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is the plant to which the legend attaches, and which, therefore, still in Hungary is called the hair of the orphan girl.'

'Pan Twardowsky; or, The Demon Outwitted,' is a very amusing sort of Hungarian Faust; and Jock the Horse-dealer, besides the German legend of the Emperor Barbarossa sleeping in the Castle of Kyphäuser, introduces our Thomas of Erceldoun in the Scottish highlands. Klingsohr of Hungary is also pretty well known, through the German popular legend of St. Elizabeth of the Wartburg. It is curious how these northern stories circulate everywhere amongst the people. Most wild of all, however, and perhaps most Hungarian, is the legend of The Rocks. of Lipnik,' in which the witch Omna tempts the Prince Wladin. There is something so weird and full of the awful spirit of the mountain and the forest in this story, that we will quote the earlier portion of it :

'Amongst all the rivers of Hungary, but two bend their course northward, not joining the waters of the Danube, which carries all the other streams to the Black Sea. The Poprad and the Dunajetz, in the county of Zips, flow to the great plain of Poland, and, united with the Vistula, hasten to the Baltic. At the banks of the Dunajetz, the Red Abbey marks the limits of Hungary towards Gallicia, seldom visited by strangers, except by patients who seek the banks of Smerdzouka, in the neighbourhood of the village of Lipnik, from which the guests get their provisions. The villagers who bring these supplies not seldom entertain the guests with traditions of bygone days.

In ancient times of Paganism, Kullin, a powerful king, ruled over this country. His sway extended along the whole range of the Karpathians; his herds grazed on all the Alpine meadows; but, higher up, where no vegetation springs forth, the mighty Omna reigned over the barren rocks. She was a far-famed sorceress, not immortal; but in possession of the balm of youth. She preserved the semblance of a youthful woman, though she was many centuries old; yet, whenever she neglected to smooth her brow with the youth-imparting balm, she looked withered and weather-beaten as the moss of the rocks. Like the Thetis of ancient mythology, she had the power to adopt every shape, and could dazzle the human eye; but her heart was of stone, for it had been petrified by the lapse of time.

'Prince Wladin, the son of the king, was the handsomest youth of the realm, and none equalled him in courage, in kindness, and in generosity. He was beloved by all, but by none more than by Adla, the pride of the court, the favourite of the queen, the betrothed of the prince.

Once upon a time, Wladin, while hunting, caught sight of a magnificent chamois of uncommon size. He followed it for hours, and left his companions far behind. Whenever he thought he had approached it near enough to strike it with his arrow, it slowly climbed further up the steep rock, and thus induced the prince to follow it again. It allured him higher and higher to the brink of eternal snow. Just when

he thought it was within his reach, the chamois seemed to perceive the danger, fixed its backward-bent horns on the cliff which overhung the precipice, swung itself over with a powerful leap, and disappeared. The prince, disappointed at his failure, now sought to retreat. He had so eagerly pursued his prey, that he had not noticed the steep height which he had climbed. He stood on a narrow platform, surrounded by giddy abysses and perpendicular rocks; no outlet was visible, nor could he retrace the way he had come. He knew that in descending it would be impossible to find the clefts by which he had ascended, and he could discern no path on any other side. He sounded his bugle to give notice to his companions, but the sounds died away without echo; he was too far off to be heard. Dusk approached-night came on; he eagerly waited the dawn of the morning, which he thought might light up some unknown path. Morning came; but the rays of the sun only showed him still clearer that there was no way out. He waited till the evening every attempt failed to climb the rock above him, and he thought a sudden death would be preferable to hopeless starvation; but in the very moment when he approached the brink of the precipice to throw himself down, he heard a noise as the rustling of silk garments. He turned round, and beheld a majestic woman, the Queen of the Rocks.

She took his hand, and silently beckoned him to follow. Her steps seemed to create paths, for the descent was long. When they arrived at the Alpine meadow well known to the prince, Omna pointed out his retinue, now visible in the distance, and said, "Wladin, thou dost not further require my aid." But the prince bent his knee, and pressing the hand which had led him, exclaimed, "Let me thank thee, who saved me from destruction! It is not death I feared; but there is one whom I love, and I know that with my life Adla too would be lost-she would not survive me-Adla! the peerless beauty! the best of all women! This thought alone embittered the danger from which thou hast rescued me. Our gratitude is thine-thine our veneration to the last of our days!'

The sorceress smiled.

"The feelings of youth," she said, "are passionate in gratitude as in love, but they soon vanish. When thou seest the cloud from which thunder and lightning break forth, thou wouldst deem its irresistible power lasting, if thou hadst not seen that a ray of the sun, a gust of the wind, suffices to dispel or absorb the cloud. Thy feelings will not prove more lasting."

"My gratitude will last as long as my love, and my love ceases but with my life," replied Wladin.

"We shall see," she said, and disappeared behind a rock."'. Vol. i. p. 185.

The various encounters between Wladin and Omna, the latter under various disguises, and the tragic conclusion of the story, we must leave to the reader; as we must the singular poem of Yanosh the Hero,' which our authors have translated

at length. It may serve as a test of the distinctive tastes of the Hungarians and the English. Here it would be accounted extravagant, though not destitute of wit. It was written by Alexander Petöpy, whose fate, says Mr. and Mrs. Pulszky' was no less poetical than his lays. His talent had just dawned over the country, and he had obtained the hand of a young person, who, by her fortune, offered him an independent livelihood when the year 1848 broke out with its commotions. He first took an active part in politics. When the war began, he entered the army; he fought for his country and sang its glory; but since the unfortunate battles in Transylvania, he has disappeared; his fate is unknown.'-(Vol. i. 259.)

Perhaps the most curious chapter in the volume of smaller tales is that on the Hungarian outlaws. The robber,' say our authors, 'is a personage who appears in almost every Hungarian tale, and in every diary of the tourists who have wandered over the extensive plains of the Theiss, not that they have met the robber, but that they have heard of him. The innkeeper has always a story of highwaymen in readiness to frighten the stranger who arrives towards evening, in order to detain him all night.' In spite of their numbers, however, we are assured that nothing occurs more rarely than burglaries or attacks on travellers. Yet, on reading through this chapter one would hardly think so. We will take the only considerable extract we can make, and then the reader can judge for himself. After describing an association of men of property and station who committed all sorts of strange practical jokes, in which the Marquis of Waterford would have been very much in his element at one time, it is added:

'The Hungarian robber is usually nothing else than a homeless outlaw. On some unfortunate occasion, perhaps, when a quarrel has arisen in the tavern over a bottle of wine, he has not precisely enough estimated the force of the blows given by his fokos (brass axe), and has killed his comrade, whom he only meant to have thrashed. He must fly to the forest; the village is no longer safe for him.

Amongst the " Poor Lads"-the name which these homeless fellows adopt, the deserters are predominant in numbers; as, in spite of the warlike spirit characteristic of the Hungarian, he does not like to be a soldier in the Austrian army. He knows that, according to the system of the government, he will be compelled to leave his country, and be sent to Gallicia, Italy, or one of the German provinces, where he does not understand the language.

The life of such a deserter, when he has become a "poor lad" is most romantic, but very sad. He exists in the woods, often in the ruins of some ancient castle, and not unfrequently visits the herdsmen on lonely farms, and requires them to provide him with bread, wine, and lard. If they give him a part of their stock, he looks after their

herds, and thus makes their task easier. But if they refuse his demand, he occasionally steals some of their flock, not to sell, but to eat them.

'Sometimes when he knows that no hajdu (county constable) is in the neighbourhood, he ventures on Sunday evening to a remote village, and dances in the tavern with the young women. Of course, he takes care to be well armed, and even during the dance keeps his hand on his pistol. Not far from our castle of Szecseny, on the ruin of Hollokö, there lived such a 'poor lad;' he was a deserter, and not seldom visited our herdsmen on the remote farms. The shepherds exposed to such calls, need to be better paid than others, as they often fall into the necessity of sharing their victuals with the robber, who requests in a manner which makes a refusal dangerous. The county-judge, whom we well knew, once had an official commission to a Jewish farmer's, who resided in the mountains. Our neighbour, the young Hungarian poet, Lisznyai, accompanied the judge on this excursion.

• Established at the breakfast-table of the farmer, they were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Janos, the outlaw, who had opened the door, and stood on the threshold, with a double-barrelled rifle in his hand, and in his belt a brace of pistols, and the batta, the peculiar Hungarian axe.

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Sir," he began, "it is long since you sought my retreat. I have, therefore, thought it my duty now to wait here upon you, as you have come upon my estates. Grant me permission to keep you company for a little while." With these words he stepped into the room, left the door open, and posted himself with his back against the wall, in such a way as to keep the open door in sight. He then took a cup of coffee with the company, who, after they had recovered from their surprise, questioned him about his mode of life. He said that he often felt very dull, but sometimes found amusement in the perusal of the novels and poems which the Jew bought for him in Pest. He drew from his pocket a small volume of poetry; it chanced to be Lisznyai's, who was of the party. The young poet was naturally highly gratified at this adventure, and assured the nobles that it gave him more pleasure to see his songs in the hands of the "poor lad" than to read them most favourably reviewed in the columns of a fashionable paper. Janos was delighted also at the encounter, and said

"Young gentleman, as you so well know how to handle the pen, do me the favour to write for me a petition to the county, that the gentlemen would not have me persecuted any longer. I deserted from my regiment three times. The last time, I left my post where I stood as sentinel; and if I am given up to the court-martial, nothing awaits me but three bullets. I have murdered no one-I have robbed no one: I live as a poor lad, and request nothing but that I may not be hunted like a wild beast. Is it not miserable enough to be forced to live in the forest, quite alone and shelterless? If a free pardon is granted to me, I will handle the robbers in the woods better than any country hajdu; and I will shoot down, whenever I find them, those wretches who, some weeks ago, misused my name when they plundered the Jewish pedlar. These are criminals; I am ashamed that they call themselves poor lads."

The young poet promised the petition for him; the outlaw took a courteous leave, and in a few moments had disappeared. Two months later, he was killed in a fray in the village by a young peasant, to whose pretty bride he had paid too much attention.

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On the great plains of Lower Hungary the "poor lads" are more dangerous; here, they are horse and cattle-stealers, and often display an astounding boldness. In any case, they are most dangerous to society; for if one of them is a desperate character, he finds little difficulty in forming a band, which easily grows into a gang of highwaymen. They seldom carry on their mischief for any long time, as even the extensive forests of the Bakony, and the backwoods in the counties of Beregh and Marmaros, grant them no secure shelter. They seldom venture to attack travellers of higher rank than pedlars, or Jewish innkeepers. It was a rare exception when, in 1818, they dared to assault the metropolitan of Karlovitz, archbishop Verhovacz, who, on his return home from Vienna, was suddenly stopped in the Sclavonian woods by a gang of robbers. But the priest did not lose his presence of mind: he arose from the seat of his carriage, showed the golden cross which adorned his beast, and exclaimed :

Wretched men, do you not see that I am your metropolitan? I curse you as sinners, who act in opposition to the commandments of our Lord. You may kill me, but your crime shall drive you through the world, and you shall be accursed like Cain, and shall be fugitives and vagabonds on the earth like him."

'When the robbers heard these words, they fell on their knees and entreated

"Do not curse us, bishop; do not curse us! Bless us, that we may be fortunate upon earth."

The metropolitan replied:

"I cannot bless you, but go and sin no more, and our Lord in his grace will, perhaps, forgive your sins. Repent, and abstain from your criminal deeds!"

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The robbers no longer stopped the way of the archbishop, and the whole gang broke up in a short time. The curse of the prelate had frightened them into repentance.

Prince Frederick Schwarzenberg, the son of the celebrated fieldmarshal Schwarzenberg, used often to relate his encounter with the notorious robber, Haburak. The prince once accompanied a lady from Hungary to Vienna. They journeyed on the mountain-roads between the counties of Gömör and Torna. Heavy showers had greatly damaged the roads; evening approached; the tired horses had reached the ridge of the woody height, but could not be urged on further; and the travellers were thus compelled to seek shelter for the night in the inn of Aggtelek, a hiding-place of ill note for robbers. The carriage halted before the house, and the servant inquired whether room could be afforded. The publican replied, that there was one room for the lady, but that the gentleman could not be accommodated, the large guest-room being overfilled. After some visible reluctance, he owned that the gang of Haburak was drinking there. The lady became terrified, and entreated the prince not to remain; but it had grown so

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