their porcelain pipes imported from Vienna with the air of men
of the world who have travelled and who could tell you a thing or two
if they liked. They are never tired of talking of Mehadia, which is
one of their principal stations. The sad-faced nobleman, followed by
the decorous old man-servant in fantastic Magyar livery, who arrived
in the diligence, has been to the baths. The master is vainly seeking
cure, comes every year, and always supplies postilion and guard with
the money to buy flasks of wine. This the postilion tells me and my
fellows, and suggests that the "honorable society" should follow the
worthy nobleman's example. No sooner is it done than postilion and
guard kiss our hands; which is likewise an evidence that they have
travelled, are well met with every stranger and all customs, and know
more than they say.

The Romans had extensive establishments at Mehadia, which they called
the "Baths of Hercules," and it is in memory of this that a statue
of the good giant stands in the square of the little town. Scattered
through the hills, many inscriptions to Hercules, to Mercury and
to Venus have been found during the ages. The villages on the road
thither are few and far between, and are inhabited by peasants
decidedly Dacian in type. It is estimated that a million and a half
of Roumanians are settled in Hungary, and in this section they are
exceedingly numerous. Men and women wear showy costumes, quite
barbaric and uncomfortable. The women seem determined to wear as
few garments as possible, and to compensate for lack of number by
brightness of coloring. In many a pretty face traces of gypsy blood
may be seen. This vagabond taint gives an inexpressible charm to
a face for which the Hungarian strain has already done much. The
coal-black hair and wild, mutinous eyes set off to perfection the pale
face and exquisitely thin lips, the delicate nostrils and beautifully
moulded chin. Angel or devil? queries the beholder. Sometimes he is
constrained to think that the possessor of such a face has the mingled
souls of saint and siren. The light undertone of melancholy which
pervades gypsy beauty, gypsy music, gypsy manners, has an extremely
remarkable fascination for all who perceive it. Even when it is almost
buried beneath ignorance and animal craft, it is still to be found
in the gypsy nature after diligent search. This strange race seems
overshadowed by the sorrow of some haunting memory. Each individual
belongi