Rattling, rumbling, jolting, bumping, and sometimes heeling over at an angle of 45° as we tear through the streets of Poprád, with what a magnificent spectacle of blue mountain and snow-capped peak are we greeted as they rise above the black but picturesque roofs of the houses!

Running almost into a disabled bullock-waggon as we dash round the corner—left, Hungarian-like, in the middle of the road for any chance comer to stumble over—and nearly upsetting, as we take “a header” into an unexpected hollow, we rock and ride over the holes like a heavy unwieldy barque over the waves of the sea, till at length, reaching the open country, we see all at once before us, rising sheer out of the plains of Poprád like a monster crater, the glorious Tátra rearing its ermined summits proudly heavenwards till they seem to cleave the very sky.

This lofty group of the Carpathians, called by the Hungarians “The Central Carpathians”—though for what reason I am at a loss to conjecture, except it be that they are situated at almost the extreme end of that chain!—are about seventy-two miles long by twenty-seven broad; whilst so completely do they rise out of the plains like a wall on every side, without what are designated Voralpen, i.e. lower intervening mountains, that a line could be drawn round almost their whole circumference.

This singular region contains within its limits no fewer than a hundred and twelve lakes or tarns, which in the language of the people of the district—German colonists, who settled here in the twelfth century—are called “Meeraugen” (eyes of the sea).

What a bewildering and indescribable fascination there is about snow-capped mountains! Nothing can be more imposing and impressive than those towards which we are journeying, with their bold and rugged peaks sharp as needles, their almost perpendicular sides scoured by a thousand watercourses, the region of cloud indicated by a long thin stratum of white vapour, which, hanging halfway between their summits and their base, seems to sever them in two.

Having passed the villages of Félka and Schlangendorf, we enter a pine forest, through which a good road runs the whole way to Schmecks.

In consequence of the Tátra being exposed to the north wind during the greater part of the year, vegetation is much retarded, and the elevation at which the various species of Coniferæ grow is considerably lower than that of Switzerland, varying in some instances to the extent of from 300 to 900 feet. For example, the zone at which the pine (Pinus picea) is found in Switzerland is 4077 feet, whereas in the Tátra it is only 3585; whilst the difference in the altitude at which the Scotch fir (Pinus silvestris) grows in the two regions is no less than 900 feet. The larch, on the contrary, strange as it may seem, is met with in the Tátra at almost the same elevation as in Switzerland, there being scarcely a hundred feet of difference in the limits of its growth in the two countries.

Many of the deciduous trees in the outskirts of this forest have not yet awakened from their long winter’s sleep, and their brown dry leaves, red and sere, rustle and flutter strangely in the breeze, as if they were impatient of their bondage and were longing to find rest on the soft mossy ground, and to mingle with the marl of mother Earth, the destiny of all nature.

As we gradually ascend the densely-wooded slope which lies at the extreme foot of this part of the Tátra, we get surrounded in mist; for that long thin stratum of vapour which we had observed in the plains, and which, glistening in the sunshine, looked so like a silver line drawn across them, now that we have at length approached it, turns out to be a cloud of many miles in width.

The evening is rapidly closing in, and the impenetrable pine forest on either side adds greatly to the darkness. Since leaving Schlangendorf, almost two hours ago, we have not seen the ghost of a habitation, nor met any one on the road. Night has well-nigh overtaken us, and we are beginning to wonder how soon our journey will be ended, when our driver, taking us suddenly off the main road, strikes into the thick of the forest by a mere waggon-track to the left. Is he in league with the brigands, we wonder? We had all along thought him a wild and uncanny-looking fellow. I confess to feeling very uncomfortable, for the neighbourhood is quite new to us, and the silence, solitude, and gloom of our surroundings are beginning to influence us sensibly.

The utterance of what I fear may have been rather unparliamentary language on the part of one of us, in a loud key, has the effect of bringing him to an abrupt standstill.

There is nothing like loud speaking to a Hungarian driver when he is doing anything you do not like. It is a species of eloquence understood in all languages, and our present charioteer knows as well all we are saying as if we had been speaking his own mother-tongue; for, pointing with his thumb over the tree-tops straight ahead, he makes us understand that it is there.

At this moment, gleaming through the mist, a welcome light is seen emanating from the windows of a châlet, then another and another, till a short drive over a gravel road brings us to the door of the “Sanatorium,” at which we pull up.

How cheery, in this unknown land, is the sound of voices which greets us from the balcony! Surely lights never twinkled half so brightly as those which are brought to guide our footsteps up the broad wooden staircase leading to the house. How cheery, too, is the open fire in the little salle-à-manger, and how glad we are to sit beside it whilst our rooms are being prepared for our reception! We are now in an Alpine region at an elevation of 3258 feet, and the warmth of the fire is pleasant; for, the Tátra being situated so far north, the cold is much greater than it is in Switzerland at the same altitude.

Having partaken of supper, we retire at once to our rooms, which are situated on the second story at the end of a long corridor, and in which fires are also burning. What music there is in pine-logs as they crackle in the open stoves! and how fragrant the perfume!

“If you look out of your window early to-morrow, you will see the whole range: the peaks are generally clear at sunrise,” exclaimed the manager of the Sanatorium, on wishing us “good-night.”

The Tátra was almost the only region we had not already explored during one or other of our previous visits to Hungary, and great was the pleasure we anticipated. We are worshippers of mountains. They possess such an irresistible and inexplicable fascination over me, that I could not sleep a wink for picturing them to my imagination, and thinking of the treat that the morrow was to bring. How many times, even when at length slumber overcame me, did I awake with a start, and opening my eyes expect to find I had overslept myself, and that it was already broad day.

Five o’clock. “To-morrow morning” has come at last! I look out of the window, but surely I must be dreaming still, or have the pixies changed the room during the night? Where are the mountains and plains? There is nothing to be seen but murky sky. Ah! it is early yet, and the sun has not risen; it will be all right presently. I will watch for its appearing.

Five minutes past five. No! it is not sky, after all, that I have been looking at, it is mist, for there beneath our windows are two pine-tops just showing through it like grey spectres. I get up, however. “Early to bed and early to rise” is the best of rules in Alpine regions.

But the morning is chilly, as, stepping out of the window, which opens like a door, I stand shivering on the balcony that, in true châlet fashion, “runs” round the whole house; and I half regret having adopted the praiseworthy motto above mentioned, at any rate for this one morning. Re-entering the room, I shut the door quickly, but carry with me a ton of vapour at the very least, but enveloping myself in a warm rug, I try to “come out jolly” under difficulties, and overhaul my sketches.

Seven o’clock. Delightful sounds of the clattering of cups and saucers. They are evidently laying the table for breakfast. But it is a long while yet before the bell will summon us to that welcome meal. Oh for our own particular and peculiar little tea-pot, and András to make us a hot cup of the “cheering” beverage!

Heavy steps ascend the staircase and come stumping down the corridor, and then stop outside the door.

“Rat-tat.”

Disentangling myself from the mountain of rugs in which I have wrapped myself, I go to see who can be there at this early hour. What joy! Enter a young and rosy female, more beautiful at that moment than the most exquisite Alpine flower, bearing in her hands a tray of smoking coffee and appetising little butter-breads in the shape of half-moons. And what celestial coffee, too! for celestial is the only adjective in the vocabulary capable of expressing its delicate and perfectly delicious flavour and aroma.

Whilst gratefully imbibing it, we wonder how it comes to pass that, not only in the lowlands of Hungary, but in these far-away mountain regions, such exquisite coffee can be met with, whereas in England it is seldom if ever drinkable, that is to say by those who, having once travelled abroad, have tasted of better things.

Neu (New) Schmecks, at which we are staying, consists of a cluster of beautiful châlets, erected in the heart of the pine-woods by Dr. Sontagh, who has created a Sanatorium in this picturesque spot.

Going down to the breakfast-room, he comes forward to greet us, and we immediately recognise in him the gentleman who had accosted us the evening before at the station, whither he had gone to accompany a friend, but did not return home until after we had retired for the night.

“There is no chance of your having an excursion to-day, I fear, if this mist should last,” he exclaimed as we took our seat at his hospitable board. “But you can at any rate visit the Kolbach Fall; and if you will allow me, I will be your guide.”

As the Fall is on the way to the Fünf-Seen, however, which we hope to visit ere we leave the neighbourhood, we decide to-day to potter idly about our immediate surroundings and spy out the bearings of the land. The mist, too, clears as the day advances; and though not sufficiently to admit of an extensive view, yet the winding walks through the pine forest to the smaller Falls close by, as well as to the little temples and kiosks which have been erected for the comfort and enjoyment of tourists, give us ample amusement for our first day’s sojourn in this beautiful locality, and afford us an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the general features of the immediate neighbourhood.

Ten minutes’ walk through a narrow pathway edged by crimson heather, moss, and Alpine flowers of every hue, brings us to “Bad Schmecks.”

Most persons in these enlightened days understand German sufficiently well to know that “Bad” means a place where there are mineral springs. But what an ugly-sounding name for such an idyllic region!

Let us ignore it, as I would all names which the Austrians have translated into their own language, and call it by its pretty Hungarian—though less commonly known—appellation of Tátra-Fűred.

Having arrived at a finger-post on which its name is written in both languages, we follow a little pathway in the direction indicated, and soon recognise through the pine-branches, which almost sweep us as we pass, the red gable of another châlet, and reaching a small opening in the forest find, as at New Tátra-Füred, a whole cluster of them, but standing more closely together, and scarcely so picturesque a place.

This place owes its origin to Count Stephen Csáky, who, in 1797, was the first to discover the mineral springs which have brought it into note. There are, however, three other springs in the vicinity, viz. the Rainer, the Lautsh, and the Vámbéry, besides those which pass under the singular if not classic sobriquet of Castor and Pollux.

The bathing season begins on the 15th of May and lasts until September; but in addition to the bathing establishments, there are several dwelling-houses for ordinary visitors, amongst which are those passing under the euphonious titles of the “Adria,” “Flora,” and “Rigi,” together with the very appropriate ones of “Alpenfee” and “Sans-souci.” In every instance the Hungarian significations are also attached to the foreign names.

In 1873, the “Carpathian Exploration Society” was formed for the purpose of investigating the mountains from a scientific point of view, of making and improving paths over the various passes, erecting places of refuge for travellers, as well as organising the proper training of guides. The Society meets twice a year; in the winter at Késmark, and in the summer in this place at a châlet called “Priessnitz.”

This little settlement is at present closed in the winter, but there is no doubt that as the climate of the southern slopes of the Tátra becomes better known—which may with truth be called the Hungarian Engadine—it will be open all the year round, as is the case with the Sanatorium of Dr. Sontagh. Meteorological observations show that the temperature of this side of the Tátra group is comparatively even, the heat never being great in summer; whilst the thermometer during winter ranges several degrees higher than in the plains. Fogs seldom visit this elevation during the winter months; and should they appear, they soon pass over. The air is generally clear and transparent and the sky blue. We were told by a disinterested observer that there are days in Tátra-Fűred, during the coldest season of the year, when the climate is enchanting, and that to those who have visited this region in the winter the impression left on the mind has been one never to be forgotten. The dark pine-woods, against which the peaks stand out in appalling whiteness; the deep blue chasms at their base; the soft and pearly shadows thrown by the snowy protuberances themselves; the sea of vapour lying all across the plains, which, rolling and surging as it floats, resembles a troubled sea, out of which the distant mountains of Gőmőr rise like a rocky, storm-beat shore—form a spectacle at once beautiful and majestic.

The winter of 1879–80, which will be remembered as one of more than ordinary severity and duration throughout Europe, is said to have been an exceedingly mild one at Tátra-Fűred, the average temperature during the very coldest time having been from 54° to 60° Fahrenheit.

In exceptionally mild winters, the cranberry with its small myrtle-like leaves may be seen growing luxuriantly among the green pines in company with ferns of the hardier kinds, whose bright green fronds mingle sweetly with the more sombre foliage of the non-deciduous sub-Alpine flora. At such times the Veronica officinalis with its small blue flowers and the Geum montanum blossom freely, each with the same bright hues which delight the eye of the tourist in summer-time; whilst in the lower Alpine world, clothing itself but scantily with its white mantle, the dark pines and scattered rock-masses form a pleasing contrast to the glistening snow-fields of the higher regions.

It is difficult for the uninitiated stranger to realise the warmth of this elevation during winter, but meteorological observations carried over a series of years bear testimony to the fact. The circumstance is no doubt due to the extreme dryness of the air, and absence of rain and fog, together with the protection from the wind afforded by the higher ridges.

The deciduous trees, however, lose their leaves, as well as the larch its spines, in the beginning of November, when, no longer able to make further resistance, they resign themselves to the dominion of the frost-king until the middle of March, when the first spring flowers once more announce the re-awakening of vegetation.

Nowhere in the region of the Tátra are there any real glaciers, but lying in some of the valleys towards the north there are vast fields of perpetual snow, together with unmistakeable evidences of the existence of glaciers at some former period—of which more anon. The snow does not lie much on these peaks long after June, the reason assigned being that their extremely sharp declivities afford no flats or ledges upon which it can rest. The Alps of Switzerland are as a rule less perpendicular and pointed, from which circumstance the snow does not slide down and disappear when the thaw sets in as it does here.

The principal element of these mountains is granite, though of a somewhat different kind from the ordinary crystalline rock of that name. This difference is not observable in small blocks, but is very marked in some of the rocky precipices,—for example, in those of the Lomnitzer group; a circumstance pointed out to us by Dr. Sontagh, who is not only a naturalist, but a geologist as well. Here where the rock forms an upright precipice, the parallelism of the strata, which often measure four feet in thickness, is very clearly distinguished. Its bed dips from east to west, slightly inclining from the ridge, which circumstance causes the small peaks or needles of this mountain to bend over and assume very singular and fantastic forms.

The mountains of the Tátra constitute the most northern boundary of Hungary, and the natural wall dividing it from Gallicia or ancient Poland.