tly round each ankle. All the rest of the party seemed
immensely proud of this young person, and were very anxious to put her
forward in every way. Indeed, all the other women, mostly hard-working,
hard-featured matrons, prematurely aged, took no more part in the visit
than the chorus of a Greek play, always excepting the old luduna, or
headman of the village, who came as escort, and in charge of the whole
party. This was a most garrulous and amusing individual, full of
reminiscences and anecdotes of his fighting days. He was rather more
frank than most warriors, who 'shoulder their crutch, and show how
fields are won;' for the usual end of his battle stories was the naive
confession, 'and then I thought I should be killed, and so I ran away.'
He and I used up a great many interpreters in the course of the visit;
for he wearied every one out, and nothing made him so angry as any
attempt to condense his conversation in translating it to me. But he was
great fun; polite as became an old soldier, full of compliments and
assurances that 'now the happiest day of his life having come, he
desired to live no longer, but was ready for death.' The visit took
place on the shady side of the verandah, and thither I brought a large
musical box and set it down on the ground to play. Never was there such
a success. In a moment they were all down on their knees before it
listening with rapt delight, the old man telling them the music was
caused by very little people inside the box, who were obliged to do
exactly as I bade them. They were in a perfect ecstasy of delight for
ever so long, retreating rapidly, however, to a distance whenever I
wound it up. The old luduna took snuff copiously all the time, and made
me affectionate speeches, which resulted in the gift of an old great
coat, which he assured me he never would live to wear out, because he
was quite in a hurry to die and go to the white man's land now that he
had seen me."[48]

* * * * *

Of all the European countries, Hungary, we think, is the one least
represented in our English literature of travel, though to Englishmen it
might seem to have peculiar attractions, in virtue of its romantic
scenery, its historical associations, and the brave, independent, and
vigorous character of its inhabitants. "Its history is that of Greece,"
says a German writer; "the same heroism lives within its borders, the
names of its heroes alone have changed." We turn,