enters into its composition. The harness is
as primitive as the vehicle. To a single
shaft, generally with the bark on, eight, ten,
or twelve horses are fastened by means of
long cords, with collars at the end through
which the heads of the beasts are passed.
Three surijions or postillions mount three of
the horses without saddles, without stirrups,
and without bridles; and these are all the
preparations made to travel express in
Wallachia.

If you have courage enough to undertake
this mode of progression, you present yourself
to the Aga or the Ispravnick of the city you
inhabit, and inform him of your desperate
intention, and also of the place you want to
reach, the day on which you wish to set out,
and your address. This information is set
down upon a piece of paper, which it is
necessary to show to each post-master on the
way. The chief formality, however, consists
in paying the whole fare in advance—a
precaution probably taken because there exist so
very few chances of your arriving safely at
the end of your journey, and because it would
not be decorous to exact payment from a
dead traveller.

When the fatal moment has arrived, and
you have said adieu to your friends and made
your will, the karoutchor comes dashing up to
your door; and it is considered wisest, if you
really intend to travel, to leap in without
taking a moment to think of the consequences.
The Ispravnick has given a thought to your
comfort. You will find an armful of hay, not
very sweet, it is true, to sit upon; and whilst
you are arranging it underneath you, the
chief surijion will utter his "all right" in the
shape of a savage cry, as if he were about to
whirl you to the infernal regions, will crack
his enormous whip, and thus give the signal
of departure. Off you go—with a frightful
jerk and an ominous hop of all the four
wheels at once; for they have not yet got
used to go round. They will get into the
habit one by one, never fear. You feel the
necessity at once of clutching hold of the
edge of your abominable post-box, as an
awkward rider seizes hold of the pommel of
his saddle. The neighbours shout out a long
farewell, or look commiseratingly at you, as if
you were going to be hanged; ruthless boys
laugh at your deplorable countenance; and
the postillions yell like mad. Thus you arrive
at the gates of the city, exhibit your passport
—shame preventing you from getting out
—submit probably to the last extortion you
will suffer in this life; and rush into the open
plain.

Now the three postillions begin to show
themselves in their true character. You
have already had some ugly suspicions. They
are not postillions. They are demons. They
are carrying you away, soul and body, to
their great master. As soon as they have
the wide horizon of plain and forest around
them, they begin to scream with delight,
and to exhibit their infernal joy under a
false pretence of singing. The first in rank
sets up a discordant rhythmical howl,
sometimes as gay as the psalms on a witch's
sabbath, sometimes as dreary as the shrieks
of ghosts disturbed in their midnight evolutions.
Then the others join in in chorus,
and you would assuredly stop your ears if
your hands were not fully employed in holding
on. Meanwhile, these wretches accompany
their screams with the most furious gesticulations,
wriggling their bodies into all manner
of postures, leaning now this way, now that,
lashing furiously the herd of wild animals
that is bounding under them; and giving,
indeed, every additional proof that is necessary
of their supernatural character.

Once you have set out, you feel yourself
reduced to a most miserable state of
insigniicance. You are utterly forgotten. The
surijions think of nothing but their songs
and their horses. They have not even a
glance to spare for the karoutchor. On
they go, whether there be a road or not,
caring only to swallow so many miles in the
least possible space of time. The tracks in
the African deserts are often marked by the
bones of camels that have fallen under their
burdens; those in Wallachia are marked by
the bones of madmen who have undertaken
to travel post. But the surijion cares not
for—notices not—these lugubrious mementoes
of former journeys. He skips lightly over
them all. Ravines, torrents, ditches, patches
of brushwood, are dashed through with railroad
rapidity. The horses seem to take
delight in this infernal race. They too forget
that they have anything at their heels, and
struggle desperately which shall be foremost.
A steeple chase is nothing to it. If you are
a very bold man, the excitement keeps you up
for half an hour; but then alarm rushes into
your soul. Not one of the postillions deigns
to turn his head. He is not there for
conversation. He has nothing to say to you.
As to stopping, or going slower, or not
going quicker, the idea is absurd. At
length, in all probability, a wheel breaks, the
trough falls over, and the traveller is shot
off into some deep hole, with a broken
leg or collar-bone, and is thankful that
he is not quite killed. Still on goes the
karoutchor, rendered lighter by this slight
accident; and it is only on reaching the next
relay, that the surijions turn round and
perceive that they have lost a wheel and
their passenger. Peace be to his manes—his
fare is paid.

The distinguishing characteristic of Moldo-
Wallachia being the absence of cities, travelling
is not very prevalent among the people. It
is true that each principality possesses
nominally a capital, and that Bucharest and Jassy
contain a considerable agglomeration of
inhabitants. Both these places, however, though
they exhibit some tendencies to civilisation—
though they put on fragments of French