NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

No. XLIX.-JUNE, 1854.-VOL. IX.

WE passed a week very pleasantly at Buchar- form of life make themselves apparent earlier than

and before you have gone twenty paces you see his tall figure on your track, or starting up from some nook in your front. You form a wish, and he stands before you ready to execute it. If by any chance you have employed him for the slightest service, you have bound yourself to him during your stay.

the presence of one who is ready to be your serv- | trusively or importunately, but insinuatingly, perant. He is your slave waiting for orders; or sistently. You descend to your carriage, and he rather he is the slave of your purse. The pias- is at the door; you turn the corner of a street, ters in your pocket are a magnet, a charm, which binds him to you. You can scarcely touch one, even unconsciously, without bringing before you some of these haunting spirits, as the rubbing of Aladdin's lamp summoned its subject genii. A most serviceable spirit is the Israelite at Bucharest. He can speak to you in half a dozen languages, so that you must be as ignorant of all tongues, other than your own vernacular, as are the ministers whom we send to represent us at foreign courts, if he can not find some medium of communication with you. Of English he is very likely ignorant; but he speaks German and French as a matter of course, and very likely Spanish and Italian, besides the dialects spoken in the city. He knows every body, every place, and every thing-and all that he has and is stands at your disposal, for a very moderate sum-and he will receive any amount of anger and contempt that you feel disposed to inflict, into the bargain. If you feel disposed to add blows, he will avoid them indeed if he can; but he does not dream of resenting them, or of ceasing to proffer his services.

We luckily fell into the hands of old Mordecai, who had pointed out to us the entrance to the baths on our arrival. When we emerged from the cavernous entrance, we saw him standing within a few paces, his tall figure bent forward in an attitude of humility, which yet somehow seemed free from servility. Heaven knows whether he had loitered there all the while we were passing through the Inferno, the Purgatorio, and the Paradiso of a Turkish bath. He had wisely waited for his fee till after we had bathed, and had become comfortable and benevolent. In the beatitude of the moment we of course could not avoid crossing his withered palm with a few paras. He followed us all that day and the next, as noiselessly and unobtrusively as our shadows, never addressing us, but still contriving to let us If he is yours you are none the less his, and know that he was at our service. He seemed to sooner or later he is sure to come into possession have an instinctive premonition whither we were of his own. The sooner you surrender the better going. We found him awaiting us at the Cathfor you. He haunts you like a shadow-not ob-edral gate, at the entrance of the Hall of Assem

bly, by the foot of the ruined tower of Coltza, | Israelite, who sat chinking his coin in a dingy which commemorates the occupation of the spot by the mad Swede, Charles XII. For two whole days we resisted the mute offers of his services; but he waited his time, and on the third morning it came.

I remember that we passed two or three gangs of wandering gipsies encamped under their ragged black tents. Through the thick smoke we could catch glimpses of half-clad figures of both sexes and all ages, crouched around smouldering fires made of half sodden weeds and brambles, glaring at us from under their matted locks. I remember also passing two or three caravans of the great wagons of the steppes, with their long trains of oxen laboriously making their way through the mire. One, I think, had given up in despair; the cattle had been turned loose to graze, and the drivers were smoking around a fire under a sort of awning stretched between two wagons.

of a dog just killed; not far behind follows an- | The level green plains were speedily transformed other, armed with a huge club, with his eyes bent into a marsh, where our wheels sank up to the upon the ground, puffing away at a long pipe, as axles. though quite unconscious of the proceedings of Of the three days' journey through the rain, his confederate. From every lane and alley, out all my recollections are mingled into a confused of every hole and corner, from behind every hill-mass. I must have dozed nearly all the while. ock and heap of rubbish, rush out the acquaintances and friends of the dead hero. Old veterans scarred with a hundred wounds abandon the halfgnawed bone or mutilated cat which their prowess has secured, and rush barking and yelling around their enemy; young aspirants join in the cry and pursuit, and a wailing arises like that which went up from the Dardan gates when, as Homer sings, the "divine Achilles" dragged his slain foe around the walls of Troy. The dragger of the slain pursues his steady way, followed by his imperturbable compeer. The canine throng, gathering courage from numbers and their own cries, press nearer and nearer. The leader at length comes within reach of the bludgeon of the hindmost gipsy. Swift as lightning, and inevitable as fate, it descends upon his skull; a smothered howl, and another canine shade is sent to bear company with the slain Hector. The throng scatter affrighted, only to be gathered again at the next turning. At evening the pair of gipsies proceed to, the magistrate to render an account of the day's slaughter, and receive the stipulated price per head.

At length the day for our departure arrived. In the gray morning our old caroussi lumbered up to the door, with its long file of shaggy ponies. Early as it was, old Mordecai was there, with his head bowed in his usual humble attitude. A few coins pressed rather than flung into his lean hand, brought up a look of gratitude that would have been cheap at tenfold the sum. His face wore a look of proud humility as he pressed his hand to his breast with that Oriental grace and dignity which befitted his lofty lineage rather than his humble fortunes. Poor old Mordecai, I fear it was but seldom that the few piasters he so patiently earned were not embittered with curses and blows.

Day was still struggling with night as we dashed through the muddy ponti into the broad marshy steppe, whose unbroken green surface stretched all around. That greensward must be now sadly tracked by the wheels of the Russian artillery, and reddened with the gore of the poor peasantry, slaughtered in a quarrel not their own. Muscovite or Moslem-fire or frying-pan: between two such alternatives the poor Wallachs have but a sorry choice. As the sun arose we turned to take a last look at Bucharest, whose hundred spires, rising above the low banks of vapor, gleamed red in its level beams.

Noon found us fording a river, with an unpronounceable name, whose turbid and swollen current gave evidence that a storm had been raging to the north and east. Not long after we came within view of a range of hills, their summits wreathed with sullen black clouds. At length we came within range of the storm. The rain came down in one long, heavy, continuous shower.

Now and then I was aroused from my doze by an extra jolt as we plunged into a ditch, or by the redoubled cries of our postillions as they frantically urged their tired horses up some steep bank, and found myself and my companion sitting in the damp straw, our shoulders braced together, clutching mechanically the rough sides of the vehicle.

The post-stations where we exchanged horses were solitary huts of clay and reeds, standing in | green oceans of herbage. Close by was an open inclosure, in which a troop of horses stood closely huddled together, with the rain streaming down their shining sides. Half mechanically we showed our tickets to the captain of the post, without alighting, while the exchange of horses was made; then dropped the expected bacchis into the hand of the expectant official as he returned our ticket. I suppose the amount was satisfactory, for I have a dim recollection of always hearing a "mestge currint," as the postillions, vaulting into their wet saddles, sent forth their long piercing cry, flourishing their whips with superhuman vigor.

Now and then we were aware that we were passing a village, and in a more genial mood we might have paused to admire the rustic churches, whose slender steeples rose in the leaden air above the quaint peaked roofs. One night we slept upon a heap of steaming hay in the corner of a leaky post-hut. The next night, darkness had long set in as with infinite difficulty we forded a muddy stream and toiled up a steep bank into a village, where we found a hotel, with a watertight roof. This village was called Rimnik. Hard by was an old Turkish castle built of brick. Here, we were told, Suwarrow gained one of his great victories, from which he received his title of Count, or Baron, or Prince, or something else, of Rimnik. It must have been just before the "crowning mercy" of Ismail. Next day we came to a river running through the centre of a little village. This was Fokshani, the frontier town of Wallachia and Moldavia, one half belonging to each Principality.

Wait long enough and the end will come. The close of our storm came at last. A bright sky

and windows of their shops, saluting our mud-stained vehicle with low bows as we passed. If they anticipated finding us customers, their courtesy was all thrown away. We rattled at a dashing pace up to a pretentious hotel, bearing the ominous title of "Hôtel de St. Petersbourg." Jassy, as if aware of its impending absorption into the Russian Empire, has already assumed something of the appearance of a Muscovite town. A great part of the city was destroyed by fire some thirty years ago. The new town has been laid out in broad streets with immense squares, which in the winter are a marsh, and in summer a Sahara. The houses have showy fronts, and roofs painted, in Russian taste, of a vivid green.

Notwithstanding its sounding name and showy appear