When I was in Hungary Proper they told me that travelling in Transylvania was very dangerous, and that it was a mad notion to think of going about there alone.  Now that I was in Transylvania, I was amused at finding myself most seriously warned against the risk of riding alone through the Szeklerland.  Every one told some fresh story of the insecurity of the roads.  Curiously enough, foreigners get off better than the natives themselves; people of indifferent honesty have been known to say, “One would not rob a stranger.”  It happened to me that one day when riding along—­in this very Szeklerland of ill-repute—­I dropped my Scotch plaid, and did not discover my loss till I arrived at the next village, where I was going to sleep.  I was much vexed, not thinking for a moment that I should ever see my useful plaid again.  However, before the evening was over, a peasant brought it into the inn, saying he had found it on the road, and it must belong to the Englishman who was travelling about the country.  The finder would not accept any reward!

There was a fair in the town the day I left Kronstadt.  The field where it is held is right opposite Hotel “No. 1,” and the whole place was crowded with country-folks in quaint costumes—­spruce, gaily-dressed people mixed up with Wallack cattle-drivers and other picturesque rascals, such as gipsies and Jews, and here and there a Turk, and, more ragged than all, a sprinkling of refugee Bulgarians.  Though it was a scene of strange incongruities—­a very jumble of races—­yet it was by no means a crowd of roughs; on the contrary, the well-dressed, well-to-do element prevailed.  The thrifty Saxon was very much there, intent on making a good bargain; the neatly-dressed Szekler walked about holding his head on his shoulders with an air of resolute self-respect—­they are unmistakable, are these proud rustics.  Many a fair-haired Saxon maiden too tripped along, eyeing askance the peculiar “get-up” of the Englishman as he was about to mount his noble steed and ride forth into the wilds.  If I was amused by the crowd, I believe the crowd was greatly amused at my proceedings.  Mine own familiar friend, I verily believe, would have passed me by on the other side, I cut so queer a figure.  As usual on these occasions, I had sent forward my portmanteau, this time to Maros Vasarhely; but everything else I possessed I carried round about me and my horse somehow, and I am not a man “who wants but little here below.”

Besides my toilette de voyage, I had my cooking apparatus, a small jar of Liebig’s meat, and some compressed tea, and other little odds and ends of comforts.  I had also provided myself with some bacon and slivovitz for barter, a couple of bottles of the spirit being turned into a big flask slung alongside of my lesser flask for wine.  Nor was this all, for having duly secured my saddle-bags, I had the plaid and mackintosh rolled up neatly and strapped in front of the saddle; then my gun, field-glass, and roll of three maps were slung across my shoulders. Nota bene my pockets were full to repletion.  In my leathern belt was stuck a revolver, handy, and a bowie-knife not far off.