It was evening when I set out from
Giurgevo, at last. The rain still fell heavily,
and the wind blew in wild gusts at intervals,
making the leather sides of my carriage
flatter as if beaten with a stick. I was much
better off than in the post-cart, but I was
still far from comfortable. The carriage with
which I was now provided was neither
more nor less than a light waggon without
springs, and covered over with a flat leathern
roof. It had no seats, and the head being of
course badly fixed, whenever I attempted to
lean against it, it gave way or tore. It also
speedily got wet through; and subsequently,
when the rain ceased, froze, so that I might
as well have been in an ice-house. Unluckily,
also, though there was some damp straw at
the bottom, the waggon was not long enough
to lie down in. However, I huddled myself
up in cloaks and furs; I was provided with
some brandy, and some bread and cheese
—all of which I found very useful; and I had
no reason to complain.

It was not a pleasant journey. There
appeared to be no road, and the whole
country was under water. The wheels
were always up to their tires in slosh and
mud. It was quite dark, and it seemed to
me really a marvel that we did not get out of
the track, and so wander out into the bog,
and come to grief. The cold was intense,
and the only sound I could hear, save the
downward rush of the rain and the wild
wailing of the wind, was the groaning and
sighing of my miserable post-boy, a poor
half-starved lad of fifteen or sixteen years of
age. I offered him my brandy flask very
often to console him, but he would not drink,
though he devoured some of my bread and
cheese greedily enough.

So we went on. It was impossible to go
faster than a walk—firstly, because we could
not see three yards before us; and secondly,
because the horses were so thoroughly
used up, that no whip, rein, or cheering
hallo would put any more speed into them.
Now and then, as we floundered onward,
some benighted horseman would plash past
us, or the hoarse shout of the patrol—looking
shadowy and gigantic through the darkness—
would assure us that we had not wandered
from the right track; and once we met the
mail coming down from Bucharest. First
came a courier with a post-cart and four
horses clearing the way, and galloping with
the speed of a phantom. A torrent of oaths
warned us to pull aside and wait for the
mail; we did so, and the furious gallop of
the twelve little horses that drew it was
soon heard coming nearer and nearer, through
the darkness. Then there was a flashing of
lights, and it whirled past us (a mere post-cart
like the other), with the post-man fast
asleep and propped up in a bearskin coat
that defied the weather.

Shortly after this my coachman fairly
knocked up. He got off the box and came
trembling and groaning to entreat that I
would allow him to stop and pass the night
at the next post-house. He looked a miserable
object, and chattered out his request so
imploringly, that I at once agreed, little
knowing what was in store for us.

We crawled along that sloppy, broken
road, then, for about half an hour longer, and
then stopped. Attentive observation enabled
me to perceive that a dim light, coming
through a very small and dirty window, was
just visible through the rain and darkness.
Alighting, therefore, I traced it to a poor,
solitary hovel by the road-side. I entered and
inquired for a bed. Mine host looked up
surprised and wondering. "A bed," I
repeated,—"a place to rest in."—"Oh!"
answered mine host. There was but one, and that
was occupied by his wife, family, and
establishment.—"Could I have a room, then,
and some supper? " Mine host shook his
head; there was evidently nothing to eat in
the neighbourhood, but I might have shelter
with his wife, family, and establishment, who
were all lying down in their clothes together;
or I might go into the other room (there were
but two), which was occupied by a Turkish
pacha, coming from Bucharest, and who had
been benighted, and obliged to seek refuge
from the weather. To this I agreed. It was
a wretched little room heated by an immense
iron stove, which was. nevertheless, insufficient
protection against the cold that rushed
in through every chink and cranny. Here
were established, the pacha, his coffee-boy and
pipe-bearers, two travelling French soldiers,
and a Wallachian merchant. They were
all drunk. The pacha, having a great fear of
cholera, which was then raging fearfully, was
constantly drinking brandy to keep it off.
This was the first and only time I had ever
seen a Turkish gentleman of rank drink wine
or spirits in the presence of strangers and in
public. Here, however, feeling probably that
any licence would pass unnoticed in a Christian
country, he enjoyed himself—apparently
without the smallest scruple. He was a fat,
portly, dignified old gentleman, and it was
an odd sight enough to see him in his cups.
I grew weary of his antics at last, however,
and, partly to escape from them partly
to study manners—I went into the other room.
There lay the post-master, his wife and family
all huddled together. An assistant was sorting
and arranging a rabble rout of strangely-folded
letters, by the light of a flaring oil-lamp;
while one or two chance travellers,
including rny coachman, were stretched in
their sheepskin coats upon the floor. Nothing
but the happy ability of smoking at all hours,
could have enabled me to support such an
atmosphere as clouded this room.
Fortunately, however, my pipe rendered me
insensible to it, and so I remained to wile away
the night in quaint talk about Omer Pacha,
and such notabilities among mankind, as
interested this simple party. Time passes not