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?

CHAPTER XXIV.

Ride to Szent Domokos—­Difficulty about quarters—­Interesting host—­Jewish question in Hungary—­Taxation—­Financial matters.

From Szereda I went to Szent Domokos.  It was a long ride, and I was again nearly benighted.  However, I reached my destination this time just as the last streak of daylight had departed.

I had some difficulty in making the people I met understand that I wanted the postmaster’s house.  No one, it appeared, could speak a word of German.  At length I found the place; but a new difficulty arose.  The postmaster, it seemed, was away, as far as I could make out from his wife.  She seemed greatly puzzled, not to say alarmed, at seeing an armed horseman ride up, who demanded hospitality; and I daresay she was the more puzzled at not being able “to place me,” as the Yankees say, for she asked me if I was a Saxon, an Austrian, or a Turk?  My appearance, I suppose, was rather uncouth and alarming.  She was young and very pretty—­an Armenian, I learned afterwards.  These women are apt to have Oriental notions about men, and she was evidently afraid to ask me in.