A great
charm in this part of the country, at least from a picturesque point of
view, is the affluence of water. Every rocky glen has its gurgling rill,
every ravine its stream, which, at an hour's notice almost, may become a
mountain torrent, should a storm break over the watershed. A plague of
waters is no unfrequent occurrence, as the farmer in the valley knows to
his cost. Fields are laid under water, and the turbulent streams often
bring down great masses of earth and rock in a way that becomes
"monotonous" for the man who has to clear his land or his roads of the
_debris_. Mr Judd remarks that the volcanic rocks of Hungary have
"suffered enormously from denuding causes." Every fresh storm reminds
one that the process is in active operation.
After finally leaving Tusnad, I rode on to Csik Szent Marton, where, as
there was no inn, I had to present myself at the best house in the place
and crave their hospitality. My request was taken as a matter of course,
and they received me with the greatest kindness; in fact it was with
great difficulty that I could get away the next day. My host entreated
me to remain longer, and when he found that I was really bent on
departing, he gave me several letters of introduction to friends of his
along the road I was likely to travel. It was a very acceptable act of
kindness, for there are hardly any inns in this part of the country. "If
Transylvania is an odd corner of Europe," then is the Csik or
Szeklerland a still more odd corner; by no possibility can it ever be
the highroad to anywhere else.
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