic!" murmured the poet, throwing himself at Julia's feet.

At that instant Uncle Nanasy entered to announce that the reverend gentleman had arrived for the ceremony.

Julia poured some Ess bouquet on her handkerchief, and, taking Nanasy's arm, who stepped forward à pas de menuet, she descended to the apartment where the guests were assembled.

The company hastened to greet the lovely bride, each according to his own mode, and one and all seemed lost in admiration of her beauty.

At last the reverend gentleman stepped forward, and, rubbing his hands with a business-like countenance, asked the name of the "happy bridegroom."

Julia looked round with one of her sweetest smiles, while Kalman hastened across all the corns in the company in his haste to join the beautiful bride; but Julia's hand had already been placed in that of nephew Sandor, whom she presented to the clergyman as her future husband!

Kalman tottered towards the wall, and so completely lost his presence of mind, that he tripped successively over three chairs into the lap of a fat dowager lady; and then, starting up, rushed to the nearest door, but finding it was a cupboard had to return across the room; and when at last he found the door and got down stairs, the first person he happened to meet being a little kitchen-maid, he addressed her as "My lady aunt!" and begged her to get him a glass of water, for he was very cold!

There was only one other person in a greater perplexity than himself, and this was the bridegroom. When Julia led him towards the clergyman, he stared as if he had heard sentence of death passed upon him. The affair had been already made up between the elders, who considered it superfluous to mention the subject to Sandor beforehand, and Julia was too secure in the power of her charms to doubt of their success in this undertaking.

Sandor allowed himself to be led before the table arranged for the ceremony, and when the clergyman asked him, "Do you love this honourable lady whose hand you hold?" he only stared at the worthy man, till his father cried out, "Well, do you love her? Of course you love her—how should you not love her?" on which Sandor recovering his senses, went through the rest of the marriage formula pretty well, though it cannot be denied that his teeth chattered not a little.

After this all went on well. The fêtes which succeeded the ceremony removed every constraint; and I must not omit, for the satisfaction of our readers, that the happy bridegroom even danced after supper, and thereby managed to trip up and tumble over several of the guests.

Early next morning three young men were walking in the gardens outside the town. One was Karely, and the other two his comrades, who were to act as seconds in his encounter with Kalman.

The latter had quitted Julia's house with a greater desire of fighting than ever, and declared in several coffeehouses that he was determined to shed either his own blood or that of another, and that he would not be content with sending a ball through Karely's brain alone. In vain his friends hinted that it was imprudent to publish his sanguinary intentions beforehand, as he might be taken up. He cared not; they might imprison him or take his life, but they should not touch his honour!

Karely and his friends had waited full half an hour after the time appointed. At last Kalman's seconds arrived—alone! and, with countenances expressive of anger and disgust, handed a letter to their opponents. Karely opened it impatiently, and read as follows:—

"Gentlemen,—Reflecting more coolly on this affair, I have come to the conclusion that greater obligations than those at present incurred forbid my risking a life not my own. The genius which fate has intrusted to me is not mine alone. It belongs to my country—to humanity in general.

"There is another thing we must not lose sight of; a duel should only take place between individuals of equal rank, and I need not explain to you that the mind has its aristocracy as well as society. When you have selected one of my own grade, I will gladly measure arms with him; meanwhile I quit this ungrateful town, probably for ever, to seek elsewhere a circle more suited to my tastes," &c. &c.

The seconds stared at one another; some laughed, others cursed, and Karely seeing there was nothing more to be done, took leave of his comrades, and, stepping into the carriage which was waiting for him, drove back to Berkessy's.

About half way he met their calèche, with his mother and sister, and old Berkessy and his daughter, who all uttered exclamations of joy on seeing him.

Some friend who had heard Kalman's threats in the café hastened that very evening to inform them of it, and they were now driving for life and death to S——, and were infinitely relieved and rejoiced to meet Karely returning, especially when he assured them that the affair had gone off without any bad consequence.

Berkessy proposed going home with Karely, to give the ladies more room, and they all drove back together.

Uncle Gabor then questioned Karely as to the cause of the duel, and having heard it was on his account, he opened his eyes in astonishment.

"And what right had you to demand satisfaction in my name?"

"That right which a son has in his father's name."

The old gentleman smiled. "But you are not my son."

"But might I not be?"

"Hm! nephew, you are certainly a fine, good-hearted lad, but they say you are very extravagant."

"Well, perhaps they are right; but had I not been so hitherto, I might have been hereafter."

"But how can I be sure that you will not be hereafter what you have been hitherto?"

"Please, dear uncle, give me a year's trial. If within that time you should hear anything against me, never admit me into your house again; if, however, I can prove that I have resolution to keep my word"—

"Then I will never let you leave my house again," said Uncle Gabor, shaking his hand.

Karely kept his word. A year had passed by, and daring all that time no temptation could prevail on him to diverge in the slightest degree from the resolution he had formed; and though he attended the county meetings as usual, he had not once been seen to gamble; and after a great dinner, he was sure to be the only sober one of the party. Meanwhile, he put his estate in order, and employed his leisure hours in studying languages. In the course of a year, he was looked upon as the most regular, as well as the most accomplished man in the district. He continues to be so still. He married Lina, whom he loves sincerely and faithfully; and seven years have not disturbed their family peace. Happiness is easily read in a woman's countenance, and the lapse of years has only beautified Lina's.

Sandor is also happy. He has a handsome wife with plenty of money; and Aunt Zsuzsi visits them every year, and wears her daughter-in-law's old-fashioned silk dresses.

Uncle Abris is happy in his own way. He has married Boriska; and is no longer obliged to pay her wages.

Uncle Lorincz Kassay is happy too. The visits from his relations never diminish—his house is always full; and among the many suitors for his pretty daughter's hand, "little Peterke," now a handsome youth, is not the least in favour.

Kalman alone is unhappy. Dissatisfied with the world, misunderstood by everybody, his hopeful genius has turned to misanthropy. Gentle reader, if you ever read bad verses, think of him with pity!

THE BARDY FAMILY.

We are far amidst the snow-clad mountains of Transylvania.

The scenery is magnificent. In clear weather, the plains of Hungary as far as the Rez promontory may be seen from the summits of the mountains. Groups of hills rise one above the other, covered with thick forest, which, at the period when our tale commences, had just begun to assume the first light green of spring.

Toward sunset, a slight purple mist overspread the farther pinnacles, leaving their ridges still tinged with gold. On the side of one of these hills, the white turrets of an ancient family mansion gleamed from amid the trees.

Its situation was peculiarly romantic. A steep rock descended on one side, on whose pinnacle there rose a simple cross. In the depth of the valley beneath lay a scattered village, whose evening bells melodiously broke the stillness of Nature.

Farther off, some broken roofs arose among the trees, from whence the sound of the mill, and the yellow-tinted stream, betrayed the miners' dwellings.

Through the meadows in the valley beneath, a serpentine rivulet wound its silvery way, interrupted by numerous falls and huge blocks of stone, which had been carried down in bygone ages from the mountains during the melting of the snows.

A little path, cut in the side of the rock, ascended to the castle; while, higher up, a broad road, somewhat broken by the mountain streams, conducted across the hills to more distant regions.

The castle itself was an old family mansion, which had received many additions at different periods, as the wealth or necessities of the family suggested.

It was surrounded by groups of ancient chestnut trees; and the terrace before the court was laid out in gardens, which were now filled with anemones, hyacinths, and other early flowers. Now and then the head of a joyous child appeared at the windows, which were opened to admit the evening breeze; while various members of the household retinue were seen hastening through the corridors, or standing at the doors in their embroidered liveries.

The castle was completely surrounded by a strong railwork of iron, the stone pillars of which were overgrown by the evergreen leaves of the gobea and epomoea.

It was the early spring of 1848.

A party, consisting of thirteen persons, had assembled in the dining-room. They were all members of one family, and all bore the name of Bardy.

At the head of the board sat the grandmother, an old lady of eighty years of age, whose snow-white hair was dressed according to the fashion of her times beneath her high white cap. Her face was pale and much wrinkled, and the eyes turned constantly upwards, as is the case with persons who have lost their sight. Her hand and voice trembled with age, and there was something peculiarly striking in the thick snow-white eyebrows.

On her right hand sat her eldest son, Thomas Bardy, a man of between fifty and sixty. With a haughty and commanding countenance, penetrating glance, lofty figure, and noble mien, he was a true type of that ancient aristocracy which is now beginning to die out.

Opposite to him, at the old lady's left hand, sat the darling of the family—a lovely girl of about fifteen. Her golden hair fell in luxuriant tresses round a countenance of singular beauty and sweetness. The large and lustrous deep-blue eyes were shaded by long dark lashes, and her complexion was pale as the lily, excepting when she smiled or spoke, and a slight flush like the dawn of morning overspread her cheeks.

Jolanka was the orphan child of a distant relative, whom the Bardys had adopted. They could not allow one who bore their name to suffer want; and it seemed as if each member of the family had united to heap affection and endearment on the orphan girl, and thus prevent her from feeling herself a stranger among them.

There were still two other female members of the family: Katalin, the old lady's daughter, who had been for many years a widow; and the wife of one of her sons, a pretty young woman, who was trying to teach the little prattler at her side to use the golden spoon which she had placed in his small fat hand, while he laughed and crowed, and the family did their best to guess what he said, or what he most preferred.

Opposite to them there sat two gentlemen. One of them was the husband of the young mother, Jozsef Bardy—a handsome man of about five-and-thirty, with regular features, and black hair and beard; a constant smile beamed on his gay countenance, while he playfully addressed his little son and gentle wife across the table. The other was his brother, Barnabas—a man of herculean form and strength. His face was marked by small-pox; he wore neither beard nor moustache, and his hair was combed smoothly back, like a peasant's. His disposition was melancholy and taciturn; but he seemed constantly striving to atone, by the amiability of his manners, for an unprepossessing exterior.

Next to him sat a little cripple, whose pale countenance bore that expression of suffering sweetness so peculiar to the deformed; while his lank hair, bony hands, and misshapen shoulders awakened the beholder's pity. He, too, was an orphan—a grandchild of the old lady; his parents had died some years before.

Two little boys of about five years old sat opposite to him. They were dressed alike, and the resemblance between them was so striking, that they were constantly mistaken. They were twin-children of the young couple.

At the lower end of the table sat Imre Bardy, a young man of twenty, whose handsome countenance was full of life and intelligence, his figure manly and graceful, and his manners courteous and agreeable: a slight moustache was beginning to shade his upper lip, and his dark hair fell in natural ringlets round his head. He was the only son of the majoresco, Tamas Bardy, and resembled him much in form and feature.

Beside him sat an old gentleman, with white hair and ruddy complexion. This was Simon Bardy, an ancient relative, who had grown old with the grandmother of the family.

The same peculiarity characterized every countenance in the Bardy family—namely, the lofty forehead and marked brows, and the large deep-blue eyes, shaded by their heavy dark lashes.[17]

[17] There is a race of Hungarians in the Karpath, who, unlike the Hungarians of the plain, have blue eyes, and often fair hair.

"How singular!" exclaimed one of the party; "we are thirteen at table to-day."

"One of us will surely die," said the old lady; and there was a mournful conviction in the faint trembling tones.

"O no, grandmother! we are only twelve and a half," exclaimed the young mother, taking the little one on her knee. "This little fellow only counts half on the railroad."

All the party laughed at this remark; even the little cripple's pale countenance relaxed into a sickly smile.

"Ay, ay," continued the old lady, "the trees are now putting forth their verdure; but at the fall of the leaf, who knows if all, or any of us, may still be sitting here?"

Several months had passed since this slight incident.

In one of the apartments of the castle, the eldest Bardy and his son were engaged in earnest conversation.

The father paced hastily up and down the apartment, now and then stopping short to address his son, who stood in the embrasure of one of the windows. The latter wore the dress of the Matyas Hussars[18]—a gray dolmany, with crimson cord; he held a crimson csako, with a tricoloured cockade in his hand.

[18] Part of the free corps raised in 1848.

"Go," said his father, speaking in broken accents, "the sooner the better; let me not see you!—do not think I speak in anger; but I cannot bear to look at you, and think where you are going. You are my only son, and you know how I have loved you—how all my hopes have been concentrated in you. But do not think that these tears, which you see me shed for the first time, are on your account; for if I knew I should lose you—if your blood were to flow at the next battle, I should only bow my head in the dust and say, The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, blessed be His holy name! Yes, if I heard that you and your infatuated companions were cut to pieces, I could stifle the burning tears; but to know that your blood, when it flows, will be a curse upon the earth, and your death will be the death of two kingdoms"—

"They may die now; but they will regenerate"—

"That is not true; you only deceive yourselves with the idea that you can build up a new edifice when you have overthrown the old one. Great God, what sacrilege! Who has intrusted you with the fate of your country, to tempt the Almighty? Who authorized you to lose all there is for the hope of what may be? For centuries past, have so many honourable men fought in vain to uphold the old tottering constitution, as you call it? or were they not true patriots and heroes? Your companions have hissed their persecuted countrymen in the Diet; but do they love their country better than we do, who have shed our blood and sacrificed our interests for her from generation to generation, and even suffered disgrace, if necessary, to keep her in life?—for though that life has been gradually weakened, still it is life. You promise her glory; but the name of that glory is Death!"

"It may be so, father; we may lose our country as regards ourselves, but we give one instead to ten millions, who were hitherto our own people, and yet strangers in their native land!"

"Chimera! The people will not understand you. They never even dreamt of what you wish to give them. The true way to seek the people's welfare is to give them what they need.

"Ask my dependants! Is there one among them whom I have allowed to suffer want or ruin, whom I have not assisted in times of need?—or have I ever treated them unjustly? You will not hear a murmur. Tell them that I am unjust notwithstanding, because I do not call the peasant from his plough to give his opinion on forming the laws and constitution,—and what will be the consequence? They will stare at you in astonishment; and yet, in mistaken wrath they will come down some night and burn this house over my head."

"That is the unnatural state of the times. It is all the fault of past bad management, if the people have no better ideas. But let the peasant once be free—let him be a man, and he will understand all that is now strange to him."

"But that freedom will cost the lives of thousands!"

"I do not deny it. Indeed I believe that neither I nor any of the present generation will reap the fruits of this movement. I think it probable that in a few years not one of those whose names we now hear spoken of may still be living; and, what is more, disgrace and curses may be heaped upon their dust. But a time will come when the great institutions of which they have laid the foundation will arise and render justice to the memory of those who sacrificed themselves for the happiness of future generations. To die for our country is a glorious death; but to carry to the grave with us the curses of thousands, to die despised and hated for the salvation of future millions, oh! that is sublime—it is Messiah-like!"

"My son—my only son!" cried his father, throwing himself passionately on the young man's neck, and sobbing bitterly, "do you see these tears?"

"For the first time in my life I see them, father—I see you weep; my heart can scarcely bear the weight of these tears—and yet I go! You have reason to weep, for I bring neither joy nor glory on your head—and yet I go! A feeling stronger than the desire of glory, stronger than the love of my country, inspires my soul; and it is a proof of the strength of my faith that I see your tears, my father—and yet go!"

"Go!" murmured his father in a voice of despair. "You may never return again, or, when you do, you may find neither your father's house nor the grave in which he is laid! But know, even then, in the hour of your death, or in the hour of mine, I do not curse you—and now, leave me." With these words he turned away, and motioned to his son to depart.

Imre silently left the apartment, and as soon as he had closed the door the tears streamed from his eyes; but before his sword had struck the last step his countenance had regained its former determination, and the fire of enthusiasm had kindled in his eye.

He then went to take leave of his Uncle Jozsef, whom he found surrounded by his family. The twins were sitting at his feet, while his wife was playing bo-peep with the little one, who laughed and shouted, while his mother hid herself behind his father's arm-chair.

Imre's entrance interrupted the general mirth. The little boys ran over to examine the sword and golden tassels, while the little one began to cry in alarm at the sight of the strange dress.

"Csitt baba!" said his mother, taking him from his father's arms; "your cousin is going to the wars, and will bring you a golden horse."

Jozsef wrung his nephew's hand. "God be with you!" he exclaimed; and added in a lower voice, "You are the noblest of us all—you have done well!"

They then all embraced him by turns, and Imre left them, amidst the clamours of the little ones, and proceeded to his grandmother's apartments.

On the way, he met his Uncle Barnabas, who embraced him again and again in silence, and then tore himself away without saying a word.

The old lady sat in her great arm-chair, which she seldom quitted, and as she heard the clash of Imre's sword, she looked up and asked who was coming.

"It is Imre!" said the fair-haired maiden, blushing, and her heart beat quickly as she pronounced his name.

Jolanka felt that Imre was more than a brother to her, and the feeling with which she had learnt to return his affection was warmer than even a sister's love.

The widow lady and the little cripple were also in the grandmother's apartment: the child sat on a stool at the old lady's feet, and smiled sadly as the young man entered.

"Why that sword at your side, Imre?" asked the old lady in a feeble voice. "Ah, this is no good world—no good world! But if God is against us, who can resist His hand? I have spoken with the dead again in dreams: I thought they all came round me and beckoned me to follow them; but I am ready to go, and place my life with gratitude and confidence in the hand of the Lord. Last night I saw the year 1848 written in the skies in letters of fire. Who knows what may come over us yet! This is no good world—no good world!"

Imre bent silently over the old lady's hand and kissed it.

"And so you are going?—well, God bless and speed you, if you go beneath the cross, and never forget in life or in death to raise your heart to the Lord;" and the old lady placed her withered hand upon her grandson's head, and murmured, "God Almighty bless you!"

"My husband was just such a handsome youth when I lost him," sighed the widow lady as she embraced her nephew; "God bless you!"

The little cripple threw his arms round his cousin's knees, and, sobbing, entreated him not to stay long away.

The last who bade farewell was Jolanka. She approached with downcast eyes, holding in her small white hands an embroidered cockade, which she placed on his breast. It was composed of five colours—blue and gold, red, white, and green.[19]

[19] Blue and gold are the colours of Transylvania.

"I understand," said the young man, in a tone of joyful surprise, as he pressed the sweet girl to his heart; "Erdely[20] and Hungary united! I shall win glory for your colours!"

[20] Transylvania.

The maiden yielded to his warm embrace, murmuring, as he released her, "Remember me!"

"When I cease to remember you, I shall be no more," replied the youth fervently.

And then he kissed the young girl's brow, and once more bidding them all farewell, he hurried from the apartment.

Old Simon Bardy lived on the first floor: Imre did not forget him.

"Well, nephew," said the old man cheerfully, "God speed you, and give you strength to cut down many Turks!"

"It is not with the Turks that we shall have to do," replied the young man, smiling.

"Well, with the French," said the old soldier of the past century, correcting himself.

A page waited at the gate, with two horses saddled and bridled.

"I shall not require you—you may remain at home," said Imre, as, taking the bridle of one of the horses and vaulting lightly into the saddle, he pressed his csako over his brow and galloped from the castle.

As he rode under the cross, he checked his horse and looked back. Was it of his grandmother's words, or of the golden-haired Jolanka that he thought?

A white handkerchief waved from the window.

"Farewell, light of my soul!" murmured the youth; and kissing his hand, he once more dashed his spurs into his horse's flanks, and turned down the steep hill.

Those were strange times. All at once the villages began to be depopulated; the inhabitants disappeared, none knew whither. The doors of the houses were closed.

The bells were no longer heard in the evening, nor the maiden's song as she returned from her work. The barking of dogs which had lost their masters alone interrupted the silence of the streets, where the grass began to grow.

Imre Bardy rode through the street of the village without meeting a soul; few of the chimneys had smoke, and no fires gleamed through the kitchen windows.

Evening was drawing on, and a slight transparent mist had overspread the valley. Imre was desirous of reaching Kolozsvar[21] early on the next morning, and continued his route all night. About midnight the moon rose behind the trees, shedding her silvery light over the forest. All was still, excepting the echo of the miner's hammer, and the monotonous sound of his horse's step along the rocky path. He rode on, lost in thought; when suddenly the horse stopped short, and pricked his ears.

[21] Klausenburg.

"Come, come," said Imre, stroking his neck, "you have not heard the cannon yet."

The animal at last proceeded, turning his head impatiently from side to side, and snorting and neighing with fear.

The road now led through a narrow pass between two rocks, whose summits almost met; and a slight bridge, formed of one or two rotten planks, was thrown across the dry channel of a mountain stream which cut up the path.

As Imre reached the bridge, the horse backed, and no spurring could induce him to cross. Imre at last pressed his knees angrily against the trembling animal, striking him at the same time across the neck with the bridle, on which the horse suddenly cleared the chasm at one bound, and then again turned and began to back.

At that instant a fearful cry rose from beneath, which was echoed from the rocks around, and ten or fifteen savage-looking beings climbed from under the bridge, with lances formed of upright scythes.

Even then there would have been time for the horseman to turn back, and dash through the handful of men behind him; but either he was ashamed of turning from the first conflict, or he was desirous, at any risk, to reach Kolozsvar at the appointed time; and instead of retreating by the bridge, he galloped towards the other end of the pass, where the enemy rushed upon him from every side, yelling hideously.

"Back, Wallachian dogs!" cried Imre, cutting two of them down, while several others sprang forward with their scythes.

Two shots whistled by, and Imre, letting go the bridle, cut right and left, his sword gleaming rapidly among the awkward weapons; and, taking advantage of a moment in which the enemy's charge began to slacken, he suddenly dashed through the crowd towards the outlet of the rock, without perceiving that another party awaited him above the rocks with great stones, with which they prepared to crush him as he passed.

He was only a few paces from the spot, when a gigantic figure, armed with a short broad axe, and with a Roman helmet on his head, descended from the rock in front of him, and seizing the reins of the horse, forced him to halt.

The young man aimed a blow at his enemy's head, and the helmet fell back, cut through the middle, but the force of the blow had broken his sword in two; and the horse, lifted by his giant foe, reared, so that the rider, losing his balance, was thrown against the side of the rock, and fell senseless to the ground. At the same instant a shot was fired towards them from the top of the rock.

"Who fired there?" cried the giant, in a voice of thunder.

The bloodthirsty Wallachians would have rushed madly on their defenceless prey, had not the giant stood between him and them.

"Who fired on me?" he sternly exclaimed.

The Wallachians stood back in terror.

"It was not on you, Decurio, that I fired, but on the hussar," stammered out one of the men, on whom the giant had fixed his eye.

"You lie, traitor! Your ball struck my armour; and had I not worn a shirt of mail, it would have pierced my heart."

The man turned deadly pale, trembling from head to foot.

"My enemies have paid you to murder me?"

The savage tried to speak, but the words died upon his lips.

"Hang him instantly—he is a traitor!"

The rest of the gang immediately seized the culprit and carried him to the nearest tree, from whence his shrieks soon testified that the sentence was being put in execution.

The Decurio remained alone with the young man; and hastily lifting him, still senseless, from the ground, he mounted his horse, and placing him before him, ere the savage horde had returned, he had galloped to some distance along the road from whence the youth had come, covering him with his mantle as he passed the bridge, to conceal him from several of the gang who stood there, and exclaiming: "Follow me to Topanfalva."

As soon as they were out of sight, he suddenly turned to the left, down a steep hilly path, and struck into the depth of the forest.

The morning sun had just shot its first beams across the hills, tinting with golden hues the reddening autumn leaves, when the young hussar began to move in his fevered dreams, and murmured the name "Jolanka."

In a few moments he opened his eyes. He was lying in a small chamber, through the only window of which the sunbeams shone upon his face.

The bed on which he lay was made of lime-boughs, simply woven together, and covered with wolves' skins. A gigantic form was leaning against the foot of the bed with his arms folded, and as the young man awoke, he turned round. It was the Decurio.

"Where am I?" asked the young man, vaguely endeavouring to recall the events of the past night.

"In my house," replied the Decurio.

"And who are you?"

"I am Numa, Decurio of the Roumin[22] Legion, your foe in battle, but now your host and protector."

[22] The Wallachians were, in the days of Trajan, subdued by the Romans, with whom they became intermixed, and are also called Roumi.

"And why did you save me from your men?" asked the young man, after a short silence.

"Because the strife was unequal—a hundred against one."

"But had it not been for you, I could have freed myself from them."

"Without me you had been lost. Ten paces from where I stopped your horse, you would inevitably have been dashed to pieces by huge stones which they were preparing to throw down upon you from the rock."

"And you did not desire my death?"

"No, because it would have reflected dishonour on the Roumin name."

"You are a chivalrous man, Decurio!"

"I am what you are: I know your character, and the same feeling inspires us both. You love your nation, as I do mine. Your nation is great and cultivated; mine is despised and neglected, and my love is the more bitterly devoted. Your love for your country makes you happy; mine deprives me of peace. You have taken up arms to defend your country without knowing your own strength, or the numbers of the foe; I have done the same. Either of us may lose, or we may both be blotted out; but though the arms may lie buried in the earth, rust will not eat them."

"I do not understand your grievances."

"You do not understand? Know, then, that although fourteen centuries have passed since the Roman eagle overthrew Diurbanus, there are still those among us—the now barbarous people—who can trace their descent from generation to generation, up to the times of its past glory. We have still our traditions, if we have nothing more; and can point out what forest stands in the place of the ancient Sarmisaegethusa, and what town is built where once Decebalus overthrew the far-famed troops of the Consulate. And alas for that town! if the graves over which its houses are built should once more open, and turn the populous streets into a field of battle! What is become of the nation, the heir of so much glory?—the proud Dacians, the descendants of the far-famed legions? I do not reproach any nation for having brought us to what we now are; but let none reproach me if I desire to restore my people to what they once were."

"And do you believe that this is the time?"

"We have no prophets to point out the hour; but it seems yours do not see more clearly. We shall attempt it now; and if we fail, our grandchildren will attempt it again. We have nothing to lose but a few lives; you risk much that is worth losing, and yet you assemble beneath the banner of war. Then what would you do if you were like us?—a people who possess nothing in the world, among whom there is not one able or one instructed head; for although every third man bears the name of Popa, it is not every hundredth who can read: a people excluded from every employment; who live a miserable life in the severest manual labour; who have not one noble city in their country, the home of three-fourths of their people! Why should we seek to know the signs of the times in which we are to die, or be regenerated? We have nothing but our wretchedness, and if we are conquered we lose nothing. Oh! you did wrong for your own peace to leave a nation to such utter neglect!"

"We do not take up arms for our nation alone, but for freedom in general."

"You do wrong. It is all the same to us who our sovereign may be, only let him be just towards us, and raise up our fallen people; but you will destroy your nation—its power, its influence, and privileges—merely that you may live in a country without a head."

A loud uproar interrupted the conversation. A disorderly troop of Wallachians approached the Decurio's house, triumphantly bearing the hussar's csako on a pole before them.

"Had I left you there last night, they would now have exhibited your head instead of your csako."

The crowd halted before the Decurio's window, greeting him with loud vociferations.

The Decurio spoke a few words in the Wallachian language, on which they replied more vehemently than before, at the same time thrusting forward the kalpag on the pole.

The Decurio turned hastily round. "Was your name written on your kalpag?" he asked the young man, in evident embarrassment.

"It was."

"Unhappy youth! The people, furious at not having found you, are determined to attack your father's house."

"And you will permit them?" asked the youth, starting from bed.

"I dare not contradict them, unless I would lose their confidence. I can prevent nothing."

"Give me up—let them wreak their bloody vengeance on my head!"

"I should only betray myself for having concealed you; and it would not save your father's house."

"And if they murder the innocent and unprotected, on whom will the ignominy of their blood fall?"

"On me; but I will give you the means of preventing this disgrace. Do you accept it?"

"Speak!"

"I will give you a disguise; hasten to Kolozsvar and assemble your comrades—then return and protect your house. I will await you there, and man to man, in open honourable combat, the strife will no longer be ignominious."

"Thanks! thanks!" murmured the youth, pressing the Decurio's hand.

"There is not a moment to lose; here is a peasant's mantle—if you should be interrogated, you have only to show this paszura,[23] and mention my name. Your not knowing the language is of no consequence; my men are accustomed to see Hungarian gentlemen visit me in disguise, and having only seen you by night, they will not recognise you."

[23] Everything on which the double-headed eagle—the emblem of the Austrian Government—was painted, engraved, or sculptured, the Wallachians call paszura.

Imre hastily took the dress, while the Decurio spoke to the people, made arrangements for the execution of their plans, and pointed out the way to the castle, promising to follow them immediately.

"Accept my horse as a remembrance," said the young man, turning to the Decurio.

"I accept it, as it would only raise suspicion were you to mount it; but you may recover it again in the field. Haste, and lose no time! If you delay, you will bring mourning on your own head, and disgrace on mine!"

In a few minutes the young man, disguised as a Wallachian peasant, was hastening on foot across the hills to Kolozsvar.

It was past midnight.

The inhabitants of the Bardy castle had all retired to rest. The iron gate was locked and the windows barred, when suddenly the sound of demoniac cries roused the slumberers from their dreams.

"What is that noise?" cried Jozsef Bardy, springing from his bed, and rushing to the window.

"The Olahok!"[24] cried a hussar, who had rushed to his master's apartments on hearing the sounds.

[24] Olah, Wallachian—ok, plural.

"The Olah! the Olah!" was echoed through the corridors by the terrified servants.

By the light of a few torches, a hideous crowd was seen before the windows, armed with scythes and axes, which they were brandishing with fearful menaces.

"Lock all the doors!" cried Jozsef Bardy, with calm presence of mind; "barricade the great entrance, and take the ladies and children to the back rooms. You must not lose your heads, but all assemble together in the turret-chamber, from whence the whole building may be protected." And, taking down two good rifles from over his bed, he hastened to his elder brother Tamas's apartments.

He found him already dressed in his richest costume, with his jewelled sabre by his side, and walking calmly up and down the room. The turret-chamber opened from his apartments, and overlooked the court.

"Have you heard the noise?" asked his brother as he entered.

"I knew it would come," he replied, and coolly continued to pace the room.

"And are you not preparing for defence?"

"To what purpose?—they will kill us all. I am quite prepared for what must inevitably happen."

"But it will not happen if we defend ourselves courageously. We are eight men—the walls of the castle are strong—the besiegers have no guns, and no place to protect them; we may hold out for days, until assistance comes from Kolozsvar."

"We shall lose," replied Tamas coldly, and without the slightest change of countenance.

"Then I shall defend the castle myself. I have a wife and children—our old grandmother and our sister are here, and I shall protect them, if I remain alone."

At that instant Barnabas and old Simon entered with the widowed sister.

Barnabas had a huge twenty-pound iron club in his hand; grinding his teeth, and with eyes darting fire, he seemed capable of meeting single-handed the whole troop.

He was followed by the widow, with two loaded pistols in her hand, and old Simon, who entreated them not to use violence, or exasperate the enemy.

"Conduct yourselves bravely!" replied the widow, drily; "let us not die in vain."

"Come with me—we shall send them all to hell!" cried Barnabas, swinging the club in his herculean arm as if it had been a reed.

"Let us not be too hasty," interrupted Jozsef; "we will stand here in the tower, from whence we can shoot every one that approaches, and if they break in, we can meet them on the stairs."

"For Heaven's sake!" cried Simon, "what are you going to do? If you kill one of them, they will massacre us all. Speak to them peaceably—promise them wine—take them to the cellar—give them money—try to pacify them! Nephew Tamas, you will speak to them?" continued the old man, turning to Tamas, who still paced up and down, without the slightest visible emotion.

"Pacification or resistance are equally vain," he replied coldly; "we are inevitably lost!"

"We have no time for delay," said Jozsef impatiently, "take the arms from the wall, Barnabas, give one to each servant—let them stand at the back windows of the house, we two are enough here. Sister, stand between the windows, that the stones may not hit you; and when you load, do not strike the balls too far in, that our aim may be the more secure!"

"No! no!—I cannot let you fire," exclaimed the old man, endeavouring to drag Jozsef from the window. "You must not fire yet—only remain quiet."

"Go to the hurricane, old man! would you have us use holy water against a shower of stones?"

At that instant several large stones were dashed through the windows, breaking the furniture against which they fell.

"Only wait," said Simon, "until I speak with them. I am sure I shall pacify them. I can speak their language, and I know them all—just let me go to them."

"A vain idea! If you sue for mercy they will certainly kill you, but if you show courage, you may bring them to their senses. You had better stay and take a gun."

But the old man was already out of hearing, and, hurrying down stairs, he went out of a back door into the court, which the Wallachians had not yet taken possession of.

They were endeavouring to break down one of the stone pillars of the iron gate with their axes and hammers, and had already succeeded in making an aperture, through which one of the gang now climbed.

Old Simon recognised him. "Lupuj, my son, what do you want here?" said the old man. "Have we ever offended you? Do you forget all that I have done for you?—how I cured your wife when she was so ill, and got you off from the military; and how, when your ox died, I gave you two fine bullocks to replace it? Do you not know me, my son Lupuj?"

"I am not your son Lupuj now; I am a 'malcontent!'" cried the Wallachian, aiming a blow with his heavy hammer at the old man's head.

Uttering a deep groan, Simon fell lifeless to the ground.

The rest of the party saw the scene from the tower.

Barnabas rushed from the room like a maddened tiger, while Jozsef, retiring cautiously behind the embrasure of the window, aimed his gun as they were placing his uncle's head upon a spike, and shot the first who raised it. Another seized it, and the next instant he too fell to the earth; another, and another, as many as attempted to raise the head, till, finally, none dared approach.

The widow loaded the guns, while Tamas sat quietly in an arm-chair.

Meanwhile Barnabas had hurried to the attics, where several large fragments of iron had been stowed away, and, dragging them to a window which overlooked the entrance, he waited until the gang had assembled round the door, and were trying to break in; when, lifting an enormous piece with gigantic strength, he dropped it on the heads of the besiegers.

Fearful cries arose, and the gang, who were at the door, fled right and left, leaving four or five of their number crushed beneath the ponderous mass.

The next moment they returned with redoubled fury, dashing stones against the windows and the roof, while the door resounded with the blows of their clubs.

Notwithstanding the stones which were flying round him, Barnabas stood at the window dashing down the heavy iron masses, and killing two or three men every time.

His brother, meanwhile, continued firing from the tower, and not a ball was aimed in vain. The besiegers had lost a great number, and began to fall back, after fruitless efforts to break in the door, when a footman entered breathless, to inform Barnabas that the Wallachians were beginning to scale the opposite side of the castle with ladders, and that the servants were unable to resist them.

Barnabas rushed to the spot.

Two servants lay mortally wounded in one of the back rooms, through the windows of which the Wallachians were already beginning to enter, while another ladder had been placed against the opposite window, which they were beginning to scale as Barnabas entered.

"Here, wretches!" he roared furiously, and, seizing the ladder with both hands, shook it so violently that the men were precipitated from it, and then, lifting it with supernatural strength, he dashed it against the opposite one, which broke with the force of the weight thrown against it, the upper part falling backwards with the men upon it, while one of the party remained hanging from the window-sill, and, after immense exertions to gain a footing, he too fell to the earth.

Barnabas rushed into the next room grinding his teeth, his lips foaming, and his face of a livid hue: so appalling was his whole appearance, that one of the gang, who had been the first to enter by the window, turned pale with terror, and dropped his axe.

Taking advantage of this, Barnabas darted on his enemy, and, dragging him with irresistible force to the window, he dashed him from it.

"On here! as many as you are," he shouted furiously, the blood gushing from his mouth from the blow of a stone. "On! all who wish a fearful death!"

At that instant, a shriek of terror rose within the house. The Wallachians had discovered the little back door which Simon had left open, and, stealing through it, were already inside the house, when the shrieks of a servant girl gave the besieged notice of their danger.

Barnabas, seizing his club, hurried in the direction of the sounds; he met his brother on the stairs, who had likewise heard the cry, and hastened thither with his gun in his hand, accompanied by the widow.

"Go, sister!" said Jozsef, "take my wife and children to the attics; we will try to guard the staircase step by step. Kiss them all for me. If we die, the villains will put us all in one grave—we shall meet again!"

The widow retired.

The two brothers silently pressed hands, and then, standing on the steps, awaited their enemies. They did not wait long.

The bloodhounds, with shouts of vengeance, rushed on the narrow stone stairs.

"Hah! thus near I love to have you, dogs of hell!" cried Barnabas, raising his iron club with both hands, and dealing such blows right and left, that none whom it reached rose again. The stairs were covered with the dead and wounded, while their death-cries, and the sound of the heavy club, echoed fearfully through the vaulted building.

The foremost of the gang retreated as precipitately as they had advanced, but were continually pressed forward again by the numbers from behind, while Barnabas drove them back unweariedly, cutting an opening through them with the blows of his club.

He had already beaten them back nearly to the bottom of the stairs, when one of the gang, who had concealed himself in a niche, pierced him through the back with a spike.

Dashing his club amongst the retreating crowd, he turned with a cry of rage, and, seizing his murderer by the shoulders, dragged him down with him to the ground.

The first four who rushed to help the murderer were shot dead by Jozsef Bardy, who, when he had fired off both his muskets, still defended his prostrate brother with the butt-end of one, until he was overpowered and disarmed; after which a party of them carried him out to the iron cross, and crucified him on it amidst the most shocking tortures.

On trying to separate the other brother from his murderer, they found them both dead. With his last strength Barnabas had choked his enemy, whom he still held firmly in his deadly grip, and they were obliged to cut off his hand in order to disengage the Wallachian's body.

Tamas, the eldest brother, now alone survived. Seated in his arm-chair, he calmly awaited his enemies, with a large silver chandelier burning on the table before him.

As the noise approached his chamber, he drew from its jewelled sheath his broad curved sword, and, placing it on the table before him, proceeded coolly to examine the ancient blade, which was inscribed with unknown characters.

At last the steps were at the door; the handle was turned—it had not even been locked.

The magnate rose, and, taking his sword from the table, he stood silently and calmly before his enemies, who rushed upon him with fearful oaths, brandishing their weapons still reeking with the blood of his brothers.

The nobleman stood motionless as a statue until they came within two paces of him; when suddenly the bright black steel gleamed above his head, and the foremost man fell at his feet with his skull split to the chin. The next received a deep gash in the shoulder of his outstretched arm; but not a word escaped the magnate's lips, his countenance retained its cold, and stern expression, as he looked at his enemies in calm disdain, as if to say,—"Even in combat a nobleman is worth ten boors."

Warding off with the skill of a professed swordsman, every blow aimed at him, he coolly measured his own thrusts, inflicting severe wounds on his enemies' faces and heads; but the more he evaded them, the more furious they became. At last he received a severe wound in the leg from a scythe, and fell on one knee; but, without evincing the slightest pain, he still continued fighting with the savage mob, until, after a long and obstinate struggle, he fell, without a murmur, or even a death-groan.

The enraged gang cut his body to pieces, and in a few minutes they had hoisted the head on his own sword. Even then the features retained their haughty and contemptuous expression.

He was the last man of the family with whom they had to combat, but more than a hundred of their own band lay stretched in the court and before the windows, covering the stairs and rooms with heaps of bodies; and when the shouts of triumph ceased for an instant, the groans of the wounded and the dying were heard from every side.

None now remained but women and children.

When the Wallachians broke into the castle, the widow had taken them all to the attics, leaving the door open, that her brothers might find a refuge in case they were forced to retreat; and here the weaker members of the family awaited the issue of the combat which was to bring them life or death, listening breathlessly to the uproar, and endeavouring, from its confused sounds, to determine good or evil.

At last the voices died away, and the hideous cries of the besiegers ceased. The trembling women believed that the Wallachians had been driven out, and, breathing more freely, each awaited with impatience the approach of brother—husband—sons.

At last a heavy step was heard on the stairs leading to the garret.

"That is Barnabas's step!" cried the widow joyfully, and, still holding the pistols in her hand, she ran to the door of the garret.

Instead of her expected brother, a savage form, drunken with blood, strode towards her, his countenance burning with rage and triumph.

The widow started back, uttering a shriek of terror, and then, with that unaccountable courage of desperation, she aimed one of the pistols at the Wallachian's breast, who instantly fell backwards on one of his comrades, who followed close behind. The other pistol she discharged into her own bosom.

And now we must draw a veil over the scene that followed.

What happened there may not be witnessed by human eyes. Suffice it to say, they murdered every one, women and children, with the most refined and brutal cruelty, and then threw their dead bodies out of the window from which Barnabas had dashed down the iron fragments on the besiegers' heads.

They left the old grandmother to the last, that she might witness the extermination of her whole family. Happily for her, her eyes had ceased to distinguish the light of the sun, and ere long the light of an eternal glory had risen upon them.

The Wallachians then dug a common grave for the bodies, and threw them all in together. The little one, whom his parents loved so well, they cast in alive, his nurse having escaped from the attics and carried him down stairs, where they had been overtaken by the savages.

"There are only eleven here!" cried one of the gang, who had counted the bodies; "one of them must be still alive somewhere—there ought to be twelve!" and then they once more rushed through the empty rooms, overturning all the furniture, and cutting up and breaking everything they met with. They searched the garrets and every corner of the cellars, but without success.

At last a yell of triumph was heard. One of them had discovered a door which, being painted of the same colour as the walls, had hitherto escaped their observation. It concealed a small apartment in the turret. With a few blows of their axes it was broken open, and they rushed in.

"Ah! a rare booty!" cried the foremost of the ruffians, while, with bloodthirsty curiosity, the others pressed round to see the new victim.

There lay the little orphan with the golden hair; her eyes were closed, and a death-like hue had overspread her beautiful features.

Her aunt, with an instinctive foreboding, had concealed her here when she took the others to the attics.

The orphan grasped a sharp knife in her hand, with which she had attempted to kill herself; and when her fainting hands refused the fearful service, she had swooned in despair.

"Ah!" cried the Wallachians, in savage admiration, their bloodthirsty countenances assuming a still more hellish expression.

"This is common booty!" cried several voices together.

"A beautiful girl! A noble lady! ha, ha, ha! She will just suit the tattered Wallachians!" and with their foul and bloody hands, they seized the young girl by her fair slight arms.

"Ha! what is going on here?" thundered a voice from behind.

The Wallachians looked round.

A figure stood among them fully a head taller than all the rest. He wore a brass helmet, in which a deep cleft was visible, and held in his left hand a short Roumin sword. His features bore the ancient Roman character.

"The Decurio!" they murmured, making way for him.

"What is going on here?" he repeated; and seeing the fainting girl in the arms of a Wallachian, he ordered him to lay her down.

"She is one of our enemies," replied the savage insolently.

"Silence, knave! Does one of the Roumin nation seek enemies in women? lay her down instantly."

"Not so, leader," interrupted Lupuj; "our laws entitle us to a division of the spoil. This girl is our booty; she belongs to us after the victory."

"I know our laws better than you do, churl! Due division of spoil is just and fair; but we cast lots for what cannot be divided."

"True, leader: a horse or an ox cannot be divided, and for them we cast lots; but in this case"—

"I have said it cannot, and I should like to know who dares to say it can!"

Lupuj knew the Decurio too well to proffer another syllable, and the rest turned silently away from the girl; one voice alone was heard to exclaim, "It can!"

"Who dares to say that?" cried the Decurio; "let him come forward!"

A young Wallachian, with long plaited hair, confronted the Decurio. He was evidently intoxicated, and replied, striking his breast with his fist: "I said so."

Scarcely had the words escaped his lips, than the Decurio, raising his left hand, severed the contradictor's head at one stroke from his body; and as it fell back, the lifeless trunk dropped on its knees before the Decurio, with its arms round him, as if in supplication.

"Dare any one still say it can?" asked Numa, with merciless rigour.

The Wallachians turned silently away.

"Put the horses immediately to the carriage; the girl must be placed in it, and brought to Topanfalva. Whoever has the good fortune of winning her, has a right to receive her as I confide her to you; but if any one of you should dare to offend her in the slightest degree, even by a look or a smile, remember this, and take example from it," continued the Decurio, pointing with his sword to the headless body of the young man. "And now you may go—destroy and pillage."

At these words the band scattered right and left, leaving the Decurio with the fainting girl, whom he lifted into the carriage and confided to some faithful retainers of the family, pointing out the road across the hills.

In half an hour the castle was in flames; and the Wallachians, descending into the cellars, had knocked out the bottoms of the casks, and bathed in the sea of flowing wine and brandy, singing wild songs, while the fire burst from every window, enveloping the blackened walls; after which the revellers departed, leaving their dead, and those who were too helplessly intoxicated to follow them.

Meanwhile, they brought the young girl to the Decurio's house; and as each man considered that he had an equal right to the prize, they kept a vigilant eye upon her, and none dared offend her so much as by a look.

When the Decurio arrived, they all crowded into the house with him, filling the rooms, as well as the entrance and porch.

Having laid out the spoil before them on the ground, the leader proceeded to divide it into equal shares, retaining for himself the portion of ten men, after which most of the band dispersed to their homes; but a good many remained, greedily eyeing their still unappropriated victim, who lay pale and motionless as the dead on the couch of lime-boughs, where they had laid her.

"You are waiting, I suppose, to cast lots for the girl?" said Numa drily.

"Certainly," replied Lupuj, with an insolent leer; "and his she will be who casts highest. If two, or ten, or twenty of us should cast the same, we have an equal right to her."

"I tell you only one can have her," interrupted Numa sternly.

"Then those who win must cast again among each other."

"Casting the die will not do: we may throw all day long, and two may remain at the end."

"Well, let us play cards for her."

"I cannot allow that: the more cunning will deceive the simpler."

"Well, write our names upon bricks, and throw them all into a barrel; and whichever name you draw will take away the girl."

"I can say what name I please, for none of you can read."

The Wallachian shook his head impatiently.

"Well, propose something yourself, Decurio."

"I will. Let us try which of us can give the best proof of courage and daring; and whoever can do that, shall have the girl, for he best deserves her."

"Well said!" cried the men unanimously. "Let us each relate what we have done, and then you can judge which among us is the boldest."

"I killed the first Bardy in the court, in sight of his family."

"I broke in the door, when that terrible man was dashing down the iron on our heads."

"But it was I who pierced his heart."

"I mounted the stairs first."

"I fought nearly half an hour with the noble in the cloth of gold."

And thus they continued. Each man, according to his own account, was the first and the bravest—each had performed miracles of valour.

"You have all behaved with great daring; but it is impossible now to prove what has happened. The proof must be given here, by all of you together, before my eyes, indisputably."

"Well, tell us how," said Lupuj impatiently, always fearing that the Decurio was going to deceive them.

"Look here," said Numa, drawing a small cask from beneath the bed—and in doing so he observed that the young girl half opened her eyes, as she glanced at him, and then closed them. She was awake, and had heard all.

As he stooped down, Numa whispered gently in her ear: "Fear nothing," and then drew the cask into the middle of the room.

The Wallachians stared with impatient curiosity as he knocked out the bottom of the cask with a hatchet.

"This cask contains gunpowder," continued the Decurio. "We will light a match and place it in the middle of the cask, and whoever remains longest in the room is undoubtedly the most courageous; for there is enough here to blow up not only this house, but the whole of the neighbouring village."

At this proposition several of the men began to murmur.

"If any are afraid, they are not obliged to remain," said the Decurio drily.

"I agree," said Lupuj doggedly, "I will remain here; and perhaps, after all, it is poppy-seeds you have got there—it looks very like them."

The Decurio stooped down, and taking a small quantity between his fingers, threw it into the Wallachian's pipe, which immediately exploded, causing him to stagger backwards, and the next instant he stood with a blackened visage, sans beard and moustache, amidst the jeers and laughter of his comrades.

This only exasperated him the more.

"I will stay for all that," he exclaimed; and lifting up the pipe which he had dropped, he walked over and lit it at the burning match which the Decurio was placing in the cask.

Upon this, two-thirds of the men left the room.

The rest assembled round the cask with much noise and bravado, swearing by heaven and earth that they would stay until the match was burned out; but the more they swore, the more they looked at the burning match, the flame of which was slowly approaching the gunpowder.

For some minutes their courage remained unshaken; but after that they ceased to boast, and began to look at each other in silent consternation, while their faces grew paler every instant. At last one or two rose and stood aloof; the others followed their example, and some grinding their teeth with rage, others chattering with terror, they all began to leave the room.

Only two remained beside the cask: Numa, who stood with his arms folded, leaning against the foot of the bed; and Lupuj, who was sitting on the rim of the cask with his back turned to the danger, and smoking furiously.

As soon as they were alone, the latter glanced behind him, and saw that the flame was within an inch of the powder.

"I'll tell you what, Decurio," he said, springing up: "we are only two left, don't let us make fools of each other; let us come to an understanding on this matter."

"If you are tired of waiting, I can press the match lower."

"This is no jest, Numa; you are risking your own life. How can you wish to send us both to hell for the sake of a pale girl? But I'll tell you what—I'll give her up to you if you will only promise that she shall be mine when you are tired of her."

"Remain here and win her—if you dare."

"To what purpose?" said the Wallachian, in a whining voice; and in his impatience he began to tear his clothes and stamp with his feet, like a petted child.

"What I have said stands good," said the Decurio; "whoever remains longest has the sole right to the lady."

"Well, I will stay, of course; but what do I gain by it? I know you will stay too, and then the devil will have us both; and I speak not only for myself when I say I do not wish that."

"If you do not wish it, you had better be gone."

"Well, I don't care—if you will give me a golden mark."

"Not the half: stay if you like it."

"Decurio, this is madness! The flame will reach the powder immediately."

"I see it."

"Well, say a dollar."

"Not a whit."

"May the seventy-seven limbed thunderbolt strike you on St. Michael's day!" roared the Wallachian fiercely, as he rushed to the door; but after he had gone out, he once more thrust his head in and cried:—

"Will you give even a florin? I am not gone yet."

"Nor have I removed the match; you may come back."

The Wallachian slammed the door, and ran for his life, till exhausted and breathless he sank under a tree, where he lay with his tunic over his head, and his ears covered with his hands, only now and then raising his head nervously, to listen for the awful explosion which was to blow up the world.

Meanwhile Numa coolly removed the match, which was entirely burnt down; and throwing it into the grate, he stepped over to the bed, and whispered in the young girl's ear: "You are free!"

Tremblingly she raised herself in the bed, and taking the Decurio's large and sinewy hands within her own, she murmured: "Be merciful! O hear my prayer, and kill me!"

The Decurio stroked the fair head of the lovely suppliant.

"Poor child!" he replied gently, "you have nothing to fear; nobody will hurt you now."

"You have saved me from these fearful people—now save me from yourself!"

"You have nothing to fear from me," replied the Dacian proudly; "I fight for liberty alone, and you may rest as securely within my threshold as on the steps of the altar. When I am absent you need have no anxiety, for these walls are impregnable; and if any one should dare offend you by the slightest look, that moment shall be the last of his mortal career. And when I am at home you have nothing to fear, for woman's image never dwelt within my heart. Accept my poor couch, and may your rest be sweet!—Imre Bardy slept on it last night."

"Imre!" exclaimed the girl, starting. "You have seen him, then?—oh! where is he?"

The Decurio hesitated. "He should not have delayed so long," he murmured, pressing his hand against his brow; "all would have been otherwise."

"Oh! let me go to him, if you know where he is."

"I do not know; but I am certain that he will come here if he is alive—indeed, he must come."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because he will seek you."

"Did he then speak—before you?"

"As he lay wounded on that couch, he pronounced your name in his dreams. Are you not that Jolanka Bardy whom they call 'The angel'? I knew you by your golden locks."

The young girl cast down her eyes. "Then you think he will come?" she said in a low voice. "And my relations?"

"He will come as soon as possible; and now you must take some food and rest. Do not think about your relations now; they are all in a safe place—nobody can hurt them more."

The Decurio brought some refreshment, laid a small prayer-book on the pillow, and left the orphan by herself.

The poor girl opened the prayer-book, and her tears fell like rain-drops on the blessed page; but, overcome by the fatigue and terror she had undergone, her head ere long sank gently back, and she slept calmly and sweetly the sleep of exhausted innocence.

As evening closed, the Decurio returned; and, softly approaching the bed, looked long and earnestly at the fair sleeper's face, until two large tears stood unconsciously in his eyes.

The Roumin hastily brushed away the unwonted moisture; and as if afraid of the feeling which had stolen into his breast, he hastened from the room, and laid himself upon his woollen rug before the open door.

The deserted castle still burned on, shedding a ghastly light on the surrounding landscape, while the deepest silence reigned around, only broken now and then by an expiring groan, or the hoarse song of a drunken reveller.

Day was beginning to dawn, as a troop of horsemen galloped furiously towards the castle from the direction of Kolozsvar.

They were Imre and his comrades.

Silently and anxiously they pursued their course, their eyes fixed upon one point, as they seemed to fly rather than gallop along the road.

"We are too late!" exclaimed one of the party at last, pointing to a dim red smoke against the horizon; "your castle is burning!"

Without returning an answer, Imre spurred his panting horse to a swifter pace. A turn in the road suddenly brought the castle to their view, its blackened walls still burning, while the red smoke rose high against the side of the hill.

The young man uttered a fierce cry of despair, and galloped madly down the declivity. In less than a quarter of an hour he stood before the ruined walls.

"Where is my father? where are my family? where is my bride?" he shrieked in frantic despair, brandishing his sword over the head of a half-drunken Wallachian, who was leaning against the ruined portico.

The latter fell on his knees, imploring mercy, and declaring that it was not he who had killed them.

"Then they are dead!" exclaimed the unhappy youth, as, half-choked by his sobs, he fell forward on his horse's neck.

Meanwhile his companions had ridden up, and immediately surrounded the Wallachian, whom, but for Imre's interference, they would have cut down.

"Lead us to where you have buried them. Are they all dead?" he continued; "have you not left one alive? Accursed be the sun that rises after such a night!"

The Wallachian pointed to a large heap of freshly-raised mould. "They are all there!" he said.

Imre fell from his horse without another word, as if struck down.

His companions removed him to a little distance, where the grass was least red.

They then began to dig twelve graves with their swords.

Imre watched them in silence. He seemed unconscious what they were about.

When they had finished the graves they proceeded to open the large pit, but the sight was too horrible, and they carried Imre away by force. He could not have looked on what was there and still retained his senses.

In a short time, one of his comrades approached and told him that there were only eleven bodies in the grave.

"Then one of them must be alive!" cried Imre, a slight gleam of hope passing over his pale features; "which is it?—speak! Is there not a young girl with golden locks among them?"

"I know not," stammered his comrade, in great embarrassment.