In our intercourse with the Roumanian peasantry we are constantly reminded of the fact that only yesterday they were a barbarous race with whom murder and plunder were every-day habits, and in whom the precepts of respect for life and property have yet to be instilled. Not that the Roumanian is by nature murderously inclined—on the contrary, he is gentle and harmless enough as a general rule, and in nine cases out of ten the idea of harming you will not even occur to him; but should your life by any chance happen to stand between him and the object of his desire, no sentiment of religion or morality will be likely to restrain him from using his knife as freely as he would in the case of a hare or roe-deer. It is not that he takes life for the pleasure of shedding blood, but simply that he sets little value on it, and that he regards as far greater sin any infraction of his Church laws than the most flagrant attack on life and property. The study of this people, gradually emerging from barbarism into civilization, is most curious and interesting. While eagerly grasping at the benefits held out to them by science, they are as yet unable to shake themselves clear of the cobwebs of paganism and superstition which often obscure their vision. It is the struggle between past and future, between darkness and light, between superstition and science; and who can doubt that the result will be a brilliant one, and that a glorious resurrection awaits these spirits, so long enchained in bondage. But this hour has not yet struck, and the study of this people, however interesting, has its drawbacks, sometimes even perils; and especially for a lady, it is not always advisable to trust herself alone and unarmed in one of the out-of-the-way Roumanian villages, as I had occasion myself to discover in one of my expeditions to a hamlet lying south-east of Hermanstadt. Some time previously I had “spotted” this place on the map; it seemed to be within easy walking distance—not more than two hours off—and, lying somewhat away from the high-road, was not likely to have been much visited, and might therefore be expected to possess a fair assortment of china jugs and embroidered towels. “Take your revolver with you, mamma,” suggested my youngest son, when I told him where I was going. “Nonsense!” I replied; “the map and some sandwiches are all I shall require;” for my experience, which till then had lain entirely in Saxon villages, had shown me no ground for such precautions. I do not suppose that the child’s warning had been dictated by any prophetic spirit; more likely he wondered how any one lucky enough to possess such a delightful toy as a real revolver could refuse themselves the pleasure of sporting it on every possible occasion. So, leaving the neat little fire-arm hanging on its customary nail, I started on my walk, accompanied by a young German maid, who, speaking both Hungarian and Roumanian fluently, was useful as an interpreter.