CHAPTER XIII. 267

NOTES 279

VOLUME III

CHAPTER I. 1

CHAPTER II. 42

CHAPTER III. 62

CHAPTER IV. 90

CHAPTER V. 105

CHAPTER VI. 128

CHAPTER VII. 138

CHAPTER VIII. 161

CHAPTER IX. 178

CHAPTER X. 217

CONCLUSION 236

NOTES 242

PREFACE.

When Joseph, Baron Eötvös, wrote his "Village Notary," and when he

dedicated that work to me, neither he nor I could anticipate the sudden

and unexpected downfall of the political and social institutions which

he attempted to portray. It is true that my friend did not, in the

present work, make an exclusive use of his poetical faculties. The dregs

of opposition were fermenting in his mind, and his ostensible object, to

give a sketch of life in a Hungarian province, was mixed up with the

desire to make his story act as a lever upon the _vis inertiæ_ of our

political condition. In those days, the liberal party in Hungary was

divided into three factions. Our great reformer, the Count Széchenyi,

was worn out by his long and seemingly resultless struggles against the

policy of the Court of Vienna. He made a surrender of the leading ideas

of his political life. He had ever since 1829 been the champion of equal

taxation and of legal equality. He had advocated the abolition of

feudal burdens on the land. But he lived to consider these objects of

his former aspirations as matters of secondary import. He became a

practical man, and directed his energies to the steam-navigation on the

Danube, to the damming and dyking of the river Theiss, to railroads,

&c.; and for the furtherance of these plans the Count Széchenyi, though

still faithful to his principles, had drawn close to the conservative

party, and become reconciled to the government at Vienna. He did not,

indeed, deprive himself of the pleasure of recounting numberless

anecdotes and sketches from life, all of which tended to prove the

incapability and the malevolence of that government; but his voice was

silent in the debates of the Parliament, and the whole of his energies

were devoted to the execution of practical improvements. "_Make money,

and enrich the country!_" such was the advice he gave to us, his younger

friends; and he added,--"_An empty sack will topple over; but if you

fill it, it will stand by its own weight._"

Count Széchenyi's practical clique was flanked by a more numerous and

influential party. M. Kossuth's parliamentary opposition, taking a firm

stand on the letter of the law, waged an unceasing warfare against the

machinations of the Vienna bureaucracy. His party advocated the

institutions of the counties, the free election of civic magistrates,

and the independence of boroughs; and they stood ready to repel any

direct or indirect blow which might be aimed at these institutions. This

party was supreme, both in strength and in numbers. The middle classes

and the gentry belonged to it; while Széchenyi's followers were members

of the high aristocracy, who resided in the metropolis, and who scarcely

ever busied themselves about the county elections.

Baron Eötvös was the leader of a third party. He was imbued with the

levelling tendencies of French liberalism. The men of Eötvös's school

admired the theoretical perfection of Centralisation, and vied with the

Vienna party in their aversion to the county institutions, with their

assemblies and elections. But the Austrian Camarilla wished to establish

the so-called "Paternal Absolutism" in the place of the county

institutions; while the Eötvös party dreamed of a free parliamentary

government. His party considered Hungary as a "_tabula rasa_," and they

endeavoured, in defiance of history, to raise a new political fabric;

not on the ground of written law, but on the treacherous soil of the law

of nature. It was chiefly composed of young men of letters, who, full of

spirit and ability, were but too prone to discover the weak and faulty

parts of the county government, while they were unable to appreciate its

practical soundness and its salutary influence. This circumstance caused

them to withdraw from the elections, and to look down upon the struggles

and contests of parliamentary life. Their doctrines could not,

therefore, have any influence. To obtain a license for printing and

publishing a newspaper was extremely difficult. Nevertheless, the Eötvös

party had got possession of a newspaper. Their leaders, though spirited

and witty, failed in bringing their ideas of centralisation home to the

minds of their readers. The national instincts of the Hungarian people

were opposed to such notions. But so convinced was Baron Eötvös of their

truth and justness, that he resolved to publish them and make them

popular, at any hazard. He wrote a novel, in which he put together a

variety of small sketches and studies from nature, and formed them into

one grand picture, for the express purpose of caricaturing the political

doings in our counties. But, fortunately for the public, Baron Eötvös

was a better poet than a politician, and his political pamphlet ripened,

very much against his will, into one of the most interesting works of

fiction that the Hungarian literature can boast of. His book was eagerly

read and enthusiastically admired, it was devoid of all political

action. Baron Eötvös missed the object at which he aimed; but he carried

off a higher prize. Instead of popularising his ideas, he popularised

himself, and the poet atoned for the sins of the politician. Nor was

this difficult. Baron Eötvös was a thoroughly romantic character. He was

more than the hero of a novel: his adventures and his fortunes made him

a real hero. His years, though few, had been full of strange

vicissitudes, and his life, from the cradle to his mature age, was one

uninterrupted chain of strange and untoward events.

The grandfather of Joseph Eötvös was a Hungarian government officer of

high rank; his grandmother was a passionate woman, and a furious Magyar.

She was therefore greatly incensed at her son (the poet's father)

marrying a foreigner, viz., the Baroness Lilien, especially as the young

lady had been so utterly neglected as to be ignorant of the Hungarian

language. Often did the old lady vent her feelings on this point in the

presence of the Baron Lilien, and emphatic were her protests that the

German woman would remain childless--a prediction which it may be

supposed was not at all calculated to gratify the baron. But when it

became apparent that the family of Eötvös was not likely to become

extinct, she changed her tactics by protesting, with the utmost

boldness, that a German woman could not, by any chance, give birth to a

boy, and that the family of Eötvös would become extinct in default of

male issue. Baron Lilien put in a demurrer, and at length laid her a

wager of one hundred ducats in favour of his daughter giving birth to a

boy. The wager was duly accepted by the baroness, who lost it, and paid

the amount, saying: "It's a boy after all, but he will turn out to be a

German and stupid. I'll never see him, for I'll never prize him at a

hundred ducats!" But the young Baron, Joseph Eötvös, lived to defeat all

his grandmother's prophecies. She did indeed remain true to her word,

for she never cared for him, and devoted all her tenderness to his

younger brother; in her will she cut him off with an old piece of

household furniture, which, after all, was taken from him, and given to

a distant relative, by virtue of a codicil; but the German grandfather

made up for the grandmother's harshness.

Young Joseph's earlier years fell in that period of apathy which weighed

down upon Europe after the feverish excitement of the French wars.

Constitutionalism and nationality were sneered down as idle and

reprehensible things. Hungary, too, partook of the lethargy of Europe;

and the government, which alone was on the alert, made sundry

successful attempts to wrest from us part of our old historical rights.

The borough elections and the meetings of the counties were interfered

with; pains were taken to extend the iron net of Austrian bureaucracy

over Hungary; and, in 1823, it was thought that all power of resistance

had left us. It was thought that the Hungarian Constitution was breaking

up, and ready to be buried in the same grave with the Constitutions of

Spain and Italy. The Cabinet of Vienna ventured to strike the last blow.

Without consulting the parliament, they raised the taxes, and decreed a

larger levy of recruits. These two points, if carried, abolished our

Constitution, and crowned the endeavours of the House of

Hapsburg-Lorraine. Great hopes of success were entertained at Vienna:

the love of our ancient constitution had seemingly become extinct in

Hungary; the German language had of late come to be the fashionable

idiom at Pesth; and several of the most powerful magnates were willing

to assist in completing the ruin of their country. The men at Vienna

knew, indeed, that all the counties would demur to the decrees of the

Hungarian Chancery, especially since the Chancellor, Prince Kohary, had

entered his protest against the intended violation of the Hungarian

Constitution. But the Cabinet of Vienna were resolved to execute their

plan; and, if all other means failed, to _force_ the Hungarians into

submission. Commissioners with unlimited powers were sent to the

refractory counties. These men were instructed to coerce the county

meetings by means of the military force. Baron Ignaz Eötvös (the poet's

grandfather) was appointed commissioner. He accepted the office. His

wife disapproved of the course he had taken, and left his house. The

Vienna Cabinet were at length forced to yield to the obstinate

resistance of the counties. They revoked their illegal decrees, and the

convocation of a parliament was declared to be at hand. But the public

voice spoke loud against the commissioners. The Count Illyeshazy became

the most popular of all the magnates, because he had declined to accept

the post of a commissioner, while those who had consented to act as the

tools of oppression were scorned and insulted by the multitude.

Young Joseph Eötvös, was, of course, profoundly ignorant of these

events. Pampered by his grandfather, and idolised by his mother, he

passed that period of bitter reality amidst all the bright dreams of

happy childhood. He was, indeed, informed of the honours and dignities

which the emperor had been most graciously pleased to confer upon his

father and grandfather; but he knew nothing of the curses of the people;

he knew nothing of the contempt with which his family name was

pronounced by the Hungarians. But the time was at hand for him to learn

it all, and feel it too. Young Eötvös was sent to a public school.

His father, an able diplomatist, had hitherto placed the boy under the

care of a tutor, Mr. Pruzsinsky. This gentleman was a staunch

republican. In his earlier years he was a party to the conspiracy of

Bishop Martinovich, the friend of Hajnotzy.[1] Pruzsinsky, with no less

than thirty of his associates, had been sentenced to capital punishment.

They were compelled to witness the execution of five of their friends.

At the same time, they were informed that their punishment had been

commuted into imprisonment for life. Hajnotzy, on his way to the

scaffold, entreated Pruzsinsky to protect his only sister, whom his

death would deprive of her last friend. Pruzsinsky promised to fulfil

the last request of the dying man; but it was long before he could

redeem his pledge. During eight years he was confined in several

Austrian prisons. When the French armies invaded the country, the state

prisoners were taken from the Kuffstein to the Spielberg, from the

Spielberg to Olmütz, and from Olmütz to Munkatsh; and everywhere they

met with that barbarous treatment which, at a later period, has been so

faithfully recorded by Silvio Pellico. After eight years of

imprisonment, Pruzsinsky was at length released; and, after ascertaining

the residence of Hajnotzy's sister, he informed her of the promise he

had given to her brother; adding, that his poverty allowed him no other

means of protecting her than by offering her his hand. The poor girl,

who at that time was reduced to severe distress, joyfully accepted the

proposal. They were married. Pruzsinsky lived in the greatest happiness

with his wife, whose love and devotion made ample amends for his past

sufferings. But this blissful period was of short duration; at the end

of two years Mrs. Pruzsinsky died.

[Footnote 1: He was executed in 1795.]

The events which we have detailed had their due share of influence in

forming Pruzsinsky's character. Naturally severe and independent, it was

by misfortune rendered harsh and all but repulsive. Baron Eötvös chose

this man to be a tutor to his son, because he expected (and not without

some show of reason) that the tutor's severity and his unamiable

character would disgust his pupil with the political ideas of which he

was the advocate and the martyr. But the boy took a liking to his

master, in spite of the harshness and coldness of the latter; and an

event which at that time took place gave Pruzsinsky an opportunity of

gaining a still stronger hold on his pupil's mind. Joseph Eötvös was

sent to a public school just at the period when every liberal speaker in

parliament denounced his family name, and when the country cursed it.

The boys shunned young Joseph; the form on which he sat was deserted,

and though he would fain have considered this circumstance as a mark of

respect, paid to him as the only member of the aristocracy that his

school could boast of, he was soon given to understand that there is

some difference between honouring a peer and sending him to Coventry.

His grandfather, too, on visiting the school, was received by the boys

with unmistakeable signs of disrespect; and when young Eötvös demanded

an explanation, he was told that his grandfather was a traitor. "And

you, too, are a traitor," added they. "You are almost thirteen years of

age, and you cannot speak Hungarian. We are sure you will be a traitor!"

Young Joseph was not a little shocked at this prediction, and of course

consulted his tutor about the likelihood of its ever coming true.

Pruzsinsky said simply, that the boys were right, and continued

grinding his pupil in Cornelius Nepos and the Latin grammar. But

Joseph's mind was not what it had been. He studied the Hungarian

language, and devoted his attention to the political conversations in

his father's _salon_, asking his tutor for an explanation of those

things which he did not understand. Thus, for instance, he asked why the

decease of the Count N. was so greatly lamented? "Who was the Count N.?"

"The Count N.," said Pruzsinsky, "was, by his talents and learning, one

of the most eminent men in Hungary: his character was odious. He filled

a high post in the state. As for you, boy, you will never equal him in

spirit and knowledge." A fortnight afterwards the tutor asked whether

Count N.'s death was still the subject of conversation; and when Joseph

replied that nobody thought of it, Pruzsinsky said: "This is well. That

man has been dead a fortnight, and nobody remembers his death, in spite

of his talents. The society to which he sacrificed his name and his

honour wants but two weeks to forget his existence. Mark this, boy, and

see what thanks you will get from the noble and great!" At another time

Pruzsinsky took his pupil to the green behind the Castle at Buda, on

which his five friends had been executed. "Here," said he, "they shed

the blood of five true friends of the country. No monument marks the

spot where they bled and lie buried, but the feet of the passing crowd

have worn the green into the form of a cross, and thus marked the place.

The time will come when these men will have their monument. That

monument will be a triumphal arch for the liberated people--it will be a

gallows for those who opposed our liberties!"

Words like these were calculated to make a deep impression on the mind

of young Eötvös, who manifested his political conversion by addressing

his schoolfellows in an Hungarian oration, by which he informed them

that, though his ancestors had served the house of Austria, and betrayed

the interests of Hungary, he (the Baron Joseph Eötvös) was resolved to

atone at once for the crime of his fathers, and that he (the said Baron

Eötvös) meant to be "liberty's servant, and his country's slave." The

boys received this speech with the greatest enthusiasm. They rushed up

to the master's desk, which the young orator had converted into a

tribune, and, seizing the object of their admiration, lifted him on

their shoulders, and carried him to the next coffee-house!

But, alas! how short is the step from the capitol to the Tarpeian rock!

The procession had no sooner reached its destination than the

school-master's servant appeared to arrest the speaker. His _début_

began on the master's desk; it ended in the black hole.

Amidst these, and similar impressions, passed the boyhood of Baron

Eötvös. In the year 1826 the Emperor Francis was compelled to conciliate

the good will of the Hungarian parliament. He reiterated his promise to

respect the constitutional rights of the country. The season of popular

excitement was over, and the hatred to the name of Eötvös grew gradually

less. In 1829, the Count Széchenyi published his plans of reform; the

old aristocratic opposition of Hungary became a liberal opposition, and

the party of national progress grew in strength and numbers. The youth

of Hungary joined this latter party. Tours to foreign countries became

the order of the day with all young men of education. Baron Eötvös, too,

made the grand tour of Europe. He was amiable, and a great favourite

with women; some of his occasional pieces had introduced him to the

public as a poet; he was rich,--in short, he had all that is requisite

to act a brilliant part in the capitals of the Continent.

In the course of the carnival of 1837, Baron Eötvös, who was then at

Paris, was invited by a young Frenchman to accompany him to Mademoiselle

le Normand, the notorious Parisian soothsayer. The poet consented; and

leaving a brilliant and merry party in the Faubourg du Roule, the two

young men repaired to the house of the mysterious lady. Mademoiselle le

Normand, after gazing long and earnestly at the handsome face of our

hero, said at length, "You are rich. The day will come when you will be

poor. You will marry a rich woman. You will be a minister of state in

your own country. You will die on the scaffold." Nothing was so unlikely

as this prophecy: Baron Eötvös was greatly amused with it, and after his

return to Hungary, he used to tell the anecdote for the amusement of his

friends.

The financial crisis of 1841, and the money speculations of the old

Baron Eötvös, led the family to the brink of ruin. Joseph Eötvös was

compelled to live by his pen; anywhere but in England and France, the

bread of literature is poverty indeed. In 1842, he married an amiable

and accomplished woman; but still he smiled at Mademoiselle le Normand's

prophecy. As a peer and as a public writer, he belonged to the extreme

opposition; and although his party had the greatest influence in the

country, there was no reason to suppose that it would ever be called

upon to grasp the reins of government. The movements of the year 1848

changed the aspect of affairs and the position of parties. A cabinet was

formed under the auspices of the Count Batthyany; and Joseph Baron

Eötvös was one of the members of that cabinet. In the month of August

the political horizon of Hungary became clouded: Jellachich, the Ban of

Croatia, prepared to invade our country. The duplicity of the Vienna

Cabinet became daily more manifest. The landsturm assembled in Pesth.

The Count Lamberg fell a victim to the unbridled passions of the people.

The Croatians advanced almost to the very gates of Buda. Le Normand's

prophecy came home to Baron Eötvös's mind, and scared him to Vienna. But

he had scarcely reached the Austrian capital, when the revolution of

October broke out. Eötvös fled. He hastened to Munich, and remained in

voluntary exile, without taking any active interest in the fate of his

country and the wayward fortunes of his friends. His career as a

statesman is ended for many years to come. It is to be hoped that his

faculties as a writer will survive the blow which crushed his country;

and that his countrymen will have many a song and a few more novels from

so clever and spirited a pen. It is the pleasing office of fiction to

reconcile us to the anxieties and misfortunes of real matter-of-fact

life. May my friend succeed in pouring balm into the fresh wounds of the

country; and may his works alleviate, though it be but for a moment, the

anguish which in this season of sorrows eats into the heart of every

Hungarian!

FRANCIS PULSZKY.

THE VILLAGE NOTARY.

CHAPTER I.

The traveller in the districts on the lower Theiss, however narrow the

circle of his peregrinations, may be said to be familiar with the whole

of that part of Hungary. Some families boast of the resemblance, not to

say the identity, of their members. To distinguish one from another, we

must see them long and often. The case of these districts is very much

the case of those families; and the traveller, after a few hours' sleep

on our sandy roads, has no means of knowing that he has made any

progress, unless, indeed, it be by looking at the setting sun, or his

jaded horses. Neither the general character nor the details of the

country will remind him of his having been subjected to locomotion. As

well might the seaman on the Atlantic endeavour to mark his course on

the watery plain which surrounds him. A boundless extent of pasturage,

now and then diversified by a broken frame over a well, or a few storks

that promenade round a half dried up swamp; bad fields, whose crops of

kukuruz and wheat are protected by God only, and by that degree of

bodily fatigue to which even a thief is exposed;--perhaps a lonely hut,

with a couple of long-haired wolf-dogs, reminding you of the sacredness

of property; and the ricks of stale hay and straw, left from the harvest

of last year, impressing you with the idea that their owners must either

have an excess of hay, or a want of cattle:--such were the sights upon

which you closed your eyes, and such, indeed, are the sights which you

behold on awaking. The very steeples, which, before you fell asleep,

were visible on the far plain, seem to have gone along with you; for

there is as little difference between them, as between the village which

you were approaching in the early part of the afternoon and the one to

which you are now drawing near. The low banks of the Theiss, too, are

the same; our own yellow Theiss is not only the best citizen of our

country,--for it spends its substance at home,--but it is also the

luckiest river in the world, since nobody ever interferes with it. The

Theiss is, in fact, the only river in Europe of which it may be said

that it is exactly such as God has made it.

Somewhere on the banks of the lower Theiss, in any of its

districts,--say in the county of Takshony,--close to where the river

flows in the shape of a capital S, and at no great distance from three

poplars on a hill (there is not a hill for many miles in whichever

direction you may go, and, least of all, a hill with trees upon it),

lies the village of Tissaret, under the lordship of the Rety family, who

have owned the place ever since the Magyars first came into the

country,--a fact which Mr. Adam Catspaw, the solicitor of the family, is

prepared to prove at all times, and in all places, to any one that might

be inclined to doubt it.

Than the family of the Retys none can be more ancient; and it cannot

therefore be a cause for wonder that the village of Tissaret came in for

a few spare rays of that dazzling brilliancy which surrounded its

masters. There is a large park, in which the trees, which were planted

as early as thirty years ago, have grown to a fabulous height. There is

a pond, the waters of which are sometimes rather low, but which, no

matter whether high or low, are always beautifully green, like the

meadow around. In rainy weather that meadow is rather more sandy than

the paths, which, though frequently covered with fresh earth, are still

sometimes in a condition which induces strangers to call them dirty,

thereby astonishing the gardener, who thinks that they are exactly what

paths ought to be. And, besides, there is a large castle, with a high

roof with gilt knobs on the same; and with a Doric hall, in which the

sheriff used to smoke his pipe; and with a gothic gate, in front of

which a crowd of supplicants might at all times be seen loitering and

losing their time. There is a yard, with stables to the left, and a

glass-house and a hen-roost to the right, without mentioning the grand

dunghill which covers more than one half of the stables. Every thing, in

short, is grand and comfortable, and shows--especially the high-road

from the door of the house to the county-town, and which has been made

expressly for the Retys--that the place is the residence of a sheriff.

All the buildings of the Retys are of a monumental character; and the

more so, since one distinguishing feature in monuments, viz. their being

built at the public expense, belonged to every fabric, road or bridge,

made by the Retys. Every one in the county knew of this fact; and,

though a few persons pretended to blame them for it, the great majority

of the people were quite satisfied, as, indeed, it was their bounden

duty to be.

But there will be plenty of occasions in the sequel to make my readers

acquainted with the beauties and comforts of the seat of the Retys, and

of the village of Tissaret. For the present, I will take them by the

hand and lead them about two miles from the said village, to the hill

which is commonly called the Turk's Hill, and which is remarkable, not

only for its three trees, but also for the distant view you enjoy on it

of the mountains of Tokay, which, on a clear day, like the one that

opens this tale, may be seen looming in the distance like dark-blue

haystacks.

The warm rays of an October sun fell upon the plains of Tissaret; there

was not a cloud in the sky, not a speck of dust on the heath. The solemn

silence of the scene was interrupted only by those vague sounds which

herald the approach of evening,--the carol of the birds, the faint

tinkling of distant sheep-bells, and the song of a lonely workman

wending his way homeward, with his scythe on his shoulder. The view from

the hill commands the country to the wood of St. Vilmosh, the acacias of

Tissaret, and the far windings of the Theiss. On that hill there are

two men, whom I take the liberty of introducing to my readers as Mr.

Jonas Tengelyi, the notary, and Mr. Balthasar Vandory, the curate of the

village of Tissaret.

Every aristocracy has its marks of distinction. Long nails, a tattooed

face, a green or black dress, a button on the hat, a ribbon in the

button-hole, a sword or a stick with an apple,--these are a few of the

marks which in various times and places have served, and still serve, to

separate them from the common herd; which, wherever that strange

animal--man--has left the savage state and become domesticated, part

them asunder from their birth to their dying hour; and which, in the

most civilised countries, show you by the very gallows that the culprit

is not only a thief, but also a plebeian. Nature, too, has her nobility;

she, too, puts marks of distinction on her aristocrat, by which you may

know her elect, in spite of all the preachers of a general equality.

Nature does not, indeed, compete with civilisation in ennobling a man's

fathers that lived before him, or the babe unborn that is to call him

father,--but there are cases in which Nature's nobility is unmistakeably

expressed in individuals. Any man that has once seen the notary Jonas

Tengelyi, will confess that my statement is correct; and to make this

fact still more comprehensible, I will add that Tengelyi's nobility

dates more than a hundred years back, and that, in the present instance,

Nature had all the advantages which the "usus" could give her.

Tengelyi is about fifty years of age, though his thin locks sprinkled

with flakes of grey, and the deep wrinkles with which Time has marked

his forehead, would cause you to think him older; but then he is like a

sturdy oak, with gnarled roots and branches bearing witness to its age,

while its leaves are still fresh and green, and show that there is a

strong and hearty life in it. Tengelyi's manly form and erect bearing

under his silvery locks, and his shining eyes beneath his wrinkled

forehead, bespeak him at once as a man whom Time has not broken, but

steeled,--and who, like colours that have seen many a battle-field, in

the course of years, had lost nothing but his ornaments.

The man who, sitting at Tengelyi's side, counts the petals of a flower,

while his eyes are directed to the blue mountain-tops of Tokay looming

in the distance, appears still more advanced in age, and his mild and

regular features form a striking contrast to the severity which is the

leading characteristic of Tengelyi's face. That face exhibits the

traces of fiery passions and fierce contentions, which, though soothed

into oblivion, might still under circumstances break forth afresh; while

Vandory's features might be likened to a clear sky, on which the passing

storm has left no trace. Vandory's appearance needs no aid from his

clerical dress to inform you that you accost one of those men whom God

has sent to represent his mercy upon earth. The notary's bearing shows

an honest man, who had but little happiness in the world,--while Vandory

is a living demonstration of the old adage, that virtue is its own

reward, even in this world of ours.

Vandory at length interrupted the silence which the two friends had

observed for the last half-hour, by saying, "Where are your thoughts, my

friend?"

"I scarcely know," was Tengelyi's reply. "I thought of my youth,--of

Heidelberg,--of my career as a 'jurat.' Do you sometimes think of

Heidelberg? _I_ do; and whenever my thoughts return to the green

mountains and the bright rivers of that country, I feel inclined to

quarrel with fate for casting my lot in this desolate champaign."

"Do not, I pray, abuse our country," said Vandory, smiling. "What can be

greener than this meadow? Is not that river beautiful, flowing as it

does among the reeds? And what can be more striking than the far

steeples and the mountains of Tokay? As for the blue sky and the rays of

the setting sun, they are beautiful anywhere. You are very unjust, sir,

and that is the long and the short of it."

"And you are the greatest optimist I ever met with," rejoined Tengelyi;

"there is not a man on earth but you can talk of his good qualities, and

by the hour too. But your taking this country under your protection

makes me verily believe that God, for all that he is omnipotent, cannot

create anything so bad but that you would hit upon some redeeming point

in it."

"Why should I quarrel with His works?" said Vandory. "We ought to be at

peace with all men,--and with all countries, too," added he, smiling.

"We ought--but all cannot!"

"We can. Believe me, we are all optimists, every man of us. God made his

creatures for happiness; and as Scripture says that heaven and hell are

both peopled by the denizens of paradise, so is each joy and each sorrow

the result, not of our nature, but of our will."

"But experience!" interposed Tengelyi.

"Experience proves but what we wish it to prove. If you are pleased

with the present, you will find pleasant reminiscences in the past, and

_vice versâ_. Go merrily to the glass, and you will see a smiling face

in it; and even Echo, lovelorn woman though she be, will speak in joyful

notes, if you but address her with accents of joy."

Tengelyi laughed. "There is no disputing with you. I trust when Mr.

Catspaw's 'canonisation' comes on, that they will retain you as Heaven's

advocate. You will then have a fair chance of showing how many occasions

for the exercise of signal virtues that worthy Catspaw gave in his life;

for every body who ever refrained from thrashing him, exercised the

virtue of self-denial to a remarkable extent. The very hare which the

young gentlemen are hunting down yonder ought to be counselled not to

appeal to you. You would tell her that to be hunted to death is a hare's

happiness and pride. Indeed," added Tengelyi, with great bitterness,

"you have undertaken quite as difficult a task in endeavouring to

convince your parishioners of what you are pleased to call their

happiness, and in pointing out to them for what they ought to be

thankful to Providence."

But this taunt was lost upon Vandory, whose whole attention was with the

hunt, which then took the direction of the Turk's Hill. "This is savage

sport," cried the clergyman at length, "one unworthy of Christian men. I

cannot understand how men of education and parts can delight in it!"

"Still it engages your interest," said Tengelyi; and, casting a look at

the hunting-party, who were just assembled round the body of the

wretched hare, he added, with a sigh, "Alas! _these_ men are happy!"

"As for me," repeated Vandory, "I cannot understand how men of education

can delight in that sort of thing."

"I dare say you cannot," rejoined Tengelyi, smiling. "Rarely as we

understand the sorrows of others, their joys are a sealed book indeed.

But this sport is much the same with other enjoyments which pride or

strength procures us. To spy an object out, to hunt it, to gain upon it,

and at length to seize it, is indeed a happy feeling--no matter whether

the object is a hare or whether it is the conquest of a country. It is

always the same sensation; and the difference, if any, is for the

spectator, but not for the actor."

"But this is cruel. Consider the sufferings of the poor animal! What an

unequal contest! A score of dogs and horsemen after _one_ hare. It is

really shocking."

"You are quite right about the inequality," retorted Tengelyi, "but

where in this world do you see a fair fight? The cotton-lord and the

factory-workman--the planter and the negro--they are all unequally

matched. Believe me, friend, hare-hunting is not a very cruel sport, if

compared to some which I could name."

Vandory sighed, and though, as an optimist, fully convinced of

Tengelyi's being in the wrong, he resolved to reserve his reply; for

Akosh Rety and his party, seeing the two friends on the hill, advanced

from the plain and put a stop to the conversation.

Of the company which now assembled round the notary and the old

clergyman, there can be no doubt that my lady-readers would be most

struck with Akosh Rety and Kalman Kishlaki. They were very handsome;

indeed it was a common saying in the county of Takshony, that handsomer

young men could not be found in any six counties of Hungary. They showed

to great advantage after the hunt, with their flushed faces, and their

curly hair escaping disorderly from beneath their small round hats.

Their short blue shooting-coats, too, gave them an appearance of great

smartness, and----but I am conscious of my duty as a Magyar author, and

I know that the Justice ought to have the precedence in his own

district. I therefore beg leave to introduce to my honoured readers the

justice and his clerk, Mr. Akosh Rety's companions in the hunt.

Learned men maintain that our country is inhabited by a race of classic,

viz., of Scythian, origin. At times we may forget this fact; for, even

among the men whose names most unmistakeably proclaim our Eastern

source, there are many whom any one but a philologist would class with

quite a different race of people. It is notorious that the current of

the Rhine loses itself in mud and sand. Even so are the descendants of

families who were glorious in their generation, intent upon magnifying

their fathers by eschewing to eclipse the brilliancy of ancestral fame.

There are men of whose high descent we are only reminded by the

impossibility to conceive what they could live on, unless it were on the

inheritance of their fathers.

Far different is Paul Skinner, the justice of the district. Every doubt

about the authenticity of our national origin must vanish on seeing him

on his dun horse and lighting his pipe; for Paul Skinner is a striking

evidence of the fact that the Scythian blood of our ancestors still

flourishes in the land.

For the benefit of those unacquainted with the administration of

Hungary, I ought to remark that the office of a district justice is

unquestionably the most troublesome and laborious in the world. A

district justice is a firm pillar of the state; he upholds public

order,--he protects both rich and poor,--he is the judge and the father

of his neighbourhood; without him there is no justice--or, at the least,

no judicature. All complaints of the people pass through his hands; all

decrees of the powers that be are promulgated and administered by him.

The district justice regulates the rivers, makes roads, and constructs

bridges. He is the representative of the poor, the inspector of the

schools; he is lord chief forester whenever a wolf happens to make its

appearance; he is "protomedicus" in the case of an epidemic; he is

justice of the peace, the king's advocate in criminal cases,

commissioner of the police, of war, of hospitals; in short, he is all in

all,--the man in whom we live, move, and have our being.

If, among the six hundred men holding that office in our country, there

is but one who neglects his duty, the consequence is that thousands are

made to suffer: a want of impartiality in one of them kills justice for

many miles round; if one of them is ignorant, Parliament legislates in

vain for the poor. And whoever will condescend to compare the reward

with the labour, and consider that, besides a salary of from 100 to 150

florins per annum, a district justice must expect, after three years'

impartial administration of his office, to lose it by the

instrumentality of some powerful enemy,--whoever, I say, considers all

this, must confess that there are in this country either six hundred

living saints, or as many hundred thousand suffering citizens.

From what I have stated it is easy to see that there are two drawbacks

to the office of a district justice, viz. too much work and too little

pay. There are indeed some justices who endeavour to doctor their

dignity, by neglecting part of it, viz. the work,--and who of the other

part,--that is to say, of the pay,--take more than the law obliges them

to take. But the more enlightened, scorning such petty improvements,

advocate the principle of out-and-out reform in all that regards the

faulty composition of their office. Most wisely do they accept of what

the office yields with such profusion, (viz. work,) only when it

promises to yield what they lack, viz. pay. Most wisely, I say; for how

else could Spectabilis Paul Skinner rear his four sons to be pillars of

the state? and how else could he possibly make the respectable figure

which suited his office, and on the strength of which, whenever he, as

chief dignitary, perambulates the happy meads of the district of

Tissaret, he imparts a salutary quaking to the said happy meads?--of

course I mean to their humblest part,--to the abandoned population which

presumes to solicit a share of the most precious treasure of civil

liberty, viz. justice, and for nothing too.

But even those who know nothing of all this cannot fail to feel, in Paul

Skinner's presence, that sacred awe which is so necessary for the

maintenance of order. His external appearance is calculated to frighten

both the innocent and the guilty. Fancy a bony man, bilious, and

wrinkled like a baked apple; add to these graces a black beard, a pair

of large mustaches, green piercing eyes, which, it appears, are made to

wound rather than to see, and the short pipe which sticks to him like

any other member of his body,--fancy a tone of voice so shrill, so

cutting, that it alone can frighten the whole population of a village,

and you will confess that every body in the district (with the sole

exception of the rogues) must tremble on beholding Paul Skinner. But

never did Justice assume a more terrible shape than when she appeared in

the guise of the said Paul Skinner travelling his circuit. Then might be

seen the four horses with their postilion, furnishing a living

demonstration of the rapid progress of Hungarian justice; behind the

postilion, the county hussar with his feathered calpac; and--"post

equitem sedet atra cura,"--behind the hussar a bundle of sticks,

reminding the lovers of antiquity of the old Roman lictors (thus named

from their _licking_ propensities); and behind the sticks the judge,

always smoking and sometimes cursing, his feet stuck in a huge but empty

sack, which, "quia natura horret vacuum," travels with its master that

it may be filled. Even the boldest were frightened out of their wits by

this gradation of terrors.

It is impossible to conceive the idea of a district justice without a

clerk. Nature produces all creatures in pairs; and the Hungarian

Constitution, proceeding from natural principles, and acting up to them,

produces Justice only by the joint agency of two beings, viz. judge and

clerk. After introducing my readers to Mr. Skinner, it is but just that

I should recommend Mr. Kenihazy to their notice. That gentleman is at

this moment engaged in an interesting conversation with one of the dogs,

and in the joy of his heart--for that lucky dog caught the hare!--he has

just uttered certain quaint imprecations, which a shepherd was fined at

the last sessions for using. Andreas Kenihazy, or Bandi Batshi, as his

most intimate friends are in the habit of calling him, is his master's

right hand. He is not such a right hand as may sometimes be found among

other assistants, who, according to the words of Scripture, unconscious

of the doings of the left hand, that is to say, of the justice, do the

very reverse of what he did. No! Bandi Batshi is a loyal right hand,

co-operating to the welfare of the whole of which it is part. As a good

Christian, Kenihazy practised the lesson about the smiting of cheeks.

Whenever his superior was insulted (that is, when he was bribed, which

is the greatest insult you can offer a judge), Kenihazy would hold out

his hand also, nor would he be pacified unless he was exposed to a like

indignity. Nevertheless, Kenihazy was not easy to be bribed. To insult

him was a difficult and dangerous business; and those who had once

witnessed the outpourings of disgust with which the honest man resented

so gross an outrage, trembled when they offered their gift to that

righteous judge, who, for all that, remained mindful of his oath, and

who, to make matters even, showed himself most favourable to those who

had tried his temper, unless, indeed, the other party gave still greater

offence.

We are sure to meet Kenihazy again, and we will not therefore expatiate

on his blue jacket, which once upon a time boasted of a dozen

buttons,--or his waistcoat, which owes its present colour to the

sun,--or the time-honoured neckcloth, which gave the wearer a hanging

look--and much less on his grey pantaloons. We mention his round hat and

his boots and spurs merely in order to say that Kenihazy is the very

picture of seedy gentility; and, having said thus much, we turn to a

certain prejudice, which, though luckily obsolete in life, is generally

accepted in theory. The prevailing opinion of the venality of judges is,

I protest, utterly groundless. It has no foundation but those feelings

of envy, which low people are wont to indulge in with respect to their

betters.

Not to mention the fact, that according to our laws--and according to

laws of which the boldest innovator dare not say that they are obsolete,

inasmuch as their antiquity makes them venerable--our judges are allowed

to accept presents: we need only point out the high estimation in which

gratitude was held by all nations, both ancient and modern. To be good,

a man ought to be grateful; and is it not therefore very wrong to insist

upon a judge showing himself insensible to kindness? We are told we

ought to do by others as we wish them to act by ourselves. Supposing now

A., the judge, to be in the place of him from whom he accepts a present;

that is to say, suppose A., the judge, were to plead a cause, about the

justice of which he entertained some modest doubts, would not A. be very

happy if the learned gentleman who sits on his case were to take a

present and pronounce judgment accordingly?--and this being the case,

ought not A. to deal with his fellows as he wishes to be dealt with by

them?

It is a legal maxim that the judge ought to consider and weigh the

proofs which are preferred in the suit. Supposing now the proofs of the

claimant and those of the defendant are of equal merit, or nearly so,

and supposing the claimant adds a few bank-notes to the legal documents,

without the adverse party making a rejoinder to a plea of such universal

power; what, in the name of fair dealing, can the judge do, but give

judgment for the best pleader?

Returning to the party on the hill, we find Kalman eagerly disputing

with Vandory. Their conversation was, of course, of the merits of

hare-hunting. Tengelyi and Akosh took no part in it;--the former because

he protested that the subject was one about which on consideration there

could be but _one_ opinion, while every body would at times act in

opposition to that opinion; and Akosh declined to second his friend's

argument, because his mind and heart were hunting on another track. He

inquired of old Tengelyi how his daughter Vilma was, and his blushing

face showed that he thought more of Vilma than of all the hares in the

world. Tengelyi gave him but short answers, and even those reluctantly.

Paul Skinner and his clerk conversed about the election, and of the

means of gaining the public confidence. The names of certain villages

occurred frequently in their interesting dialogue; and when Mr. Skinner,

brightening up, murmured, "Ten butts, one dollar," Kenihazy was heard to

respond with, "That will do to keep us in!" and, giving vent to his

satisfaction, the worthy clerk, knocking his spurs together, blew an

immense column of smoke from his pipe. In fact, he smoked with such

violence, that one might have likened him to a steam-engine, but for the

indecency of comparing a vulgar working machine with an Hungarian

gentleman.

The party were about to leave, when their attention was suddenly

directed to something which was going on in the plain below. Two men on

horseback, and one on foot, were seen approaching over the heath; and it

was remarked that the individual, whose means of locomotion were so

unequally matched with those of his companions, walked in front of the

horses, and sometimes even between them. The servants of the party, nay,

the very justice, were in doubt as to who or what they were; whether

Pandurs or robbers, for at that distance it was quite impossible to make

out the difference, which doubtlessly does exist, between brigands and

the familiars of the Hungarian Hermandad. On a nearer approach, however,

all doubts were removed by the considerate manner in which the cavaliers

sought to divert the attention of the pedestrian from the length of the

way, by beating him; and it was at once clear that these were servants

of the county escorting a prisoner, whom they were subjecting to the

customary introductory proceedings.

"Let somebody ride down to the Pandurs and tell them to bring the

culprit to this place," said Mr. Skinner to his clerk. "I'm sure he is

one of Viola's gang; his case ought to be tried by a court-martial.[2]

What did I tell you?" he continued, turning to Akosh, "I was sure we

should catch the birds; and though I may not be re-elected, I mean at

least to deserve the confidence of the county by hanging a parcel of the

beggars on this hill."

[Footnote 2: See Note I.]

"Not before you've caught them, and I doubt whether you ever will.

Tengelyi says it is next to impossible to find an honest man. Now your

example proves that nothing is more easy, because hitherto you've

caught none but honest men; and I would almost swear," added Akosh,

"that Viola's comrade, the mighty outlaw whom your people are bringing

us, and to whose hanging you mean to treat the county,--that other

Jaromir and Angyalbandi[3],--is no less a personage than our old gipsy."

[Footnote 3: See Note II.]

Upon this everybody recognised old Peti, and there was a general burst

of laughter.

"Poor Peti!" cried Akosh with a great show of sentiment. "The country

cannot boast of a man more gifted, more useful. When a house is built,

it is he who makes the bricks; when a lock is out of order, he puts it

to rights. He is a born blessing to property. He shoes your horse and

fastens your spurs; there is not a wedding but he plays the first fiddle

at it; nay, he is useful to the last moment of your life, for he digs

your grave. It is said of him that, in his youth, he served the state as

a hangman. Truly, truly, the world is ungrateful to great men, but still

more so to useful men!"

"I don't see anything to laugh at," said Mr. Skinner, looking still more

solemn and black than was his wont. "Possibly there is a case for a

'statarium.' As for me, I don't think it is your old gipsy, but if----"

"_If_ it is not Peti," cried Akosh, laughing; "if that fellow dares to

sport a white skin, there is not, of course, any obstacle to his being

hanged."

"Enough of this! who says the fellow yonder is not a gipsy? but I say,

who knows whether that old rascal, whom you mistake for an innocent

musician----?"

"Has not masqueraded as a gipsy all along! But you will bring the truth

to light. You, Skinner, will skin the culprit. You'll strip him of his

brown hide; you'll show the world that Viola the great robber is

identical with Peti the gipsy."

"Don't make a fool of _me_, sir! I won't suffer it!" cried the justice,

whose pipe had gone out with the excess of his rage. "Paul Skinner is

not the man whom you can fool, I can tell you! But never mind; who knows

what that fellow Peti has done all his life besides brick-making? and I

apprehend that if he set out with being a hangman, he'll end with being

a hanged man."

This said, the justice lighted his pipe, muttering his imprecations

against untimely jokes and bad tinder.

Poor Peti had meanwhile proceeded to a distance of five hundred yards

from the Turk's Hill; and so great was the good man's natural

politeness, that even at that distance he bowed to the party on the

hill. Little did he know the intensity of Paul Skinner's rage; but the

first words of the worthy magistrate showed him that it was an evil

hour, indeed, in which he had come before his judge.

"Hast at last gone into the snare, thou precious bird?" thundered

Skinner. "Never mind, you old rascal! never mind! I'll pay you, and with

a vengeance, too!"

"Most sublime----" sighed the wretched musician; but the justice,

unmindful of this appeal to his better feelings, continued:--

"Hold your tongue! I know all! all, I tell you. And if you will not

confess, I'll freshen your memory!"

"Most sublime Lord!" sighed Peti; "I am an innocent, poor, old man.

I----"

"Dog!" retorted Mr. Skinner. "If you dare to bark, I'll pull your ears,

that you shall not forget it to the day of judgment. Is it not horrible?

the profligate fellow would give me the lie!"

"No, sweet, gracious Lord!" cried Peti, weeping; "I do not deny any

thing, but----"

"It's better for you; at all events, we need not ask you any questions.

The judge knows every thing." Turning to the Pandurs, Mr. Skinner

added: "Now Janosh, tell me, what did you bring that culprit for?"

"Only because we have been told to arrest all suspicious characters."

"Ah!" cried Akosh, "and the old musician is a suspicious character! You

are fine fellows, and ought to be promoted!"

"We'll see that by and by!" snarled Mr. Skinner. "Now tell us, Janosh,

what is the old rascal's crime?"

"Why," said the Pandur, "the long and the short of it is, that it was

about three o'clock,--was it not, Pishta?--after having had our dinner

and rest at the Murder-Tsharda, we rode up to St. Vilmosh forest. We had

been on our legs from an early hour this morning, and were apprehensive

that we should not be able to obey his worship's orders about arresting

at least one suspicious character, when Pishta spied a horseman near St.

Vilmosh forest, and a man to whom he was talking. 'Suppose this is

Viola,' said Pishta, who was just lighting his pipe. 'Ah, indeed!

suppose this is Viola!' said I; and when I looked at the horseman, I

thought it was----"

"Viola?" said Mr. Skinner, with a voice which left no doubt about the

answer which he expected.

"I'm sure it was he, your worship," replied Janosh; "I'll bet any thing

it was he."

"Now this fellow is short-sighted," interrupted Akosh; "I wonder how

many robbers Pishta saw."

"We'll see that by and by!" said Mr. Skinner, angrily. "The devil may be

a judge when robbers and vagabonds find such protection. Go on. What

happened next? Did you see any thing more of the criminal?"

"How was it possible? We spurred our horses on, but the poor beasts were

so tired they would not run; and when we came to the place, we found no

one but the old gipsy, walking to St. Vilmosh."

"Well?" said the judge impatiently.

"Of course they handcuffed him, for who knows what outrage he might have

committed if he had come to St. Vilmosh," cried Akosh. "They are the

very fellows to be sent after robbers. They will soon starve all

robbers, by preventing honest men from leaving their houses."

Old Peti saw that he had found a protector. Growing bolder, he asked to

be freed from his handcuffs, and though the justice opposed, he yielded

at length to the entreaties of Kalman, Akosh, and Vandory, though not

without muttering something about "patibulandus" and "fautores

criminum."

"And what happened when you came up with the gipsy?" said Mr. Skinner,

again addressing the Pandurs. "Was there any thing very suspicious about

the old hang-dog scoundrel?"

"There was indeed!" said Janosh, twirling his moustache. "When we came

up with the gipsy,--which was rather late, for the old Moor ran very

fast,--Pishta called out to him, at which he appeared frightened."

"Frightened?" said Mr. Skinner. "Frightened, indeed; I'd be glad to know

the reason;" and the Clerk, shaking his head, added, "This is indeed

suspicious!"

"Begging your lordship's pardon," cried the gipsy, "the gentlemen swore

at me, and cocked their pistols, which made me believe that they were

robbers."

"Hold your tongue, you cursed black dog! If you say another word, you

shall have beating enough to last you a twelvemonth." Having thus mildly

admonished the prisoner, Mr. Skinner proceeded with the "benevolum." "Go

on, Janosh," said he.

And Janosh went on: "Upon this Pishta asked him, 'Where is Viola?' and

he answered, 'I never saw him.'"

"But we saw him in conversation with Viola!" cried the second Pandur. "I

said, 'Peti, you are a liar; we have seen you talking to Viola! and

unless you confess it, we'll make you dance to a queer kind of music."

"What did the gipsy say to that?" asked the Clerk.

"He said he did not know who the horseman was, which made me angry; for

your worship is aware that Peti knows every body. When he saw me angry,

he wanted to run away."

"Oh, Goodness gracious!" cried the gipsy; "why should I not run away,

when they fell to beating me, and offered to handcuff me?"

"An honest man," said Kenihazy sententiously, "cares not for handcuffs."

"I thought so too," quoth Janosh; "therefore, when we saw that he was

indeed a criminal, we hunted him down, bound his hands, and took him to

his worship."

"You did your duty," said Mr. Skinner. "Now take the old fox to my

house. To-morrow we'll commit him to gaol."

"But," cried Peti, "I assure your worship I am as innocent as the babe

unborn!"

"I dare say you are!" said the justice with a bitter sneer. "You don't

know Viola,--of course you don't. Who shod Viola's horse? eh?"

"Yes, I do know him," sighed the gipsy; "but is it my fault that I

lived in the same village with him Heaven knows how long! for Viola was

the best man in the world before he fell into the hands of the County

Court. I confess that I did shoe his horse; but what is an old man to do

against robbers armed with sticks and pistols?"

"But why do the robbers come to you? Why don't they employ honest

smiths?"

"I think," said Peti, quietly, "the robbers prefer coming to my house

because I do not live in the village."

"And why do you not live in the village? you scarecrow!"

"Because, my lord, the sheriff will not allow the gipsies to live in the

village since Barna Jantzi's house was burned. This is hard enough for

an old man like myself."

Every one of these answers was, in Mr. Skinner's eyes, a violation of

the judicial dignity. The best of us dislike being mistaken in our

opinion as to the merit of our fellow men. We would rather pardon their

weaknesses, than be brought to shame by their good qualities. No wonder

then that Paul Skinner, whose knowledge of self had given him a very bad

idea of his species, would never believe a man to be innocent, whom he

once suspected of any crime. It is but natural that, in the present

instance, he did all in his power to make the gipsy's guilt manifest.

"Never mind," said he, "I wonder whether you'll give yourself such airs

when you are in _my_ house; Viola too will be caught by to-morrow

morning. Take him to my house, and don't let him escape,--else--"

Upon this the Pandurs prepared the handcuffs, when Akosh interfered,

offering to be bail for the gipsy's appearance. Mr. Skinner, however,

was but too happy to have his revenge for the jokes which the young man

had made at his expense in the course of the interrogatory.

"You know I am always happy to oblige you," said he, "but in the present

instance it is impossible. By to-morrow Viola will be caught, and it

will be then found that this gipsy is one of his accomplices."

"If you keep Peti until Viola is caught," said Kalman Kishlaky, "you'll

keep the poor fellow to the end of time."

"We'll see that!" sneered the justice. "All I say is, I am informed that

he is to be at the Tsharda of Tissaret this very night. He'll find us

prepared. We take the landlord and his family, bind them, and lock them

up in the cellar, while the Pandurs, disguised as peasants, wait for

him at the door. It is all arranged, I tell you."

"Of course always supposing Viola will come," said Akosh.

"This time he will come," replied Mr. Skinner with great dignity. "I

have trusty spies."

Old Peti seemed greatly, and even painfully, struck with this

intelligence. His brown face exhibited the lively interest he felt in

Viola's danger; and his features were all but convulsed when he heard of

the preparations for the capture of the robber. It was fortunate for him

that his excitement was not remarked by any but Tengelyi; and when Mr.

Skinner at length turned his searching eye upon his captive, he saw no

trace of old Peti's emotions in his imploring attitude. The Pandurs were

in the act of removing their prisoner, when the latter, turning to

Akosh, said:--

"I most humbly intreat you, since I _must_ go to prison, to tell my

Lord, your father, that old Peti is in gaol, and that it is not my fault

if the letters do not come to hand."

"What letters?" said Akosh.

"My Lord's letters, which he gave me," answered the gipsy, producing a

packet from beneath the lining of his waistcoat, and handing it to

Akosh. "I am my Lord's messenger; and I should not have been too late,

for my lady promised me a present for taking these letters to St.

Vilmosh before sunset, but for these----gentlemen, who caught me when I

entered the forest."

Akosh took the letters, opened them, and, having perused their contents,

he handed them to Mr. Skinner, who appeared not a little distressed

after reading them.

"You've spoiled it," said Akosh in a low voice. "If you lose your

election you have at least one comfort, namely, that you have defeated

your own plans. With the three hundred votes from St. Vilmosh against

you, you have not even a chance."

"I trust not," murmured Mr. Skinner; "I trust not. The men of St.

Vilmosh----"

"Are by no means fond of you; and if they elect you, they do it to

please their notary, who is, indeed, on my father's side; but Heaven

knows how long! This morning we learned that Bantornyi's party were

negotiating with him, but that they could not agree. My father writes

these letters, promises to comply with all the notary's demands, and

invites the St. Vilmosh gentry to come to him and pledge their votes. So

far all is right. But you interfere with your Pandurs, you stop our

messenger, and assist our enemies, who will by this time have repented

of their stinginess."

"But who could have foreseen that your father would send an important

message by a man like Peti?"

"Did not I tell you," said Akosh, evidently amused by the judge's

perplexity, "that old Peti is our servant and messenger. Who would ever

have thought of the sheriff's quick-footed gipsy being taken up and

handcuffed?"

"It is true," said Mr. Skinner, despondingly. "But why didn't he

speak?--why not mention the letters? Come here, you d---- old rascal!"

thundered the judge, who was one of those amiable men whose rage reaches

the boiling point at a minute's notice, and whose words are most

offensive when they ought to be most conciliating. "You dog! why did you

not say that you were sent by the sheriff? I have a mind to give you two

dozen--I have!"

The gipsy was aware of the favourable change in his prospects, and he

replied, with considerable coolness, that the cruel treatment of the

Pandurs had caused him to forget all about it; "besides," added he, "my

lady told me not to show the letters to any one; and, moreover, I was

sure my innocence would come to light."

"Your innocence! it is shocking," cried the justice, holding up his

hands; "the fellow has a letter from the sheriff in his pocket, and the

blockhead relies on his innocence! Here are your

letters;--go!--run!--and woe to you if the letters come too late to St.

Vilmosh!"

The gipsy nodded his head, and hastened in the direction of St. Vilmosh!

He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Skinner vented his passion upon the

Pandurs. He expressed his astonishment, intermixed with curses, at the

impertinence of these worthy men for having caught the sheriff's gipsy;

and when they appealed to Mr. Kenihazy, all the comfort they received

was a gentle hint of certain misgivings that gentleman entertained

respecting their being suffered to go at large. Akosh and the rest of

the company were amused with Mr. Skinner's violence and the agility of

the gipsy, who every now and then looked back, and ran the quicker

afterwards. The notary and the clergyman remained serious: and when the

party had left, and neither the merry laugh of Akosh nor Skinner's

ever-ready curses fell upon their ear, Tengelyi turned to his friend,

saying, "Do you still think that hare-hunting is the _cruellest_ pastime

of these gentlemen?"

"No, indeed!" sighed Vandory; "and to think that these men are public

functionaries, and that the weal and woe of thousands is in their

hands!"

"Ha!" cried Tengelyi, turning round, and directing the attention of his

friend to a dark point which moved over the vast expanse of the heath,

"is not that our gipsy?"

"Yes; but he runs rather in a line with us, instead of to St. Vilmosh."

"So it seems," said Tengelyi, "and for once the sheriff's orders will

not be obeyed. Perhaps he is bribed by the other party; but who knows?

Skinner may be right, and Peti is leagued with Viola. In that case he is

now on his way to inform the outlaw of what the judge most wisely

communicated to him, for I am sure that gipsy does not run so fast

without good cause. But what does it matter to us?"

And the two friends returned to the village.

CHAP. II.

On a ridge of the Carpathian mountains, where, gradually lessening, they

descend to the green Hungarian plain, lies the village of Bard, amidst

meadow land, forests, and vineyards. Its situation is most pleasant,

though lonely; and, removed as it is from the busy high road and the

means of traffic and communication, the village is both unknown and

poor. About fifty years ago, there lived in this village Esaias

Tengelyi, the curate of Bard, and father to Jonas Tengelyi, whom we

mentioned as notary of Tissaret. The life of Esaias Tengelyi passed

peaceably and unnoticed, like the place in which he exercised his sacred

calling, or the valley and the mountain side which sheltered his humble

cottage. The condition of the Reformed Church in Hungary does not by any

means deserve the epithet of "brilliant," even in our own days; but the

present village pastors are most enviably situated in comparison to

their brethren of fifty years ago. Still the life of the Reverend Esaias

Tengelyi, though full of privations, was rich in enjoyment. He loved

his cottage, its straw-covered roof, and the brown rafters of its

ceiling. Sometimes, indeed, he wished to have the windows of his room a

little larger,--and he went even so far as to take the resolution of

administering, at his own expense, to this drawback to the comforts of

his home. The huge stove, too, which served also the purpose of an oven,

made his room preposterously small, and on baking days it threw out a

greater quantity of heat than was consistent with comfort. The

neighbouring curates, whenever they came to pay their respects to the

Reverend Esaias, were violent in their strictures upon the parish of

Bard, for neglecting to provide their pastor's study with a decent

flooring: nay, more, the good man was seriously reproved, and earnestly

adjured to follow the example of his brethren in office, who had

successfully petitioned the Synod respecting the gross indecency of

pastoral clay floors. But Tengelyi could not be moved to stir in behalf

of his house: perhaps he liked it better as it was. Its windows were

indeed small; but then he had often sat by them reading the Scriptures;

and they had seen the roses on his wife's cheek. The stove was

large,--of course it was,--but in winter it offered a convenient and

warm seat; and the clay floor of his study was the same on which his

father's feet had trod, when he was meditating his sermons, while the

son made his first attempt to stand on a pair of trembling little legs.

After all, there was nothing like the window, the stove, and the floor,

for a countless number of sweet and tender emotions were connected with

them. Esaias Tengelyi was happy; he felt that the largest window, that

the smallest stove, and the most splendid floor of old oak, could not

add to his happiness.

But that happiness could be lessened. The pastor's wife died, and the

heart which had harboured so much bliss was henceforth the home of

bitter sorrow. Tengelyi gave no words to his anguish, nor did he strive

to add to or lessen his grief; but his friends felt that time was as

nothing to the sorrow of his heart, and that his hopes and wishes were

not on this side of the grave. His little son, Jonas, was the only tie

which bound the old pastor to the world. The boy was but four years of

age when his mother died; what would become of him, if he were also

bereft of his father? People have scarcely a heart for their own

children; how then is an orphan to fare for love? And the boy was most

beautiful, when he cast his deep blue eyes upwards to the father's sad

face! His voice had the tones of that dear voice which taught him his

first words; his yellow locks were smooth and orderly, as if fresh from

his mother's hands;--what was to become of the child on this wide earth,

and with no kindred, but his parents in the grave? Tengelyi would not be

comforted, but a sense of his duty kept him alive.

Little Jonas throve under his father's care. He knew not what it was to

be motherless in this world, where the heart finds that trusty, faithful

love it yearns for, only at a mother's breast. A child's heart is a

little treasury of joy, and there is no room in it for great griefs. In

the first days after the event, little Jonas called for his mother, and

receiving no answer from that mild, loving voice, he sat down and wept

his fill; in the night he dreamed of her, and lisped her name. But as

time wore on, his mother's name was rarely mentioned, and when spring

came, with its flowers, her memory passed away like the distant notes of

a song. All this was natural. Children are most enviable, because they

are most forgetful. A thousand flowers are blooming round a child: why

should it ponder on the sorrows of the past? A thousand melodies flit

around it, and the young heart leaps to them: it has no ear for the sad

accents of distant love.

Thus did the first years pass away. When Jonas had completed his eighth

year, his father commenced his education. The old pastor's plan was

extremely simple. He made the child ask questions, and answered them in

a manner which was at once explicit and adapted to the boy's capacities.

He had no idea of making his son a phenomenon; on the contrary, he did

all in his power to limit his mental activity to a narrow circle, to

prevent his being confused by a variety of subjects. The classical

languages, as far as Jonas could understand them, and the rudiments of

natural and political history, were all that old Esaias taught his son;

they were all he thought necessary for that son's future vocation.

For old Tengelyi, like the majority of fathers, had already chosen a

profession for his son, and though, on consideration, he would have

shrunk from the idea of forcing anybody, and much less his own boy, into

a career which might be repugnant to his tastes, still, when he thought

of his child's future life, he could not possibly fancy that his son

should wish for any thing besides the curacy of Bard. Old Tengelyi had

himself followed his father in that sacred office. It was so natural to

think that he in his turn would be followed by his son. But while the

father was thus tracing out his future career, and planting in the

garden, besides improving the house, as he thought, for the child of his

heart, the boy Jonas Tengelyi anticipated other scenes and a different

sphere of action. The poor curate's library contained but few books, but

among them was a great treasure; namely, a copy of Plutarch--a relic of

college life, with a portrait of the hero to each biography. This

illustrated copy of Plutarch was the only book of its kind in the

vicarage, and indeed in the village of Bard. Jonas passed many hours in

looking at the solemn faces of the classic heroes, nor was it long

before he knew all their names and actions; and though the old pastor

regretted that the book was not an illustrated Bible, by which means he

might impress upon his boy's mind the history and the deeds of the

heroes of our faith, still his heart grew big with joy when the child

expatiated on the virtues of Aristides, or (his little cheeks glowing

all the while) told of the death of Leonidas and Socrates. And old

Esaias blessed the pagan author who wrote the book, and the college-chum

who made him a present of it, and even the very printer who had produced

it. The whole future life of Jonas was influenced by these early

lessons; and though the milder doctrines of Christianity made a deep

impression on his heart, yet his mind would always return to the models

of classic excellence. His sympathies were all with the heroes of

Plutarch.

At times, when old Tengelyi was from home, Jonas would follow his

fancies through the dark shades of the woods. He would sit on the ruins

of Bard Castle, looking at the forest-clad mountains and the wide

distant plain, and there he sat and pondered until the sun went down and

the evening breeze woke him from his dreams. There he was happy; for

there is no greater happiness than the delight which a pure heart feels

when thinking of great deeds and generous men. The childhood of nations

and individuals idolises all heroes, and thus did Jonas.

A child's perceptions of distance are very weak: it is the same in the

moral world. Children try to grasp any shining bauble which strikes

their eyes, no matter whether far or near. Life has not yet taught them

to wait, to plod, and perhaps to be disappointed. The boy is equally

ignorant of the bitter truth, that there is usually but _one_ road which

leads to the high places of this world, and that the ascent, though easy

to some, is impossible to others, for from where they stand there is no

path which leads to the top. And yet how closely is our boyish

admiration of a great man allied to the idea that he is our example and

our hope! Children, when isolated,--that is to say, when they are

deprived of the society of other children,--are apt to become dreamers:

and this was young Tengelyi's case. His dreams were of a dangerous kind,

and his conversation was such that his hearers became convinced of fate

having destined that boy to be either very great or very wretched.

Old Esaias did not indeed suffer from these apprehensions. His son's

enthusiasm, his hatred of tyranny, his love of his kind, proved nothing

to old Tengelyi but that Jonas would turn out a first-rate village

pastor. He never dreamt of this enthusiasm being applied to other

purposes than those of the pulpit; and he did all in his power to

develop the talents of so hopeful a preacher. He enlarged on the

sufferings of the poor and the cruelty of the rich; on the equality of

mankind before God, and the duties we owe to our fellow men.

In the course of time Jonas was sent to school at Debrezin. Though he

was only thirteen, his character was already formed. His was a boundless

enthusiasm for all things noble and generous; his was an equally

boundless hate against all that is mean; his was the daring which is

ever ready to oppose injustice with words and with deeds; and his was

that austerity of principle which is apt to make a man unjust. In short,

poor Jonas would have proved a model man in Utopia. In our own

civilised society, the excess of his good qualities was likely to cause

him to be shunned, if not hated. Nevertheless he was popular with the

masters and the boys; and the happiest years of his life were spent in

the dull routine of a public school. The masters admired his ambition,

and the rapid progress it caused him to make; and though he seldom

condescended to join in the plays and athletic exercises of his

comrades, they paid a free tribute of admiration to his love of justice

and his courage. His studies delighted him, for his soul yearned for

knowledge. Jonas was indeed happy!

Old Esaias Tengelyi continued meanwhile in his life of tranquillity and

contentment. His humble dwelling grew still more quiet when his son left

it; and the grey-headed pastor walked lonely among the fruit-trees of

his garden, where he formerly used to watch the gambols of his child;

but the serenity of his mind was still the same. His life passed away

like the course of a gentle stream which mixes with the ocean. Esaias

was aware that his days were numbered; but there was nothing appalling

in the thought. He was at peace with God and the world; and though he

grieved to leave his son, his soul yearned for her that had left him.

His last remaining wish was to expire in the arms of his son. His wish

was granted. Jonas returned to Bard, and a fortnight after his return

his father was laid in the grave. The poor of Bard wept with Jonas, for

they too were the old man's children; a simple stone with an inscription

of rude workmanship (for the hands of poor peasants wrought it) marks

the last resting-place of Esaias Tengelyi.

His father's death threw Jonas into a different career. Hitherto he had

sacrificed his ambition to his sense of duty, but now his choice was

free; and, at his time of life, there are few who will tread an humble

and tranquil path. Jonas preferred to embark in a political career; and

since the study of law is the first condition to eminence, he devoted

the whole of his energies to the rudiments of that dry and uninteresting

science. Having turned his paternal heritage into money, and realised

the modest sum of six hundred florins, he passed three years at the

German universities, but especially at Heidelberg, where the strongest

bonds of friendship united him with that very Rety, in whose village our

readers have seen him established as notary. His studies ended, we find

Jonas Tengelyi at Pesth, in the act of entering into public life. He had

great hopes, great ambition, and very little money. But Jonas was not a

man to be daunted by privations. He took his oath, was admitted as

"juratus," rattled his sword for eighteen months on the steps of the

Curia, and, being thus duly prepared, he was at length admitted to the

bar.

This period of our hero's life contains nothing whatever for his

biographer or the public to take an interest in, excepting always the

negative wonder of Tengelyi having been a "juratus" for eighteen months

without having once fought, got drunk, or played at billiards. Need we

add that he was very unpopular among his comrades?

But we will add that Jonas Tengelyi, though deeply read in law, could

not prevail upon his examiners to insert into his diploma a better

qualification than the simple word "laudabilis," while two young

gentlemen, whom he himself had ground for the examination, passed

triumphantly each with a "præclarus." Poor Jonas, though thus roughly

handled at the very threshold of public life, forgot all his grief that

very evening, when he took his seat in the humble conveyance which was

to take him to the county of Takshony. The jolting of the coach which

bore him to the scene of his future struggles, opened the brilliant

realms of a fanciful future to his mind. The past was forgotten.

The reasons why the young barrister proposed to practise in the county

of Takshony are very obvious. He was not, indeed, a large landholder in

that blessed county, nor could he expect the patronage and the support

of powerful friends. He chose Takshony because, of the fifty-two

Hungarian counties, there was not one which offered more, nor, indeed,

less chances for him, poor and friendless as he was. Hungary was all

before him where to go, and he went to Takshony. If he was to trust the

evidence of the natives of the county, it was the most enlightened

district in the kingdom; and, if credit could be given to the assertions

of its neighbours, there never was a county so destitute of common

sense: a man of Jonas's stamp was therefore certain to prosper in any

case. In an enlightened county his merits were sure to be appreciated,

and in a dull county they were as certain to be wanted. Besides, he

trusted the promises, and looked for the support of his friend Rety, who

was son to the sheriff of Takshony. Tengelyi was, consequently, not a

little elated and excited when, after a tedious journey, the coach

deposited him safe and sound in the high street of the county town,

whose appropriate name in English would be Dustbury. This town, unless a

traveller happens to see it on a market-day, has little to distinguish

it from the common run of Hungarian villages; indeed, there would be

considerable danger of its being thus lowly estimated but for the

imposing bulk of the county house, before whose massive gates a batch of

culprits may at all times be heard roaring under the beadle's rod, and

thus proclaiming the force of the laws of Hungary.

Dustbury, the capital of the county of Takshony, was to be the scene of

Tengelyi's future labours and triumphs. He sent his letters of

recommendation to their various addresses, read his diploma in the

market-place, hired a small study, and waited for clients. Nor did he

wait long. Young physicians and young advocates have in general plenty

to do, but their practice is rather laborious than profitable. As a tax

upon entering public life, they are called upon to exert themselves in

behalf of the poorer members of the community. Tengelyi's turn of mind

made him eminently fit to be the advocate of the poor. He embraced the

cause of his humble clients with uncommon enthusiasm, and pleaded it

with equal warmth. He was the friend and protector of the oppressed, and

his love of justice made him soon something like a marked man in the

town of Dustbury.

At first his position was rather tolerable, for he confined his

practice to criminal cases. A prisoner whom he defended was indeed

condemned to death, and some other clients of his received a severer

sentence than they had a right to expect; but this was, after all, the

gentlest means for the court to show their sense of the impertinence

which prompted "such a vagabond counsel to lecture his betters;" and

certainly the court showed an admirable tact by this indirect

manifestation of the contempt in which they held Tengelyi's pleadings.

But there was no feeling of personal animosity against him, until he

dared to take up a civil process against one of the assessors, whom he

all but forced to refund a certain sum of money which that gentleman had

condescended to accept as a loan from a poor peasant. This affair

settled Tengelyi. The young counsel's impertinence was the nine-days'

wonder of Dustbury. His colleagues shunned him,--his landlord gave him

warning to leave his house,--and there is no doubt that the

self-constituted advocate of the poor would have been ignominiously

suspended from his functions but for the intercession of the sheriff

Rety, who pleaded Tengelyi's extreme youth in extenuation of his

offence. "He is sure to profit by our example," said old Rety; "and when

he has once sown his wild oats he will be a credit to the county."

An event occurred meanwhile which promised to establish Tengelyi in his

career. The counsel of the Baron Kalihazy died, with sundry cases still

pending on his hands; and the head of the family of Kalihazy, who had

made Tengelyi's acquaintance at Dustbury, thought of appointing the

young barrister to the vacant post of fiscal; that is to say, he

proposed to make him the legal friend and adviser of the Kalihazy

family. So determined was the whimsical Baron to turn the young man's

talents to account, that not all the persuasions of his friends could

induce him to relinquish his insane project, which he was on the point

of executing, when Paul Hajto, the leading counsel of the Dustbury bar,

interfered. Mr. Paul Hajto was the most intimate friend of our hero.

Instead of censuring him for his violence, as others were apt to do,

that worthy man seized every opportunity (when alone with Tengelyi) to

urge him to still more violent attacks upon the court. In the present

instance, too, Mr. Hajto did all in his power to remove Tengelyi from

the temptations which beset the life and threaten the integrity of an

advocate.

"You are not fit for the bar," he was wont to say: "you are made to

shine in a more elevated sphere. If I were in your place, I would devote

myself wholly to politics. As it is, you lose your cases; your labours

are not only unprofitable, but useless. Hungary wants a thorough reform;

you are the man to regenerate the country. Besides, you can be an

advocate and a politician too, if you _will_ stick to the bar." Tengelyi

resisted; but flattery is too persuasive, especially for youthful minds;

and he set about seriously to prepare a speech for the next Sessions.

The day came. Tengelyi made his speech, which astonished the whole

assembly, not solely by its classic Latin and its most modern

sentiments. No! The astonishment of the meeting was chiefly caused by

the unheard-of fact that a young advocate, scarcely twenty-four years of

age,--and a man who was not even an assessor, and much less a

landowner,--dared to speak at all. Such effrontery was so marvellous, so

unaccountable, so unheard-of, that the noble members of the meeting were

utterly at a loss to express their disgust. But they did express it

somehow; and the sheriff, and the notary, and the recorder of the county

overwhelmed the young intruder with a torrent of words, of which we will

only say that they were rather sincere than elegant. Tengelyi, nothing

daunted, replied to each of them, and carried the matter so far that

every man in the room cried "Actio!"[4] whereupon the discomfited

reformer was obliged to pay the usual fine of five-and-twenty florins

into the recorder's hands.

[Footnote 4: See Note III.]

The loss of this sum was a severe blow to Tengelyi, who had not another

florin left. Besides this, he lost the fiscalship and the briefs of

Kalihazy's family; for that gentleman was among his opponents, and

Tengelyi had not spared his future patron's arguments or feelings. The

Kalihazy briefs were that very evening made over to his friend, Mr. Paul

Hajto.

To make a man a martyr is the surest means of making him popular, at

least with _one_ party. Every sheriff, recorder, or notary has at least

_one_ enemy, namely, the man who wishes to oust him in the next

election. The truth of these great political axioms was tested in

Tengelyi's case. His attack upon the magistrates of the county, and his

subsequent martyrdom, gained him some friends. Konkolyi, in particular,

who thought of opposing Rety at the next election, was loud in his

praises of the young man's courage and common sense. The smaller nobles

were not fond of Konkolyi, for they thought him proud; but they idolised

Rety, who had an amiable way of calling them his cousins, and of taking

a vast interest in the health of their wives and children. Konkolyi had

not, therefore, any chance of prevailing against Rety, though he, too,

exerted himself to the utmost, by means of bounties, drinking-bouts, and

dinners, to convince his fellow nobles of his merits. Hajto was

Konkolyi's fiscal. He was aware that his patron possessed large domains,

a fine castle, and on income of twenty thousand florins a year, and that

a man of such transcendent merits wanted but one thing for the

shrievalty, namely, a trifling majority of votes. But so great was

Rety's popularity, that Hajto had lost all hopes of carrying his

patron's election, when Tengelyi's quarrel with Rety opened a fresh

field for intrigue.

Hajto came that very evening to see the poor young man; he praised his

speech, censured Rety's tyranny, protested that the county magistrates

_must_ go out at the next election, and finally persuaded him to come to

Konkolyi's house.

Konkolyi was a courtier, and chamberlain to his Majesty the Emperor. The

great man received Tengelyi with unwonted condescension; and,

corroborating every one of Hajto's words, he protested that poor Jonas

must allow his friends to elect him to the justiceship of the district,

as the only means of giving his opinions the weight which they

deserved. Jonas pleaded his youth, his poverty, his being a stranger to

the county; but his objections were overruled.

"We know you, my dear Sir, we know you," said the chamberlain, with his

kindest smile. "You have made a speech; that's enough. 'Ex ungue

leonem.' We have put our hearts upon making you a justice. You are

noble; and a nobleman, however poor and unknown he may be, is entitled

to the highest place in the kingdom."

What could Tengelyi do? He consented, and became a distinguished member

of Konkolyi's party. It was Hajto's task to make him friends among the

lesser nobility. Nothing could be better adapted for this purpose than

the speech which had caused Jonas to be fined at the Sessions. Hajto

took possession of that speech, and translated it,--of course with a few

unimportant alterations. Wherever Tengelyi mentioned the poor, his

translator inserted the words "poor noblemen;" and the blame which

Tengelyi bestowed upon the undue length of criminal prosecutions and the

ill-treatment of the prisoners, was artfully changed into denunciations

of the unseemly despatch which was used in criminal proceedings against

noblemen, and the unjustifiable tyranny of the county magistrates who

refused to bail certain incarcerated noblemen for the election. If the

author had seen his production in its altered state, the chances are

that he would have disapproved of it; but certain it is that Hajto's

edition of the speech insured its popularity. The noble constituents of

the parishes at Ratsh and Palfalva were in raptures with their new

advocate; and though Rety's party endeavoured to disenchant them by

publishing the original text of the speech, they found it impossible to

undermine Tengelyi's popularity, confirmed as it was by the martyrdom of

an "actio." Whenever the noblemen came to Dustbury, they made a point of

paying their respects to their tribune; whenever he accompanied Konkolyi

to some neighbouring seat, he was received with deafening cheers. His

popularity brought him some more substantial benefits, in the shape of

briefs and fees, for his professional advice; in short, he had every

reason to be satisfied with the progress he had made. His future

promotion was all but certain. But suddenly a compromise was talked of.

Rety was willing to withdraw from the contest under the condition that

his son was accepted as justice. Konkolyi's party opposed, because that

very place was promised to Tengelyi; but Hajto interfered, and, as

usual, succeeded in arranging matters to the satisfaction of all

parties concerned. Tengelyi was at that generous time of life when men

are prone to make sacrifices. He, therefore, was prevailed upon to

withdraw his claims to the justiceship, and to solicit the votes of the

county for the inferior post of deputy-justice. The election commenced

in due course, and Konkolyi and the younger Rety were returned. Tengelyi

was pleased with the triumph of his friend, and not the less because

that triumph was obtained at his own expense; but who can picture his

dismay when the election of the deputy came on, and another man, a

friend of Konkolyi's, was chosen to fill that place? His heart was

crushed within him, for he, the proud man, saw too late that he had been

the tool of a party which cast him off the very moment that his services

could be dispensed with. His popularity passed away like a dream. The

part which young Rety had acted in the election was, to say the least,

suspicious; and that brotherly attachment, which distingushed the two

young men at college, received a serious shock. But this was not all.

Jonas loved for the first time in his life; he loved as only those can

love who are alone in the world, for whom there is no other being on the

face of the earth whom they place their trust in, whom they hope for,

and to whom they cling. Erzsi, the object of Tengelyi's attachment, was

fully deserving of his love; but she was poor: nevertheless our hero

married her. He was consequently still more imperatively called upon to

resign his early dreams of glory, and to devote his energies to gain a

livelihood.

Tengelyi and his wife left Dustbury; but they returned two years later

poorer than ever, and the more disappointed from the very humbleness of

their wishes and plans. In the course of those two years he had tried to

keep a village school, to be tutor in a rich man's family, and to act as

steward on another rich man's lands; but he signally failed in each. His

return to Dustbury marked the saddest period of his life. Up to that

time he had undergone privations; now he suffered from want; his

struggles with the world had been full of disappointments, but now he

was borne down by utter hopelessness. Thus he passed three years of

misery; and although Rety had by this time succeeded to his father's

estate, and to the almost hereditary dignity of sheriff of the county,

he never assisted his old friend. He respected Tengelyi too much to

relieve the poor man's necessities by a gift of money: his principles

were too rigorous to allow him to use his influence and his patronage in

behalf of his friend. Nevertheless, after three years of unutterable

wretchedness, Tengelyi was surprised to see Rety enter his little house.

The sheriff came to tell his old friend that the notary of Tissaret was

just dead; and offering that place to Tengelyi, he assured him, with a

generosity which did honour to his heart, that the new notary should

have the same immunity from local and parish burdens which had been from

time immemorial enjoyed by all his predecessors in office.

Jonas thanked Rety for this unexpected favour. That very week he went to

Tissaret, where we found him at the commencement of our tale, as a

village notary of twenty years' standing, and with grey hair, but still

sound in mind and body. The twenty years he lived at Tissaret had passed

as such a number of years in the life of a poor village notary is likely

to pass; nor did they contain any notable events beyond Tengelyi's

acquiring a small freehold in the parish of Tissaret, and the birth of

two children, a daughter and a son, the former of whom grew up to be the

prettiest girl in the county. Perhaps we might add, that Mrs. Ershebet

had lately lost part of that sweetness of temper which formerly

warranted the name of "_good_ Erzsi," which Tengelyi was pleased to give

her, and that his friendship with Rety had ever since the last election

fallen into the seer and yellow leaf. But this is all. Years had passed

over his head without changing his character; his sufferings had, in a

manner, soured his temper, but his love of justice was the same, and his

courage in behalf of the oppressed remained undaunted. Mrs. Ershebet had

a right to say, as indeed she did, that her husband would never come to

be prudent and make his way in the world.

Tengelyi had but one friend, viz. Balthasar Vandory, the whole tenour of

whose mind was in the strangest contrast with his own. Where Tengelyi

condemned, Vandory was sure to excuse; and whenever the perpetration of

some great wrong turned all Tengelyi's blood to gall, his strictures

upon the cruelty and injustice of mankind failed to move Vandory to any

more determined sentiment than deep grief. The notary was at war with

the world; the curate was reconciled to it.

Little was known of Vandory's previous history. He never made any

allusion to his family, but his accent gave unmistakeable proof of his

Magyar origin. His parishioners adored him, and even the Retys made no

exception to the general rule.

My readers are now informed of all that can be said of the character and

the history of the notary and his friend. I will therefore leave them

alone to improve their acquaintance with Tengelyi, who, after parting

with the curate, proceeded to the gate of his house, which he was

prevented from entering by his daughter Vilma.

"I cannot let you go in," said she; "I want to ask something, and you

must grant it."

"Well, what is it?" said Tengelyi, smiling at her earnestness.

"I want you not to be angry."

"Why should I be angry?"

"Because we have done something without your knowledge."

"Very well then," said Tengelyi, laughing, "I pledge my word I will not

be angry."

"But you must also approve of it."

"That is a different thing altogether; but if _you_ did it, I think I

can promise as much." With these words the notary followed his daughter

into the house.

CHAP. III

The village of Tissaret was peaceful and quiet when the notary returned

to his house. A few workmen wending their way homewards from the

meadows, with their scythes on their shoulders, walked slowly along,

stopping every now and then to say good night to the people in the

houses. The evening-bell swang slowly to and fro, sending its drowsy

tones over the country. The very tavern was all but deserted; and Itzig,

the Jew, who usually sold his liquors at high prices because he was in

the habit of giving credit on the security of next year's harvest,

lounged in the hall, listless and sullen. The manor-house, and the

surrounding fields and gardens, were not less quiet, which is saying a

great deal, for a Hungarian manor-house is usually the noisiest place in

the village. But we know that the son of the house, accompanied by all

the dogs, was out hare-hunting; and as for the sheriff, he was closeted

with the chief bailiff and the recorder. The conversation of the three

dignitaries would doubtless have touched upon very weighty matters, had

it not been for the sultriness of the day, which set them "All

a-nodding," as the old song has it. And the sheriff's lady's voice,

which usually filled the house as the song of the nightingale does the

woods, with the sole difference that Lady Rety's voice waxed louder in

tone, and more frequent in use, as she advanced in the summer of her

years; Lady Rety's voice, too, was silent in the hall, for that lady

walked in the garden. That garden was a splendid place! It contained a

hermitage, an oven to dry plums in, a pigeon-house built like a temple,

a fishpond, with a fisherman's hut, a grotto, a cottage, and a variety

of other things, bearing witness to the inventive genius of the Retys,

and astonishing the travellers who were favoured with a view of its

marvels, its stout Bacchuses, thin Pomonas, artificial ruins, and

Chinese arbours. Its furthest end merged in a poplar wood--a real wood

of real poplars, and which, but for the unaccountable fancy which the

lord lieutenant had taken to it, would long ago have been compelled to

make room for a batch of new wonders which the sheriff Rety longed to

establish in his garden. For truly that poplar wood was quite a savage

place; there was no trace of modern civilisation and refinement in its

luxuriant foliage and the sturdy generation of brushwood which

surrounded the massive trees. A single path wound through it, or,

rather, round about in it. In this path we see Lady Rety engaged in an

important and interesting discussion with her most humble and obedient

servant and solicitor, Mr. Catspaw.

Lady Rety is of a _certain_ age--I cannot possibly say more on so

delicate a point--she is tall and full-grown. Her hair--though we have

none of us a right to judge of her hair until we see her without a cap,

an event which is very unlikely to happen--is most probably dark,

unless, indeed, we are deceived by the colour of her thick eyebrows, and

of that slight but treacherous shade on her upper lip. Lady Rety's face

is full of majesty, but at certain times (and these times are very

_certain_, for they embrace a regular period of six months out of

thirty) that face is beyond all measure condescending and kind, though

its usual expression is one of scornful pride, which, by the agency of

two warts on her upper lip and chin, becomes so strongly marked that it

merges into something like an habitual sneer. The lucky possessor of

that sneer is as high-bred a lady as any in the country; her household

is on a grand scale; none of her dinners was ever shorter than two

hours, and her courts and outhouses are full of poultry and guests, of

which the latter, if of high rank, are waited upon with the kindest

consideration. Lady Rety's voice is of an easy flow, like a generous

fountain, and sweeping, for it would shake even stronger walls than

those of Jericho, besides causing the servants to quake. Her discourse

is admirable, for it is a verbal repetition of the sayings of her liege

lord. This rare instance of conjugal harmony alone would entitle Lady

Rety to our respect; but we are free to confess that we venerate her for

that sound knowledge of common and statute law, which her conversation

betrays, and which marks her as a practical woman, besides giving to her

words, as such knowledge never fails to do, a peculiar grace and

amiability. There was not a lawyer in the kingdom fonder of arguing a

point of law; and so great was her discernment and readiness of mind,

that Mr. Catspaw would often confess that he purloined the substance of

his best pleadings from the conversations of the most noble, the Lady

Rety.

Mr. Catspaw himself is a small spare man of more than fifty years of

age, with a pale face, a pointed nose, and a pair of small restless

eyes, whose look, though piercing, it is difficult to catch. His back is

bent, more from habit than from age. Add to this his high bald forehead,

and his scanty hair of bristling grey, and you will have a tolerable

idea of Mr. Catspaw's outward man. He was most devoted to the Rety

family, in whose service he had passed the last thirty years, and with

whom he had at length come to identify himself. This last assertion of

his was of course contradicted by his enemies, who protested that his

attachment to the Retys sprang from motives of the most sordid

selfishness. But however this may be, certain it is that on the evening

in question the worthy solicitor was by no means identified, either with

the Rety family in general, or with Lady Rety in particular; for while

that majestic lady stalked through the poplar wood, with Mr. Catspaw

following at her heels, she favoured him with a very violent oration;

nor would she condescend to listen to the humble remonstrance, by means

of which the lawyer sought to assuage her anger. For, shaking her head

with great impatience, she gave that learned gentleman to understand

that it was easy to talk,--that every body was aware that Mr. Catspaw

would not allow any one to speak,--and that real devotion showed itself

by deeds. "I will candidly tell you," said Lady Rety, stopping short,

and thumping her parasol on the ground, "what you told me drives me to

despair!"

"But, my lady, allow me to observe, that there is no reason why you

should despair, for I am sure----"

"Oh! I dare say! You don't despair--not you! What do _you_ care for our

troubles? You do not mind what becomes of us!--you have your profession,

and who knows but----"

Here she was in her turn interrupted by Mr. Catspaw. "Is this my

thanks," cried the solicitor, in a generous passion; "is this my thanks

for my service of thirty years? I, Adam Catspaw, have more than once

risked my life in promoting the interests of your family, and, in lieu

of gratitude, you suspect me!"

"I really beg your pardon," said Lady Rety, very humbly, for she saw at

once that her zeal had led her too far, and that she was not now

addressing her husband,--"I am a woman, and my unfortunate

circumstances--and----"

"All this is very fine, my lady," retorted Mr. Catspaw, emboldened by

his success; "but your ladyship talks always advisedly. All I can do is

to look out for another place. A solicitor whom his employers

suspect----"

"But who tells you that we suspect you?" entreated Lady Rety. "It is you

on whom we rely. What could we do without you? Besides, you know our

promise about the grant."

"As for the grant," muttered Mr. Catspaw in a milder tone, "the Lord

knows I toil not for the sake of gain; but if, for my faithful

service--_ob fidelia servitia_--you will remember me, I am sure my

gratitude will outlast my life."

"I know that your generous mind scorns to be selfish; but for all that

it is a fine grant, and though its value is as nothing to your services,

still it is a splendid property."

"And I will obtain it, in spite of a thousand obstacles!" exclaimed the

solicitor.

The lady sighed. "Are you still confident? As for me, I have no hope!"

"But why? because our first attempt had no success? This is mere

childishness. Consider: the man who broke into Vandory's house was as

expert a thief as any. To avert suspicion, I instructed him to take not

only the papers which your ladyship wants, but also some money and

trinkets--it made the affair look like a _bonâ fide_ robbery. But the

fellow did not find any money, and while he was rummaging the drawers,

the curate came home and alarmed the neighbours. Tzifra had not time to

look for the papers; all he could do was to escape through the window.

Those papers are at present in Tengelyi's house, who, I am informed,

keeps them in the iron safe near the door, with his own papers and the

parish records. I pledge my word that we find them, and perhaps

something else, for I have an account to settle with that notary."

"But the notary's house is much frequented. I tremble lest Tzifra should

be caught."

"In that case we will hang him fast enough," said Mr. Catspaw, with

great composure; "God be praised! the county has the Statarium."

"But supposing he were to confess?"

"Oh! he won't confess. Leave me to manage that; and if he were to

attempt it, I promise you he shall be hanged before he can do it."

"Oh, if you could but know,"--cried Lady Rety--"if you could but know

what it costs me to take this step; and when I consider--that--but who

can help it? The honour of my name, the welfare of my children--all that

which makes life worth having, compels me----"

"A mother shrinks from no sacrifice for her children's sake!" said Mr.

Catspaw, wiping his eyes, for the darkness allowed him to dispense with

tears. "Nobody," continued he, "knows the goodness of your heart as I

do; but, Lady Rety, if the world could know it, it would go down on its

knees before you!"

"God forbid!" cried Lady Rety, alarmed but still pleased; for she was

happy to see the ease with which so ugly a thing as theft undoubtedly is

could be brought to assume the more grateful names of motherly devotion

and generosity of feeling. "God forbid that any body besides you and I

should know of this matter. The world is severe in its judgments, and

perhaps it might be said----"

The lady did not finish her sentence. She was astonished, for she felt

herself blush.

Mr. Catspaw understood the feelings of his patroness. "Why should you

thus torment yourself?" said he. "It is an every-day affair, to say the

worst of it. Such things are so common in Hungary, that nobody ever

thinks twice of them, excepting perhaps the party who fancies he is

aggrieved. Title deeds, mortgage deeds, and promissory notes are lost

somehow or other; but who cares? The present case is not half so

bad--for what are the papers your ladyship wishes to possess? Why, they

are simply some confidential letters, most of them in the sheriff's own

handwriting, which you have an objection to leave in the hands of

strangers. The matter is most innocent, though the manner is perhaps in

a way open to objection."

"Yes! yes! the manner!" sighed Lady Rety. "It is

house-breaking--robbery--Heaven knows how they might call it!"

"It is indeed burglary," observed the man of the law; "but who is the

burglar? The man who actually breaks into the house, I should hope.

Suppose A. talks to B., who, though not a very respectable character, is

not at the time under any criminal prosecution, and whom the law

consequently supposes to be an honest man; and suppose A. tells B., in

the course of conversation, of a certain packet of papers in a certain

closet in Mr. Vandory's house, which packet of papers A. wishes to

possess, either from curiosity, or caprice, or for some scientific

purpose; and suppose A. were to remark, quite incidentally of course,

that he would gladly give one hundred florins to any man who should

bring him the said packet: suppose all this, and tell me whether such a

conversation could be called criminal? Of course not. Very well then;

now suppose A. adds that the curate is to be from home on Saturday

night, he being asked to take supper at the manor-house, and that it has

been observed that the door which leads to the garden is never locked,

and that there was indeed danger of some dishonest person scaling the

garden wall and committing the abominable crime of stealing the said

papers,--than which indeed nothing could be more easy; suppose A., who

is something of a gossip, says all this in the course of conversation,

is there anything criminal in mentioning a neighbour's imprudence? By no

means. Well then, and if B. is wicked enough to abuse A.'s confidence,

if B. scales the garden wall, enters the house and steals the

packet--can you accuse poor A. of having committed a robbery? And if B.

takes the packet to A.--thereby reminding A. of his promise to pay a

certain sum of money to any man who should bring the packet--is not A.

bound to abide by his word? That is my case. As an honest man, I pay the

money; the rest does not concern me."

"You are quite right," said Lady Rety; "but the world judges

differently."

"Of course the world does; but then it is always wrong. However, the

world will never know of this business."

"I, too, should think so, if those papers were still at Vandory's,"

returned Lady Rety; "but they are at Tengelyi's. His house is much

frequented; besides, there is a watchman at night."

"True, but the papers are in an iron safe; and though there are but two

keys to the said safe, there are plenty of locksmiths in the world."

Here the conversation was interrupted by young Rety's retriever breaking

through the brushwood and running up to Lady Rety.

"My son is come home," said she; "let us go to the house." She was in

the act of going when the manner and the barking of the dog directed her

attention to the thicket, and to a slight rustling among the branches.

The dog advanced, but returned, after a few minutes, yelping and

limping. Akosh Rety and his sister, Etelka, came up at that moment and

joined the pale and trembling pair.

"What is the matter?" said Akosh.

"Did you not hear any thing?" replied his mother.

"Of course! My retriever barked. There must be a dog or a fox

somewhere."

"No, young gentleman," cried Mr. Catspaw, with his eyes still directed

to the spot whence the noise had proceeded, "I'll stake my life on it,

it was a man."

"Perhaps some poor fellow from the village," said Akosh, caressing the

dog.

"The fellow has heard our conversation. I am positive he came to

listen!" said Lady Rety, greatly excited, and to the signal annoyance of

Mr. Catspaw.

"I cannot think he did," said Etelka. "Mr. Catspaw is indeed known to

be the worthiest person alive, but I cannot believe that anybody will

creep up in the darkness to listen to him, and in October too."

The attorney frowned. "My dear Miss," returned he, "you do not

understand these things. We were discussing matters of great

moment--there are several suits now pending----"

"Ah! I understand!" cried Akosh, laughing. "You mean to say that the

counsel for the other side has lurked among the trees to find out the

plans of our crafty attorney. But why not arrest the culprit? Gallant

Mr. Catspaw, I understand, does not shrink from any odds."

"I!" said the little man, trembling, "I should----"

"Of course. Why should you not? Come along with me. If there's any one

hidden in these bushes, we will have him out in no time!"

"I really beg your pardon, _domine spectabilis_!" cried Mr. Catspaw, in

great distress, while Akosh pulled him along; "but, _domine

spectabilis_, we are quite defenceless, and the night is very

dark--and--and--shall I call for help?"

"Nonsense! The fellow will be gone long before anybody can come to

assist us. Come along, dear sir! Let my mother and Etelka go home, while

you and I, heroes both, brave all dangers. Let us conquer or die, or

run away. Is it not so, most intrepid of fee-taking counsel?"

Mr. Catspaw was by far too much engrossed with fear for his personal

safety to care for the jokes of his companion; nevertheless he protested

that it might be advisable to send for the servant. But Lady Rety

entreated him to accompany Akosh; and, after some further delay (for he

wisely thought his best plan would be to give the listener a good

start), the little attorney at length buttoned his coat with great

deliberation, and loudly protesting that he had no fear, as far as his

own safety was concerned, he followed Akosh into the thicket, while Lady

Rety and Etelka directed their steps to the house: the dog, thinking

perhaps that one beating was enough for one evening, accompanied them.

Young Rety and his reluctant companion were meanwhile beating the bushes

in search of the mysterious stranger. Mr. Catspaw was vastly comforted

by the darkness, which his instinct taught him would defeat the plans of

any assassin who might fire at them; and, besides, if by ill-luck they

should fall in with a stranger, he was firmly resolved to run away and

call for assistance. But there was little chance of any unpleasant

_rencontre_, for, what with the darkness and the brushwood, and the

time which had been lost by Mr. Catspaw's prudent delay, Akosh could not

expect to do any thing, except to annoy his mother's man of business.

And annoy him he did, by madly rushing into the thickest part of the

wood, and causing the branches of the trees to strike Mr. Catspaw's

face, until at length they arrived at the furthest border of the

plantation. Here Akosh stopped, and, turning to Catspaw, who stood

breathless by his side, he said, "I'll take my oath there is no one in

the wood; will you now confess that you were mistaken, or frightened by

a hare or partridge, or some such formidable animal?"

"It was a sound of human footsteps; Lady Rety is my witness, and I----"

"Of course, if that is the case, let us go back and beat through another

part of the plantation, until the fellow is caught."

"Don't, don't!" sighed Mr. Catspaw. "I am sure no one is there; goodness

knows our search was minute enough. I can scarcely stand on my feet,"

added the little attorney, wiping his forehead.

"Very well, sir, if you are satisfied that nobody is hid here, I am so

too. But let us cross the ditch; there is some chance of finding him on

the other side." Saying which, Akosh leaped over the ditch, while Mr.

Catspaw descended into the depth of the cutting, from whence a few bold

gymnastic evolutions brought him to the other side. Having joined his

companion, the two men walked silently on, and disappeared at length

round the corner of the garden-wall.

All around was hushed. The night was as dark and comfortless as October

nights usually are. The brilliant setting of the sun was followed by a

looming and cloudy sky. The wind sighed over the boundless heath,

shaking the yellow leaves from the trees. Here and there a solitary

star, or the watch-fire on the far pasture-land, threw a faint and

melancholy light on the scene. The footsteps of the two men were lost in

the distance, and the stillness of night was at intervals interrupted

only by the distant barking of a dog, or a shepherd's song floating on

the breeze, when a man rose from the ditch close to the place where

Akosh and Catspaw had crossed. His broad-brimmed hat, and the rough

sheep-skin which hung over his shoulders, were enough to hide his

features and stature, even if the night had been clearer. The man

listened to the song as it rung through the stilly night, and, after

looking cautiously round to satisfy himself that no one was near, he

stepped out of the ditch and hastened towards the fire.

But it is time we should return to Tengelyi, whom we left just when,

accompanied by his daughter, he crossed the threshold of his humble

dwelling.

Reader, did you ever know domestic happiness? did you merely see it in

others, or are you among the blessed whose homes are heavens of peace

and love? If sacred family love is known to you; if you are convinced

that this, the most precious gift of heaven, can only fall to the share

of a pure heart; if you feel that all the distinctions, all the glory we

struggle for, all the wealth we covet, are an nothing to the joy and

love of the domestic hearth; then you will enter the notary's house with

a feeling of reverence, and you will pray that happiness and peace may

continue to dwell there.

After Tengelyi sat down, he said to his daughter, "Now tell me the great

secret, for you must know," added he, addressing his wife, "that Vilma

would not allow me to enter the house until I consented to pass a bill

of indemnity in her behalf.'

"I know," said Mrs. Ershebet; "and I consented only to please my

daughter. Speak, Vilma!"

But Vilma did not speak. She looked vainly for a form of words in which

to prefer her suit.

"Am I to be informed of the matter or not?" said Tengelyi, impatiently.

"She cannot have committed a crime!"

"Of course not, dear father. But you promised me not to be angry."

"To be angry? do I look like a tyrant? Tell me girl, where have you

learned to fear your father?"

"No, father, I am not afraid of you," said Vilma. "If I did wrong, I

know you will tell me that it was wrong, and I shall have your pardon

for it. But I do not think I did wrong. You know there was an execution

in the village, and you went away with Vandory, for you said you could

be of no use to the poor people, and their sorrow grieved you too much.

Mother and I remained at home, and saw all the horror. They took our

neighbour's cows, and from John Farkash they took the pillows and

blankets of his bed, and Peter's widow (you know she used to sell eggs,

and do jobs in the town,) has lost her donkey. The son of the woman

Farkash would not allow them to take his mother's bed away, and they

beat him and bound him with cords, and took him to the justice's. They

say he is going to prison to-morrow. We saw and heard all this,"

continued Vilma, wiping her eyes, "and we wept bitterly. Mother said it

must be so, for the taxes are put on by law, and these poor people were

not able to pay their dues. But I prayed that you might come home soon,

for you read so often in your law-books, and I should say there _must_

be some little law in those books providing that something at least

ought to be left to the poor who cannot pay their taxes, hard though

they may work."

"You are wrong, dearest child," said Tengelyi, "you would vainly look

for such a law in my books. The nation have been so busy for the last

800 years, that they have not found time to make such a law."

"Have they not? Then I am afraid their laws will do little good, for

they want God's blessing!" said Vilma, with a deep sigh. "But though the

law may not, our Creed assuredly does command us to pity our neighbour's

sufferings, and therefore I went to Mrs. Farkash to see whether I could

not help them in some way. We are not rich, but we can do something for

an honest man, and the Farkashes were always good neighbours."

"You did right, my daughter," said Tengelyi, whose eyes filled with

tears. "You did right; may God bless you! I, too, have eaten the bread

of poverty; and I will not shut my door against my neighbour."

"I thought so, too," said Mrs. Tengelyi, pressing her husband's hand.

"When I came to the house," continued Vilma, "I found them all in

despair. Old Farkash sat on the floor, leaning his head on his hands,

and looking at the empty stable; his wife was bewailing the loss of her

son. The lesser children sat by the stove: they could not understand

what had happened, but they wept with their mother. In the room were a

few broken chairs; and the straw from the bed was spread about the

floor, just as if the German soldiers had sacked the house. And the

neighbours were there, comforting the poor family, and cursing the

officers;--my heart bleeds to think of it! I did my best to console

Mother Farkash. I promised her that the curate should talk to the

sheriff, and that her son should not go to prison; for she was most

afraid of that, saying, that all men who were sent to prison, were sure

to come back robbers. She thanked me for my promise, but declined our

assistance; for she said, if her son were free, they could manage to go

on. 'We poor people,' said she, 'stand by each other; one of my

neighbours gives me some bedding, another gives me bread, and a third,

a few pence; and so, mayhap, the Lord will help us on. If Mr. Kenihazy

had paid for the two horses which my husband sold him at Whitsuntide, we

would never have come to this. But there's the misfortune. We are

distrained for the taxes, and yet we are not allowed to claim our own.

But at the Restauration[5], I mean to go and speak to the

Lord-Lieutenant. At the last Restauration, he helped several of our

neighbours, who had claims on Mr. Skinner, the justice.'

[Footnote 5: General elections.]

"'Oh, you are well off, you are!' said old Mother Liptaka. 'You have got

a husband, and Missie tells us that John shall not go to prison, and he

will work for you. Besides, you are an honest woman; but what is to

become of Viola's wife? She is dying,--she, and her baby, and the little

lad, and she has got a sentinel in the room, for the justice has ordered

them to arrest every one that comes near the house--let alone entering

it; for he says they are Viola's pals, every man of them. And that same

Susi was a pretty girl and a good girl, when a child; it is not her

fault, is it, that her husband is a robber? Missie, if you could help

poor Susi, 'twere a good deed!'

"I inquired after Susi," continued Vilma, "and understood that Viola,

formerly a wealthy peasant, had become very poor, for that he, as a

robber, could not attend to his husbandry. His cattle and his ploughs

were taken away, his fields are untilled, and his poor wife is left

alone with two children. She is ill, almost dying. I told them to show

me to the house, for I knew they would not suspect me of being an

accomplice of Viola."

"You were right," said the notary; "pray go on." Thus encouraged, Vilma

continued,--"The misery of the Farkash family was indeed as nothing to

the wretchedness which I saw at Viola's. On approaching the house, I was

struck by a fearful noise. The justice has been informed that Viola

intends to see his family this very night; he has put three haiduks into

the house, ordering them to lie there and to catch Viola in case he

should enter. The haiduks were drunk, and would not allow anybody to

leave the house, lest Viola might be informed of the snare that was laid

for him,--although their drunken noise rendered this precaution

perfectly superfluous. The house was quite empty; nothing was left but a

heap of ashes on the hearth, and the seat by the stove, which is of

clay, and which could not be taken away; every other particle of

furniture that might have been there had fallen into the clutches of the

justice. When I entered the kitchen the corporal recognised me at once,

for he has often brought letters to our house. He came up to me, and

asked me what I wanted; and on my telling him that I had come to look

after the sick woman, he said it was scarcely worth while, and that the

woman might be dead, for all he knew to the contrary; but if she lived

till to-morrow, she would be a widow by the hangman's grace. His

comrades laughed at this rude joke, but when I insisted on seeing the

woman Viola, the corporal took me to the room where she lay. I asked

them to remain quiet, though only for a little while, and entered the

apartment, which was so dark that it was a good while before I could

discern any thing. The poor thing lay in a corner on a heap of musty

straw. The baby and the little boy lay by her side. They did not speak.

The noise of the revellers outside contrasted painfully with the silence

in the room. The woman was asleep, and so was the baby, but the little

boy knew me, and creeping up to me and nestling in my arms, he told me

the history of their misfortunes. Three days ago his mother had fallen

sick. She had a bed to lie on; but early this morning the justice came,

and ordered her to pay one hundred and fifty florins. She had no money,

and could not pay; the justice cursed her, and told the haiduks to take

everything away. His mother was driven from her bed, and old Liptaka was

kicked out of doors by the justice, who told the haiduks to sit and

drink in the kitchen. 'After this the justice went away; and mother has

been in a sad state ever since,' added the poor boy, weeping; 'and I

have made her a bed of the straw which they tore from our good bed. It

was all that mother could do to creep up and lie on the straw, and she

has been wandering in her mind ever since. The justice and the soldiers

said terrible things. They said father would come in the night, and they

would hang him. Mother has gone on about that. I was quite frightened.

After that, my little brother fell a-weeping, and it struck me that he

had not had anything to eat. As for me, I was very hungry,--so I stole

out to ask our neighbours to give me some bread; but they would not, for

the justice has said that no one should give us any thing, and that we

are to die like dogs! I brought nothing but some water, and a few

flowers which I broke from the hedge for my little brother to play with,

for I would not come back empty-handed.' That is the boy's story. He

wept bitterly while he told it."

"Poor little fellow!" said Tengelyi, "his is indeed an early knowledge

of life's bitterness;" and, turning to Mrs. Ershebet, he added, "I trust

you sent some relief to those wretched people. I'll go at once and see

what can be done for them."