CHAPTER XXIII. Fine scenery in Szeklerland--Csik Szent Marton--Absence of inns--The Szekler's love of lawsuits--Csik Szereda--Hospitality along the, road--Wallack atrocities in 1848--The Wallacks not Panslavists.

The charming scenery of the Szeklerland, and the kindly hospitality of the people, induced me to linger on. I had many a ride through those glorious primeval forests, where the girth of the grand old oak-trees and their widespreading branches are in themselves a sight to see: the beech, too, are very fine. Climbing farther, the deciduous woods give place to sombre pine-trees—the greybeards of the mountain. A great charm in this part of the country, at least from a picturesque point of view, is the affluence of water. Every rocky glen has its gurgling rill, every ravine its stream, which, at an hour's notice almost, may become a mountain torrent, should a storm break over the watershed. A plague of waters is no unfrequent occurrence, as the farmer in the valley knows to his cost. Fields are laid under water, and the turbulent streams often bring down great masses of earth and rock in a way that becomes "monotonous" for the man who has to clear his land or his roads of the dÉbris. Mr Judd remarks that the volcanic rocks of Hungary have "suffered enormously from denuding causes." Every fresh storm reminds one that the process is in active operation.

After finally leaving Tusnad, I rode on to Csik Szent Marton, where, as there was no inn, I had to present myself at the best house in the place and crave their hospitality. My request was taken as a matter of course, and they received me with the greatest kindness; in fact it was with great difficulty that I could get away the next day. My host entreated me to remain longer, and when he found that I was really bent on departing, he gave me several letters of introduction to friends of his along the road I was likely to travel. It was a very acceptable act of kindness, for there are hardly any inns in this part of the country. "If Transylvania is an odd corner of Europe," then is the Csik or Szeklerland a still more odd corner; by no possibility can it ever be the highroad to anywhere else. I am not surprised that my lawyer friend said that there were still some lawsuits pending in connection with the allotments of forest and pasturage in this part of Hungary, though everything was definitely settled elsewhere. The Szekler is as troublesome and turbulent in some respects as his own mountain streams; added to which he dearly loves a lawsuit: it is in the eyes of the peasant a patent of respectability, as keeping a gig formerly was in England.

"Why do you go to law about such a trifle?" observed a friend of mine to his neighbour.

"Well, you see I have never had a lawsuit, as all my neighbours have had about something or another; so, now there is the chance, I had better have one myself!"

It is well for the lawyers that there is "a good deal of human nature" everywhere, especially in Hungary, otherwise they would have a bad time of it, where the legal expenses of "transfer" are a few florins, whether it be for an acre of vineyard or for half a comitat. I must observe, however, that in the sale of lands or houses, Government intervenes with a heavy tax on the transaction.

Leaving my hospitable entertainers at Csik Szent Marton, I went on to Csik Szereda, where I was kindly taken in by the postmaster. In this case I was provided with a letter; but a stranger would naturally go to the postmaster or the clergyman to ask for a night's lodging. At first I felt diffident on this score; but I soon got over my shyness, for in Szeklerland they make a stranger so heartily welcome that he ceases to regard himself as an intruder. In out-of-the-way places one is looked upon as a sort of heaven-sent "special correspondent." There is a story told of Baron ——, one of the nearly extinct old-fashioned people, who regularly, an hour or so before the dinner-hour, rides along the nearest highroad to try and catch a guest. It has even been whispered that on one occasion a couple of intelligent-looking travellers, who declined to be "retained" for dinner, were severely beaten for their recalcitrant behaviour, by order of the hospitable Baron. The story is well founded, and I daresay took place before '48, when anything might have happened.

I can bear witness that I have never myself been ill-treated for declining Hungarian hospitality, but when in Saxonland something very much the reverse occurred to me. I once entered a village at the end of a long day's ride, and stopping at the first house, asked for a night's lodging, whereupon I was told to ask at the next house. They said they could not take me in, excusing themselves on the score of an important domestic event being expected. I went on a little farther, though the "shades of night were falling fast," and repeated my request at the next house. I give you my word, there were more domestic events—always the same excuse. I began to calculate that the population must be rapidly on the increase in that place. It was too much. I entered the last house of that straggling village with a stern resolve that not even new-born twins should bar my claim to hospitality!

I found the postmaster at Csik Szereda a very intelligent man, with a fund of anecdotes and recollections, which generally centred in the troubles of '48. As I mentioned before, the Szeklers rose en masse against the Austrians. One of their officers, Colonel Alexander GÁl, proved himself a very distinguished leader. Corps after corps were organised and sent to aid General Bem. "It was a terrible time; the men had to fight the enemy in the plain while our old men and women defended their homesteads against the jealous Saxons and the brutal Wallacks."

It was not in one place, or from one person, but from every one with whom I spoke on the subject, that I heard frightful stories of Wallack atrocities. In one instance a noble family—in all, thirteen persons, including a new-born infant—were slaughtered under circumstances of horrible barbarity within the walls of their castle. The name I think was Bardi; it is matter of history.

Amongst other horrors, the Wallacks on several occasions buried their victims alive, except the head, which they left above ground; they would then hurl stones at the unfortunate creatures, or cut off the heads with a scythe. It was not a war of classes but of race, for the poor peasants amongst the Magyars and Szeklers fared just as badly at the hands of the infuriated Wallacks as the nobles.

The belief is still held that the Vienna Government instigated the outbreak. Certainly arms had been put into the hands of these uncivilised hordes under the pretence of organising a sort of militia. Metternich knew the character of these irregulars, as he had known and proved the character of the Slovacks in Galicia in the terrible rising of the serfs in 1846. His complicity on that occasion has never been disproved.

The winter of 1848-49 must have been a time of unexampled misery to the Magyars of Transylvania. The nobles generally dared not remain in their lonely chÂteaux; it was not a question of bravery, for how could the feeble members who remained home from the war guard the castle from the torches of a hundred frantic, yelling wretches, who, with arms in their hands, spared neither age nor sex? For the time they were mad—these Eastern people are subject to terrible epidemics of frenzy!

The Szekler town of Maros VÁsÁrhely, which was strong enough to keep the Wallacks at bay, was the sanctuary of the noble ladies and children of that part of Transylvania. It was so full of fugitives that the overcrowding was most distressing. A lady, the bearer of an historic name, told me herself that she and seven of her family passed the whole winter in one small room in Maros YÁsÁrhely. Added to the discomfort and insalubrity of this crowding, they were almost penniless, having nothing but "Kossuth money." For the time the sources of their income were entirely arrested. In this instance one of the children died—succumbed to bad air and privation. Another patrician dame kept her family through the winter by selling the vegetables from her garden; this together with seventeen florins in silver was all they had to depend upon. Add to this the misery of not hearing for weeks, perhaps even for months, from their husbands or sons, who were with the armies of GÖrgey or Bem.

The Magyars were not always safe in the towns, for at Nagy Enyed, a rather considerable place, the Wallacks succeeded in setting fire to it, and butchered all the inhabitants who were not fortunate enough to escape their fury. In the neighbourhood of Reps the castles of the nobility suffered very severely. Grim incidents were told me, things that were too horrible not to be true—infants spiked and women tortured. One cannot dwell upon the details! What struck me as very remarkable was the fact that Magyars and Wallacks are now dwelling together again in peace side by side. It reminds one of the people who plant their vines again on Vesuvius directly an eruption is over. In the last century, in 1784, there was a dreadful outbreak of the Wallacks. Individually they are really not bad fellows—so it seemed to me—and one hears of fewer murders among them than perhaps in Ireland. The danger exists of leaders arising who may stir up the nationality fever—the idea of the great Roumain nation that looms big in their imagination!

They love neither Croatians, Slavonians, nor Austrians, and they are no longer a safe card to play off against the Magyars; but indeed I would fain believe that better and wiser counsels now prevail. Austria is not the Austria of '48, any more than the England of to-day is the same as England before the Reform Bill.

The autumn evenings were getting long, and after supper, as I sat smoking my pipe by the stove in the simple but scrupulously neat apartment of my host, he, in his turn, asked me about England. It is very touching the warmth with which these people in the far-off "land beyond the forest" speak of us. "We never can forget how kindly England received our patriots." This, or words like it, were said to me many times, and always the name of Palmerston came to the fore. "He cordially hated the Austrians." What better ground of sympathy?

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