CHAPTER IX

THE TOWN WALL, HAINBURG

Nearer Hainburg the hill-sides are scored with grassy mounds of ancient earthworks, and on the high, isolated peak behind the town the extensive ruin of a mediæval castle is a landmark visible for many miles both up and down the river. Immense Government tobacco factories and a school for military cadets have somewhat disturbed the mediæval aspect of the streets, and a railway has ruthlessly cut through the walls, and trains crunch and rumble high up on a row of ugly arches that disfigure the quay. The old side walls, with frequent towers of irregular shape and at various angles, converge from the water-front, and, narrowing thetown limits as they go, join by a solid cross wall at the foot of the hill, and then clamber up the precipitous, rugged declivity to the angles of the great château which covers every yard of the summit. The hill itself is gay with numberless varieties of wild-flowers and shrubs—a botanist’s paradise. In Alfred Parsons’ botanical note-book is the following information concerning this region:

“The Schlossberg behind the town of Hainburg is very rich in plants—one large rock garden. On it grow several kinds of sedum and campanula, dwarf iris, coronilla, genista, two species of dianthus (one of which has white fringed petals and a very strong scent), a yellow and a pink allium, wall-rue, thalictrum, and many other plants and shrubs. In the woods around the town are pyrola, hepatica, Turk’s-cap lily, and there I also noticed a very handsome leaf of an umbelliferous plant. The bladder-nut is a common shrub, and on the borders of the woods grows a melampyrum with yellow flowers which turn orange when older, and have a tuft of bright mauve leaves above them. Masses of this, with the slender white spikes of the small St. Bruno’s lily (Anthericum liliastrum) growing up through it, had a very beautiful effect. In the cornfields grow poppies and daisy-like flowers, also a beautiful annual larkspur with purple and blue flowers, and a pale, bluish-white nigella. On the stony slopes at Theben I first saw an everlasting flower with pinkish-mauve blossoms, which grows abundantly east of this point. The commonest flowers on the sandy patches near the river are the yellow snap-dragon (butter and eggs), pink ononis, and a pale-green eryngium, very prickly. In the meadow at the mouth of the Raab I sawEryngium amethystum, and a herbaceous clematis, drooping flowers with blue petals and a yellow centre.”

From the ruined walls, high above the quiet town and the glittering expanse of the river, threading its intricate waythrough the flat and fertile plain to the shadowy heights rising above the smoke of Vienna, we could look far beyond the castle-crowned rocks of Theben and the great hill of Pressburg, over the rich plain of Hungary checkered with growing crops, stretching away to a mysterious horizon distant as the sky itself. The wooded hills of the boundary range tempted us with their shady paths and wealth of wild-flowers, and we found new beauties at every turn, new delights in every glimpse of the fertile valleys, where whitewashed villages shimmered in the sunlight among the yellow fields of ripening corn. On rare occasions we met Hungarian peasant men with queer hussar jackets and breeches, round hats with cockade of badger hair, and wonderfully high-heeled boots, and sturdy peasant women with stiff, outstanding short skirts, and high riding-boots like the men—skirmishers of the host of novel types and costumes the Danube had in store for us. Steep and narrow footways lead over the hills three miles or so to the nearest village of Hundsheim, which, quite off the highway, and therefore as yet unspoiled by the touch of the modern architect, is so perfect a specimen of a rural hamlet, practically unchanged since mediæval times, that we made it the goal of our evening expeditions. Here, as in all the neighboring villages, it has been the custom, dating from the early days of conflict with the Turk, to build the houses each like a tiny castle, with court-yard and arched gateway, with few and often no windows on the street, and solid high walls on all sides. At Hundsheim two parallel irregular streets straggle down opposite sides of a stony stream which serves as a public washing-place, and furnishes abundant water for all purposes. Each house is like its neighbor in main lines, differing only in unimportant details. All are whitewashed with scrupulous care, and although the streets are little more than rough gullies, there is a refreshing air of

HUNDSHEIM

prosperity about the place. The inhabitants cultivate the rich fields for miles around the village, pasture their countless sheep and cattle on the adjacent mountain-sides, and at night gather live-stock and farm wagons into the enclosure of each tiny castle and retire behind its ponderous gates as if the Turk were still a threatening enemy.

One bright morning—the 27th of July, to be accurate—a crowd of new-made friends assembled to see us pack the canoes and launch them in the eddying stream. The hospitable miller, who had housed the delicate craft for us in an empty shed, had not kept secret the hour of our departure, and there were hundreds watching us as we hoisted sail to cross the frontier with speed and in sporting style. A short half-hour, past bold cliffs and picturesque ruins on one side and a wooded bank on the other, brought us to the muddy March, pouring a sluggish, muddy flood into the yellow Danube. In another moment we landed in Hungary, under the overhanging ruins of the great Castle of Theben, which, with its fellow at Hamburg, guarded the entrance to the wealthy kingdoms along the great water highway. In the little whitewashed town, crowded into a narrow valley behind the castle, the musical accent of the Magyar tongue confirmed to our ears what our eyes had readily discovered—the presence of another type of face, of figure, and of character. The aspect of the village, too, was new to us, and suggested a warmer sun, longer summer, and habitual out-of-door life. We saw little gardens filled with bright flowers, tiny court-yards, with tables and benches shaded by trellises of grape-vines and gourds, and met a cheery hospitality at the rude inn, where Maria, the shy beauty of the village, soon forgot her coyness in her delight at our enjoyment of the spicy viands new to our palates. In kerchief and short petticoat, she had no rival between the ruins of Petronell and the château of Pressburg; but

GOSSIPS, HUNDSHEIM

when she hesitatingly yielded to our importunities for a sitting, and appeared, after a brief absence, in black silk frock, booted and gloved, and with parasol in hand, our pencils were too loyal to her peasant charms to attempt the caricature. No visitors of our nationalities had left any impressions on the minds of the simple folk here, but the mention of England and America was, as it always is in Hungary, our best introduction. The active sympathies of these two countries with the people struggling for freedomin ’48 are still gratefully remembered by the whole nation, and the traditions of that sympathy are handed down loyally to the rising generation. At the post-office, where we went to buy our first Hungarian stamps, the gossiping old postmaster and his wife—characters not unfamiliar in the rural offices in other countries—were so overwhelmed by the extent of our requirements and the number of our letters that the wheels of official machinery refused to work at all. After they had carefully read all the addresses, and had marvelled long at the range of our correspondence, we succeeded in communicating to their dazed senses the fact that we wanted to buy a stock of stamps of various denominations.

THE WATCH-TOWER, THEBEN

“What! so much money for stamps? Impossible!” protested the old man and his echoing wife. “You are already sending away florins’ and florins’ worth on these letters!”

“But we want a stock of stamps to keep for our convenient use,” we urged. “Yes, yes, you want to use them; but why don’t you buy them as you need them?” was the reply, as he shut thedrawer under his elbow, apparently loath to part with any of its precious contents.

Arguments were useless, and we gave up the notion of securing a variety, and tempered our demand to a humble request for a few ten-kreutzer stamps for foreign postage.

“Ah, no!” he said. “I can’t let you have any ten-kreutzer stamps, for the sheets haven’t been broken into yet, and it is near the end of the month, when I make up my books, and I can’t have my accounts confused by selling ten-kreutzer stamps to any one.”

We compromised on a double number of five-kreutzer stamps, the ones in use for local postage, and ornamented our envelopes with effigies of Franz Josef until they looked like the walls of a chromo-dealer’s shop.

STURDY girls, returning from market with veritable Eiffel towers of empty tubs on their backs, strode up the steep banks from the landing as we fled from the enervating luxuries of the inn at Theben and hastened to paddle towards the busy little town of Pressburg, boasting a new railway bridge, as ugly a château as man has ever devised, and as pleasant parks and gardens as ever soldier and nursery-maid chose for their public flirtations. It claims as its chief historical distinction the honor of having crowned within its walls the Hungarian kings since the dynasty was founded. It is a gay little place, with tastefully decorated shop-windows, and signs everywhere in the Hungarian language. In a brief two hours’ paddle we had passed beyond the limit of a distorted dialect of German, and now heard only the soft music of the Magyar speech. No phase of our journeying was more interesting than the experience with this abrupt philological frontier.

Below Pressburg the Danube branches into three sinuous arms, cutting the great low plain into two long irregular islands, little better than swamps for the most part—at least, as far as our horizon extended. The canalization of the river, which practically comes to an end in this territory, makes the channel quite plain, and diverts the flow of water from the tortuous branches where the villages cluster on the muddy banks. On the first day after leaving Pressburg the

PEASANT GIRL, THEBEN

active arguments of hunger persuaded us to explore one of these lagoons in search of an inn, and after a while we came upon a straggling collection of low shingled houses gathered into the semblance of a village by low fences of wattled willow. With a microscopic vocabulary of Hungarian words we succeeded in getting food to satisfy our colossal appetites, and in holding the friendliest relations with the bronzed peasants, who were fast courting oblivion through the medium of strong wine in the Italian-like hostlery. Here we first made acquaintance with Hungarian dust and Danube mud, an intimacy which ripened as we went on, until at last no adjectives would fitly apply to the one or describe the disgusting characteristics of the other. The willow, too, in this first great flat stretch forced itself on our notice, and began to aggravate us with its monotony, turning an otherwise agreeable landscape into a series of object-lessons in simple perspective. But even the willow came to an end here after a while, and for an agreeable change we welcomed

HUNGARIAN CATTLE

an open country, with broken mud banks, where we heard the plaintive music of shepherds’ pipes, saw stalwart swineherds against the sky, and startled, as we drifted past, great droves of wild-looking cattle cooling themselves in the shallows. The life on the bank became at intervals more busy, and all sorts of domestic operations were carried on in the open air along the muddy shores. Whole families splashed about in the shallow water as little heedful of our presence as if we belonged to them. The River Raab sneaks into the Danube in the guise of a lesser side lagoon, and but for our delightful flower-carpeted camp in sight of the group of barges at its mouth and within the sound of the tattoo of many mills, we should scarcely remember it as a feature of our trip. A brief pause at Komorn, regular and uninteresting architecturally as most Hungarian towns are, did not increase our desire for exploration, and we voted, since our time was limited, to land in the future only at places which, smaller and less Germanized by the commerce of the river, would probably be more characteristic and picturesque. But the great Cathedral of Gran—Esztergom is the sonorous Hungarian name—rising above the ruins of a great brick fortress on a prominent height among vineyard slopes, madeus accept a speedy amendment to this resolution, and under the lee of its bridge of boats we drew up alongside of one of the great arks which recall the naval architecture of the pre-deluge period. We sampled the characteristic cookery of its famous restaurant, and passed an hour or two of wild excitement over the wonderful colors in the market-place, where shoulder-high heaps of scarlet paprika (big sweet peppers) set the key for a combination of rich and varied tones that would have exhausted the palette of an old Venetian painter; and when at last an inviting breeze rippled the water, we forced ourselves away and sailed down the beautiful reaches among grand hills, our eyes still full of the kaleidoscopic sparkle of enchanting Esztergom.

Our frisky boats lost the breeze in the narrow, crooked defile below, and we settled ourselves to a quiet drift under the great ruins of Visegrád, where villas, bath-houses, and a level road, gay with ladies and children, marked the little village as the first sybaritic outpost of Budapest. Preoccupied with the beauties of the scenery, we did not at first notice the frantic waving of the Union-jack in the hands of some one on the shore, but we soon turned our bows in the direction of this unmistakable invitation to land, and were welcomed on shore by an English gentleman, a summer resident there, who explained that, having read of our trip in a Vienna newspaper, he and his family had been on the watch for us for many days. Such hearty hospitality as he offered us could not be refused, although it was the Delilah to our Samson strength of purpose, and we went ashore. A party of ladies and gentlemen was speedily formed, and we made an excursion up the hill, through pleasant groves and along shady paths, to the ruins of the old castle of the Hungarian kings, who resided here as early as the eleventh century. Matthew Corvinus enlarged and improved the castle, and it was long the chief stronghold of this region. The royal

GRAN (ESZTERGOM)

crown of Hungary was once concealed in a deep pit cut in the solid rock under one of the towers, and there are various other notable historical legends connected with the place. Another castle near the water’s edge, although it is partially restored, had a sentimental interest for us because we were informed that it had been intended for the summer residence of the unfortunate Prince Leopold. The former commander-in-chief of the Hungarian army in the revolution of 1848, General Görgei, lives quietly in a pleasant villa high above the river. Surrounded by his family and busying himself with all sorts of mechanical operations, to which he is devoted, the old general appears to have secured the greatest blessing known to man—contentment. The weight of the forty odd years that have passed since he gave up his sword has not bowed his straight figure, and his dark eyes still have the fire of youth in them. At his own request we went to call on him, and found him, like all the men of Kossuth’s time, enthusiastically fond of America, and grateful for the sympathetic aid and comfort of the whole English-speaking race. Lingering long in his company, the summer twilight stole upon us before we knew it, and warned us to seek a camp. The tempting offers of hospitality so heartily given, the fascinations of the people and the place, and the unique charm of society which is peculiar to Hungary alone, all these and many other delights made it next to impossible for us to take our leave. But at last we hardened our hearts, pushed off, waved a last farewell to the young ladies who accompanied us a short distance in a wherry, and paddled out into the glowing twilight.

The frequent villas that dot the shores below Visegrád we now looked upon through glasses of different color. Only twenty-four hours before we would have named them landscape-spoilers, and would have turned our faces from them as we passed. But we had caught the infection ofthe happy land; the microbe which, once in possession, never leaves the willing victim, had begun to attack us, one and all, and we saw possible friends in every pretty garden and in every luxurious pleasure-boat. At this moment less than ever did a great city have any attraction for us, and we wildly planned to cut Budapest altogether, and continue our joyful cruise down into the great wild region beyond, where the river life is active and varied, and where our days should be a succession of pleasant experiences and surprises—where, indeed, we might learn to know, with an intimacy that only such a free life makes possible, the people in their unaffected, simple existence.

VISEGRÁD

Just above Waitzen, a good-sized town with prison and manufactories and busy quay, with barges and peasant market-boats, the river bends gracefully around to the south, divides past a long flat island covered with fertile farms, and then loses itself in the distance where the grand old fortress on the summit of Blocksberg overhangs the suburb of Ofen (Buda in Hungarian) on the right bank, and looks down upon the imposing façades of Pest on the opposite shore. An accident, happy in its result, but threatening for a moment a painful disaster, made a pause at Budapest a necessity. Sudden summer thunder-storms swept

SWINEHERD

over the river from the cloud-compelling summits in the west, and then cleared away with a strong wind, which, blowing across the current, soon stirred up what the ocean pilots would call a “nubbly” sea. The temptation to hoist sail and triumphantly dash past the populous waterfront of the great city was not long to be resisted, and soon the sparkling river was enlivened by three pairs of snow-white sails. Open-mouthed millers stared at us as we swept past their groaning floats, throwing up spray like so many yachts. Suddenly a polished rudder gleamed in the air, following the total eclipse of one of the canoes, crew and all. A multitude of objects tossed on the waves and bobbed away down-stream, while the humiliated canoist came up, shining like a seal, and righted his water-logged craft. A landing was made, not without difficulty, more soaked and ruined articles were recovered than it would have been thought possible to stow under the mahogany hatches, and we were glad to seek refuge, after the canoe was baled out, in the hospitable boat-house of the Neptune Ruder Verein, a mile or two below the scene of the accident, among the pleasant groves of the Margarethen-Insel (Margitsziget).

We had often remarked that in our independent way of travelling constant variety was the rule, and monotony of incident never possible. If we could have had the choice, we certainly would not have introduced ourselves to the rowing men of the Neptune Verein until our fleet could have passed inspection with credit. But the unexpected event of a capsize forced us to swallow our pride, and we accordingly bundled the wet things out upon the float, and stowed the canoes away among the slender racing craft in the boat-house. Not only had the accident taken the bloom off our self-confidence, but it had upset many pet theorieswhich had from the start been quite undisputed. Our blind faith in the value of india-rubber as a water-proof material had hitherto not been disturbed, but on this the occasion of the first real test elaborate rubber boat bags and air-tight hatches only seemed to aggravate the disaster; for all these contrivances seemed not only to actually suck the water in, but to hold it perfectly when it was inside. We hereafter limited our belief in water-proof receptacles to the ordinary well-corked glass bottle of commerce in which we kept our matches.

A FAMILY WASH

What a medley of gypsy music, song, and csárdás, of beautiful women and cheery, sympathetic men, of abundant

AN ARK-BOAT

hospitality and general good-fellowship, Budapest now remains to us in our memory! It wellnigh proved our Capua, for, being only human, we could but yield to the enchantment. Who shall adequately describe the fascination of the native gypsy music, with its throbbing, wailing strains and its intoxicating rhythm? What writer’s pen or artist’s pencil shall picture the csárdás, with its Oriental action and its exhilarating intensity? It would be easier to convey by words or by lines the sense of a strange perfume than to analyze and explain the charms of the music or the attractions of the dance. Prosaically described, the csárdás is a dance for one or for any number of couples, and is performed in a great variety of ways, the partners sometimes dancing apart and sometimes together. The common fashion we observed during our brief experience, and the one we naturally indulged in as the nearest allied to the dancing we were familiar with, is for the lady to rest her hands on the gentleman’s shoulders, who, in his turn, places his hands on her waist. A long-cherished admiration for the dance forbids me to attempt to give any notion of the step or of the vibrating action of the body, truly interpreting in motion the spirit of the music, which, withsweet insinuating melodies, wild and ever wilder bursts of mad chords, lends the contagion of its tireless vigor to the dancers, and sways them like reeds by the power of its savage harmonies.

THERE is the same indefinable charm about Budapest that there is in the gypsy music. This charm is a spiritual one. The situation of the city is delightful, the streets are clean, the architecture agreeable, and all the comforts of life are at the traveller’s command. In these respects the city is not unlike many others, but in its people it is unique and always will be as long as the Magyar tongue exists, or a drop of the rich Eastern blood remains in a descendant of the race. Our experience in Vienna was but the prologue to the hospitalities at Budapest. Under the guidance of a host of friends, chief of whom was Mr. Louis Gerster, the resident Vice-consul of the United States, we saw the town in the most agreeable manner possible. Visits to the museums of art and of antiquity, with their stores of treasures; inspection of the famous wine-cellars, with the miles of wine-butts and millions of bottles; drives in the parks; an excursion up the river in a special steamer with ladies and gentlemen, when we danced the csárdás for a day and a night almost without intermission; a trip down-stream to eat the delicious sterlet, fresh from the Danube and cooked with paprika, after the fisherman’s taste—our stay was one round of jollity. But for the frequent sight of the great river with its hurrying current which urged us to depart, we might have prolonged our stay until snowfall, such were the fascinations that encompassed us.

COUNTRY MARKET-BOAT, BUDAPEST

The water-front of Budapest, with its masses of extensive buildings and its populous quays, is the noblest spectacle of similar order in the whole course of the Danube. Within the last few years the city has made marvellous strides in the direction of enlargement and improvement. Three bridges now cross the river between Pest on the left bank and Buda on the right, the two principal sections of the town. The upper one is of iron, on huge stone buttresses, the middle one a graceful suspension-bridge, built about forty years ago, and the lower of iron, and built to carry arailway and to serve for foot-passengers as well. Large hotels have been built, a fine new park laid out, new parliament-houses on the river-front almost completed, the squares and public places adorned with fountains and statues, and entire new quarters covered with fine buildings, all within the past fifteen years. These improvements have worked the modernization of the people as well as the town, and the native costumes once so common in the streets are almost a rarity now. The sulphur springs at Buda and on Margarethen-Insel, famous since Roman times, form one of the chief attractions to visitors, and afford an uncommon luxury to the residents. The bathing establishments are of unparalleled extent and great splendor, particularly on the island, where the delights of the beautiful park enhance the popularity of the baths. Up to within a few years there was a large cheap public bath where people of both sexes and all ages, after having been cupped by an attendant as many times as they could afford to pay for, according to the old faith in the efficacy of blood-letting, huddled together, often nearly if not quite naked, in a large common plunge-basin of steaming sulphur-water, where they remained for hours, looking like the lost souls in Dante’s “Inferno.” This promiscuous bathing is now no longer permitted, for this with many other old customs among the common people has disappeared before the advance of civilization.

The sun was well down behind the hills before we launched the canoes on the day we left Budapest. The strains of the csárdás still echoed in our ears; our minds were confused by the succession of novel experiences we had enjoyed during the past four days; the river seemed to rush on with a giddier swirl than ever before, and a strong head-wind did its best to discourage our progress. It was not until we had lost sight of the hills near the city, late on thefollowing day, that we realized we were now at length fairly afloat in the heart of the vast open plain which extends to the Carpathians. The corner of this plain which we had crossed below Pressburg had given us a hint of what we might expect in the way of monotonous scenery, but it had disclosed to us little of the charm of the great river which now enchanted us. High bluffs of firm, hard earth alternated with stretches of densely-wooded low banks. Tree-embowered villages nestled long distances apart, under vineyard-clad slopes, or among fields rich with maize and ripening wheat. The river began to be the focus of rural activity. Wherever mills were anchored in the strongest currents, the peasants camped on the adjoining banks, with ox-carts full of freshly-winnowed corn, awaiting their turn for the grinding. Women vigorously beating clothes with wooden mallets enlivened the scene with their laughter and gossip, and formed fascinating groups, with every combination of rich color. Everywhere were sunshine and laughter and song. Cries of “Eljen!” (hurrah!) and “Hova megy?” (where are you going?) greeted us constantly as we passed, shouting in reply, “Fekete Tengerig” (to the Black Sea). The cheery vivacity of the people, their unfailing courtesy and agreeable manners, had won our affectionate admiration from the first, and the more we came to know them, the more we found reason to honor our earliest impressions of them.

The tyranny of limited space forbids lengthy description of more than one of the many interesting villages we explored in the first day or two below Budapest, and Duna Földvár of cheerful memory may be taken as a type of all. The village itself is, like most Hungarian places, a collection of low houses along broad streets, laid out in rectangular plan, gullied and dusty, and shaded by rows of small acacia-trees. A great barren market square forms the usual

WASHER-WOMEN

prominent feature of the village, and from this arid waste straight, wide thoroughfares lead out into the open country behind, and casually end there, like the streets of the great shanty cities in the Far West. The architectural examples found in Duna Földvár are not notable; indeed, the inscription over the church door, “Isten-Gondviselésnyujtottdiszújalakotrám,” was the only detail in relation to architecture that fixed our attention. A few sleepy market-women sat in the broad shadow of the ugly town-hall, and, except for the constant coming and going of many graceful maidens bearing tubs of Danube water on their heads, there was little or no movement on the streets. All the life of the village concentrated itself under the sandy bluff by the river-side. A procession of barefooted girls continually passedalong the shore. Peasant men stripped to the waist, with their divided-skirt-like trousers rolled up into the narrowest compass, washed their cattle and wagons in the shallow water, while a busy army of men and women unloaded the barges and carried the heavy freight to the warehouses. At every available point of the crowded river-front washerwomen, with their petticoats wet to the waist, stood knee-deep in the stream, and accompanied their lively chatter with the vigorous tattoo of their active mallets. In the shadow of the houses near the landing great piles of watermelons were the centres of groups of all ages, every individual busy with the luscious, juicy fruit. On all sides we saw flashing rich color, beautiful types, picturesque costumes, graceful action, and the bustle of ceaseless activity. The sparkling river, the brilliant colors glowing in the bright August sun, and the multitude of figures tempting the pencil fairly dazed us at first, and we could only rush enthusiastically from point to point, finding each new group and each new incident more fascinating than the other.

While we were busy sketching on the river-front a young gentleman approached, introduced himself, and said he had been sent as the emissary of a party of ladies and gentlemen who were about to go on a picnic excursion, and desired the honor of our company. They had heard all about our cruise from the Budapest papers, he added, and were anxious to show us some attention. We felt obliged to decline the invitation, for the day was fast advancing, and the subjects before us were both fascinating and numerous, and the young man, with proper apologies for disturbing us, withdrew. Towards the end of the afternoon we paddled off, much depressed by the necessity of leaving practically untouched the wealth of picturesque material in the little river town, and, indeed, very loath to seek a camp. Just after we rounded the point below the town we heard the

DUNA FÜLDVÁR

strains of gypsy music, and soon caught sight of a large boat filled with ladies and gentlemen, apparently waiting for us in mid-stream. In a few moments we were alongside, and were very much pleased to find that it was the same picnic party which had begged for the honor of our presence some hours before. Indeed, it came out that the polite emissary had lingered about and watched our departure, and then had hurried on horseback to warn the party of our approach. We suffered ourselves to be piloted ashore, where, in a pleasant grove by the water’s edge we found a large table spread, a dancing-floor arranged, and everything in order for a genuine Hungarian festivity. A band of ten gypsies furnished the music, a dozen young ladies, with as many young gentlemen, a few men of middle age and a proper number of chaperons, made up the party, and it comprised, as we soon found out, the professional men of the town—the lawyers and doctors with their families and intimate friends. We lost no time in becoming acquainted, for all formalities of introduction were soon over, and then the feast began. Like every similar entertainment in Hungary, speech-making was a great feature of the dinner. Every one had to do his share of this, and when the last toast was drunk, a mixed Hungarian-American sentiment, we all took partners, and the csárdás began.

Hours passed like magic, and the fast-waning afternoon light warned us to be off. We had scarcely shouted the last “good-bye” across the shining water when a violent wind arose, drowning with its rushing sound the tinkle of the music in the grove, and changing the placid stream into a turbulent sea of dashing waves. Night settled down with unusual haste, and in the increasing darkness we were tossed and buffeted along, sometimes half swamped, unable to find a landing on the steep, high banks, not daring to

WATER-CARRIERS, DUNA FÖLDVÁR

venture out into the raging stream, nor yet to approach too near the shore. The distorting gloom so changed the usual landmarks that we could not distinguish trees from bushes, and could only judge of our distance from the shore by the sound of the angry water beating against the bank. On we went, driven by the wind, which seemed to increase with every fresh gust. Wherever we tried to land, the breaking waves warned us that unless we found a sheltered spot we should pound our canoes to pieces before we got them ashore. The noise of the storm made it difficult for us to hear each other shout, and it was only by constant piping on our shrill whistles that we kept our little fleet together. The situation at last became so serious that we were about to give up all attempt to land, and were on the point of

FISHING-STATION

scudding down in mid-stream until the storm should abate, preferring to risk capsize there rather than to endanger the canoes by further trials at landing on a lee shore. Just as we came to this decision, however, an unusually heavy squall struck us, and at the same moment we heard the unmistakable swash of the water among willow bushes close at hand. We knew then that we should find temporary shelter and shallow water among the willows, for the unusual height of the river had covered all low places. We also knew we could manage to land from the shoal water on a flooded meadow; so we pushed boldly on, and passing the yielding barrier, which fortunately was but a rod or two wide, found ourselves in a quiet shelter behind the screen of slender bushes, and at the edge of a grove of large trees with solid turf underneath. By the light of our lanterns we hauled up the canoes, arranged them so as best to shelter our camp-fire from the blast, rigged our tents, and then cooked our supper in comfort. The storm continued the greater part of the night, and we slept to the howling of the wind in the trees and to the dull roar of the Danube billows.

Now, as we advanced, the river rose higher and higher, flooding all the swamps and low-lying woodlands, and spreading out into broad lakes over the meadows. Once only, in a whole day’s paddle, did we find a fishing-station, and this was kept by men from a village fifteen miles inland, who take regular turns in visiting their homes during the long months when fishing is profitable. Their great wigwam had bunks for a dozen men, and miles of nets were drying in the sun. As we had been accustomed to land at a village at least once a day to replenish our larder with fresh meat, vegetables, fruit, and wine, we found our cupboards rather empty after a day or two in the wilderness, and we welcomed the sight of the fishing-camp, for we knewwe could procure there an abundance of sterlet, the best fish found in the Danube. Our arrival was a great event in the camp, and, mutually interested in each other’s boats and mode of life, we spent an hour there, and then departed, with a generous supply of sterlet taken from the fish-car which was anchored in the stream, and covered with the stings of mosquitoes, which hovered in a cloud over the whole point.

The steady current and favorable winds did not long permit us to fancy ourselves explorers in an undiscovered country, but carried us easily on, at the rate of thirty or forty miles a day, out of the swamps and forests to the region of vineyards and dry hills and villages. In a measure, as we went along and the landscape varied, so did the costumes change in character, the types differ, and new peoples hail our fleet with cries in strange languages. Drifting along within a yard or two of the shore, we entered into temporarily intimate relations with the villagers at their customary occupations, and were always welcomed by them with unobtrusive but hearty familiarity, which filled our days with pleasant little episodes and delightful experiences. The long-populous town of Mohács, with extensive and ugly coal-yards, did not at first tempt us to land, but groups of beautiful children and young girls, who assembled to watch us as we stayed our all too rapid course along the shore at the very door-steps of the houses, suggested such possibilities there that we had perforce to go ashore and see what the place was like. At our accustomed refuge in all these villages—the public bath-house—we found among the crowd of people gathered at the landing a boy of about a dozen years of age, who, to our great astonishment, addressed us in English, with an unmistakable American accent, and said that his grandfather hoped we would call on him before we went away. A few moments later we were

PEASANT GIRLS AT MOHÁCS

toasting America, England, and Hungary in the purest of Tokay from the original bottles, sealed in the memorable year of ’48. Our host, Colonel Fornét, was a fine type of the Hungarian patriot, who, like so many others, had returned to his native country, after years of exile, to end his life among his kin. After the heroic struggle for independence in ’48 he fled to the United States, became a naturalized citizen, and, after a year or so, went back to Paris to meet and marry the lady who had been betrothed to him before the revolution broke out. On his return to America he was unable to resist long the fascinations of the adventurous life in the great West, and for a time he followed the fortunes of General Fremont and other explorers of the wild regions. When the rebellion offered a still more tempting field for his restless ambition, he joined a New Jersey regiment, and served with distinction as its colonel until he was disabled in the field and incapacitated for active life in the future. Shortly after the close of the war he returned to Hungary with his family, and for a quarter of a century has kept his memory bright, his gratitude warm, and his loyalty to his adopted country still as pure as when he won the silver eagle on his shoulders in the trying days of ’61. His children and grandchildren regard America with such reverence, and speak of it with such genuine affection, that our poor patriotism was put quite to the blush. With tears in his eyes, the noble old soldier modestly gave us a short history of his life there, and lived over again for a brief moment the scenes of his younger days, his blood still boiling at the memory of the martyrs of Arad, his voice still keeping its martial ring as he spoke of his comrades in the great rebellion in his adopted land. There are few countries where the utterance of such intense sentiments would not sound strained and dramatic, and the expression of such feeling appear a little out of tune. But in Hungarypatriotism is not considered old-fashioned, nor do the dictates of society demand that studied indifference and coolness which is characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon. Our visit to the grand old patriot left an impression on us which neither time nor distance can efface.

AFEW miles below Mohács is the upper mouth of the Franzens Canal which joins the Danube with the Theiss, giving an easy outlet for the produce of the great fertile plain, facilitating the transportation of grain and lumber from the interior to the chief water highway. The construction of the canal dates from the last century, and, in all probability, it was projected even as early as the Roman occupation. It is only within a few years, however, that, by the aid of English capital, it has been finished and put in active operation. The wonderfully rich farming country through which it passes has attracted, since earliest times, settlers from all surrounding regions, and of all the Hungarian kingdom it has the most varied and heterogeneous population. Almost anywhere within the narrow limits of the low horizon may be counted between the Danube and the Theiss a dozen villages, sheltering representatives of as many different races, and a more attractive field for the philologist or for the artist cannot be found between the Black Sea and the Baltic. The traveller who rushes down the Danube in a steamer, or yawns at the monotonous plain from the window of a Pullman-car on the Orient Express, gets no more idea of the people than if he saw them from a balloon. Even studied intimately and at leisure, this unique mixture of races is confusing and perplexing, and only those who have long been familiar with them can thoroughly

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