“Till money I get from my father-in-law, My roof it, alas! must be covered with straw.” While the following one instantaneously suggests the portrait of some stolid-faced, sleepy individual whose ambition has never soared beyond the confines of his turnip-field, or the roof of his pigsty: “Too much thinking weakens ever— Think not, then, in verse nor prose, For return the past will never, And the future no man knows.” Many of the favorite maxims refer to the end of man, and give a somewhat gloomy coloring to a street when several of this sort are found in succession: “Man is like a fragile flower, Only blooming for an hour; Fresh to-day and rosy-red, But to-morrow cold and dead.” Or else— “Within this house a guest to-day, So long the Lord doth let me live; But when He bids, I must away— Against His will I cannot strive.” Here another— “If I from my door go out, Death for me doth wait without; And if in my house I stay, He will come for me some day.” The mistrustful character of the Saxon finds vent in many inscriptions, of which I give a few specimens: “Trust yourself to only one— ’Tis not wise to trust to none; Better, though, to have no friend Than on many to depend.” “If you have a secret got, To a woman tell it not; For my part, I would as lieve Keep the water in a sieve.” “When I have both gold and wine, Many men are brothers mine; When the money it is done, And the wine has ceased to run, Then the brothers, too, are gone.” “Hardly do a man I see But who hates and envies me; Inside them their heart doth burn For to do an evil turn, Grudge me sore my daily bread; More than one doth wish me dead.” “Those who build on the highway, Must not heed what gossips say.” The four last I here give are among the best I have come across, the first of these having a slightly Shakespearean flavor about it: “Tell me for what gold is fit? Who has got none, longs for it; Who has got it, fears for thieves; Who has lost it, ever grieves.” “We cannot always dance and sing, Nor can each day be fair, Nor could we live if every day Were dark with grief and care; But fair and dark days, turn about, This we right well can bear.” “Say, who is to pay now the tax to the King? For priests and officials will do no such thing; The nobleman haughty will pay naught, I vouch, And poor is the beggar, and empty his pouch; The peasant alone he toileth to give The means to enable those others to live.” “How to content every man, Is a trick which no one can; If to do so you can claim, Rub this out and write your name.” Among the many house inscriptions I have seen in Transylvania, I have never come across any referring to love or conjugal happiness. The well-known lines of Schiller—