An ordinary Hungarian coachman has little notion of time beyond that which has reference to the movements of the sun. The sun rises, and behold it is morning. It sets, and, lo! it is night. It is somewhere high up in the heavens, it is mid-day—but what time of day to within an hour or two he has not the faintest conception.

Greksa Jankó, however, was not quite an ordinary coachman. He had long been under the influence of Tátra-Fűred civilisation, and was consequently only twenty minutes late when he drove up to the steps of Villa Sontagh as strong and jolly a little pair of cobs as could be found in all Hungary.

There is a general leave-taking, very sorrowful on our part. The Herr Doctor comes out, and the pretty Frau Doctorinn; the manager, the little boy Simon, aged four, and the baby just five weeks and a day, all come out to see us off. There is much waving of the hand and cries of “au revoir” and “auf wiedersehn” from the balcony as, turning the corner, we get our last glimpse of the peaceful mountain home, and its pleasant and kind occupants.

Away through the pine-woods by a broad pathway, and out into the main road which leads to the village of Félka, where we shall have to stay whilst the horses are shod, for we have a week’s hard work for them over mountain passes in the Northern Tátra, whither our steps now tend.

I have already spoken much of the badness of the roads in Hungary, but nothing in all my experience comes up to the one we traverse, after emerging from the pine forest—through which, as I have previously said, it is good the whole way. It is my private opinion that one-half the cures which are supposed to be effected by the mineral waters of Tátra-Fűred are due as much as anything to the violent exercise to which the patients are subjected as a preliminary to the baths, and that “To be shaken before taken there” ought to be added to the programme of the bathing establishments.

There is moreover a tradition of no very ancient date, that a dyspeptic old Magyar, believed to be suffering from enlargement of the liver, was so entirely cured on the journey between Poprád and Tátra-Fűred that he required no treatment on arrival, and simply turned round and went back again. The road in fact has never been other than a broad sand-track destitute of stones. We go down into holes and then ascend over hillocks, and the carriage rocks from side to side, and creaks and cracks, and strains in such a manner that we wonder it does not break up altogether, and that the plucky little horses do not give in and cease their efforts in utter despair. At last we reach Félka, and pull up at a blacksmith’s forge.

The profession of shoeing horses in the Zipser district is evidently not affected by gipsies, as in other parts of Hungary, for the good-tempered-looking Vulcan who comes out smoking a long pipe, and at once commences the necessary operations, is not a gipsy; but not caring to take a lesson at present in the art of shoeing, we alight, and walking along to the quaint old church, make a sketch of it with its tall white tower and slender red cupola, which, rising from the centre of the roof, looks as though it had originally been a chimney, but in course of years had grown up and developed into a steeple.

As I sketch, the people standing behind half-open doors or beneath archways—which might have been built in the time of the Pharaohs—watch me furtively, and then run into adjoining houses and summon their neighbours to come out and see what it all can mean.

Passing through Poprád, we think it wise to stop and ascertain the safety or otherwise of our britzska, and find it safely reposing in the álás where András deposited it the day we left both him and it for the mountains. It looks more dusty, and worn, and battered than ever, and gazing at it we feel it is high time its work was done. Close to the wheels some geese are wading in the mud, and sometimes getting stuck fast in it with their broad webbed feet; whilst within the sacred precincts of the carriage itself a hen would seem to have serious intentions of making her nest.

In two hours’ time we reach Kesmark, a straggling old town, or rather—I beg its pardon—a “Royal Free City,”[2] and the most important place in Zips, containing 4500 inhabitants. It is situated on the river Poprád, at an elevation of 2115 feet above the level of the sea, close under and lying to the east of the Tátra. Its broad streets are lined with houses whose picturesque wooden roofs and gables overhang the road; each gable having attached to it an immense rain-shoot, sometimes even fifteen feet in length, made from a long straight trunk of a tree, which, hollowed out and projecting from the eaves, gives to the place a most singular and old-world appearance. Besides this, the gable and roof of each house is surmounted either by a wooden cross or ball, according to the religion of its occupants; the inhabitants being divided between Lutherans and Roman Catholics. These Zipsers, as they are called, are an industrious and thriving folk, well worthy the traveller’s attention, inheriting as they do the ancient characteristics and customs of their forefathers.

In the centre of the town stands the Rath-Haus, or Town Hall, erected in 1461, and within a hundred yards of it stands an interesting old castle, formerly belonging to the Szapolzag family, but now in the possession of Count Täköly, who has caused it to be beautified and restored.

The most interesting object of all, however, is the ancient Gothic church, erected in 1444, and built entirely of wood. I wish I could describe this wonderful old edifice, with its numerous gables, pinnacles, and figures, all painted grotesquely in fresco. The altar and pulpit are of the most fantastic description, the latter supported by two pink angels with gilt wings, stout muscular angels with brawny arms—types of the Zipser maidens. The church in fact was so full of sculpture that we mistook it for a Roman Catholic edifice, whereupon the woman who showed us over almost screamed and told us it was Lutheran.

It was sad to be told that this quaint old monument of a past age is to be destroyed to give place to a brand new one of stone, very ostentatious and ugly in design, which is being built close by, and which, overtopping the beautiful ancient one, seems to be looking down upon it with disdain.

Kesmark is the head-quarters for various Alpine excursions, such as to the “Alabaster Caves,” and the Green, Red, and White Lakes; but we do no more on this occasion than bait our horses. Whilst waiting at the hotel for our carriage to be brought round, we see on the table before us a Hungarian newspaper, entitled “Osszehasőnlitó irodalomtőrtenelnu Lapok.” Fancy taking in a periodical afflicted with such a name, but, after all, I believe it signifies nothing worse than “Comparative Literary Journal”!

After leaving Kesmark, we journey towards the mountains which tower grandly above us, and pass through sleepy and silent little villages, the houses of which are made of pine-logs, and whose interstices are filled with moss to keep out the cold. There are no chimneys, and the smoke issues “picturesquely” through the roof.

By the wayside, in the neighbourhood of the villages, are little shrines containing images of saints, resembling gaudily-painted dolls; whilst close to a mountain stream we are just passing, and which is evidently given occasionally to overflowing its borders, we observe a niche attached to a high pole, in which stands the figure of St. John Nepomucensis—a saint who, though drowned himself, is supposed to possess the power of restraining unruly waters, and protecting others from inundation.

Farther still we recognise the form of St. Philip, that hospitable saint, who, just “done up,” is radiant in every colour of the prism.

As we approach the quaint little town of Béla, with its prodigious shoots extending from the gabled houses—and which, in length and ponderousness, far outdo even those of Kesmark—the snowy range is glistening like molten silver, the peaks piercing the sky with points like needles.

Nowhere is the outer belt of this stately group of mountains more beautiful than from this point. At Poprád the whole length of the range is seen, but here we are nearer to them; and although they present only a foreshortened view, they are far more bold and rugged.

What a heavenly scene it is!—the ermined giants veiling their foreheads in the fleecy clouds which here and there pass across them; the deep blue precipices at their base dreaming in the noontide haze, and the broad stretch of pine-clad plains in the foreground.

In the undulating pastures oxen are ploughing in teams of four, and even six, as they lazily turn the rich brown soil. Yonder is a group of men and women reclining under the shadow of a waggon as they eat their mid-day meal; whilst near the roadway to our left stands another of those picturesque wayside shrines, beneath which some country-people are kneeling.

Since leaving Poprád the roads have been excellent, and, soon beginning to ascend the pass of a mountain which separates the south side of the Tátra from its northern or Polish slopes, we again get into the region of primeval pine-forests, the banks of which are full of that most lovely of all Alpine flowers—the blue gentian—which, dwelling so far above the ordinary abode of men, and reflecting the deep colour of the zenith, seems to have tempted down bits of the sky.

The birds sing sweetly, and our hearts beat high. Who does not remember to have experienced such moments when the mere fact of existence is an immeasurable delight—when the life-blood courses through the veins with a warmer glow, and each bodily sense vibrates in unison with external nature? The invigorating mountain air, fragrant with the breath of pines; the purple expanse of mountain peak beyond; the bright sunshine,—all kindle within the heart a new joy, which leaves no room for other and sadder feelings. Even the sorrows of the past that are common to the lot of all, come floating upon the memory with a gentler sadness.

Now and then we meet a long waggon filled with timber on its way to the plains, driven by a mild Slovak, who sings as he comes along, for he too is joyous on this lovely day. Sometimes a pedestrian passes us, his hat adorned with flowers gathered by the wayside; he lifts it, and gives us an unintelligible but kindly greeting. Then as we approach the summit of the pass the ragged edges of a fleecy cloud get caught in the topmost branches of the pines, and for a few moments we are enveloped in mist, but the sun soon shines brightly as before.

Having crossed the pass, which has occupied about two hours, we arrive at the straggling village of Altendorf, inhabited by our old friends the Slovaks—for we have left Zips with its German-speaking population far behind, and shall soon be in a district inhabited entirely by Rusniaks, or Malo-Rossijantsi (Little Russians), as they are sometimes called.

There has been a fire here recently, for many of the houses are reduced to mere heaps of charred wood, which is lying about in all directions. Against each house a ladder is left standing, in readiness for the next conflagration: fires, we are told, being of very frequent occurrence at Altendorf. When one does take place, it is a marvel how any house escapes, for once ignited they must blaze like a box of matches, consisting as they do wholly of wood, and leaning almost one against the other.

The Slovaks in this district differ slightly in appearance from those we saw in the comitat of Gőmőr, and wear, instead of the large round felt hats which had amused us so infinitely, smaller ones turned up at the brim, very peculiar in shape, but less striking at first sight than the former. In other respects their costume is precisely the same, and their features and manner are wholly unmistakable, as also is their voice, which is melancholy and low. We felt glad to be amongst the gentle Slovaks again, for there is a pathos about them and their simple lives which interested us greatly.

Long before we had completed our repast, which consisted of edibles brought with us from Villa Sontagh, it became noised abroad throughout the village that a family from Ángolország had arrived, and were resting at the inn. Not that that noun suggested anything very definite to the ungeographical Slovak mind. But just as there are the moon and stars—spheres which they cannot reach or comprehend the nature of—so there are places on the earth, afar off, in a mysterious region beyond the Slovak horizon, or, it may be, in an altogether different world from that in which he has his being, where there are strange people speaking a strange language, possibly having tails or walking on “all fours,” and, for aught they know, possessing some entirely new arrangement of humanity. They consequently all turn out to behold with their own eyes these unknown entities and unexpected visitants to their hemisphere, and are no doubt greatly disappointed when they discover that we are men of like fashion with themselves.

Walking down the village, we find on its outskirts a gipsy encampment. It consists of two hovels, formed of planks placed together tent-wise and partially sealed with mud. Close to these human kennels is a wretchedly old tent, whose canvas is seamed with many a patch and darn. In one of the hovels a small anvil rests on the ground, and from this we infer that they are the resident blacksmiths of the neighbourhood.

I think it is Carlyle who says that “society is hung upon clothes.” These gipsies, however, possess in this matter a contempt for the superfluous common to their race, and, although residents of the village, they are not recognised as members of the Slovak community, possibly on the aforesaid theory. Be this as it may, no one had taken the trouble to impart to them the interesting fact of our arrival, or we may be quite sure they would long ere this have presented themselves clamouring for kreuzers, as is their wont on the advent of the stranger. But as soon as they see us, they begin to make up for lost time, and come pouring out of their hovels like a swarm of bees from a hive, thirteen women and children covered with the veriest rags, which, hanging upon them without shape or form, look like a hideous mockery of clothing, and cause them to present the saddest spectacle I ever witnessed. They were soon joined by two men, evidently of the party, hunger and oppression written in the faces of every one of them; whilst those of the younger wore an eager, wizened, hunted look. Not that they are ill-treated by the villagers,—far from it; but, descendants of a vagabond race, these “settled” gipsies seem no more civilised than their wandering brethren, and possess the same sad, oppressed, and down-trodden expression of countenance inseparable from their race—a heritage brought with them from the land of bondage, and which, like that of the Jews, has stamped them a separate and distinct people for ever, to be individually recognised in all countries and in all climes.

As we look at them, clothed in their blackened rags which cling to them like cerements, we ask each other in dismay, Have these poor creatures immortal souls, and are they brethren? Are these amongst the number for whom precious blood was shed—these wild, half-savage-looking beings, with their secret language, their belief in elves and hobgoblins, their total disbelief in the immortality of the soul, and utter ignorance of every form of religion? Can these be brothers and sisters, who, more degraded than the South Sea Islanders, recognise the existence of no Great Spirit higher and better than themselves?

The Austrian Government insists on the gipsies having their children baptized, but they have no notion of the meaning of the rite. In fact the Christian religion is a complete puzzle to them, especially in regard to the Holy Trinity; some labouring under the belief that God the Father has abdicated in favour of His Son, others that He is dead and that His Son reigns in His stead.

It is marvellous that in the nineteenth century such ignorance should exist in any Christian country. Surely there is work here, amongst these 150,000 outcasts, for Christian philanthropists?

“How do these people live?” we ask of a respectable-looking man, whom curiosity has prompted to join us, and who we feel sure, from his wearing the familiar costume of the West, will be able to understand the question we have put to him in German, and reply to it, if ever so imperfectly; moreover, in all probability he may prove to be a Zipser.

“Gott allein weiss,” he replied readily, shrugging his shoulders as if to give greater force and expression to the utterance, so full of sad and pathetic meaning. “God only knows.”

“But what do they live on? what do they eat?” we inquired, anxious to come to the root of the matter.

“Anything,” was the reply; “they snare birds, and eat rats, and snails and frogs besides; nothing comes amiss to the czigány. There are three more men belonging to this gang, but they are away, picking up a job here and there, and möglicherweise mausen sie” (possibly pilfering). “They manage to live somehow”—and regarding the slender anatomy of these poor creatures, I could not help thinking that the various species of esculent he enumerated could not be very nourishing food; and the word “somehow” in all its sad significance haunted us for many a day afterwards.

“Would they wear decent clothes if they were given them?” I asked again, remembering with regret the number of travel-stained garments we had left behind us at Poprád.

“Yes! they would wear them,” answered our informant, who we afterwards learnt was an officer in the Revenue Department. “But the Slovaks are poor, very poor; besides,” he continued, smiling sardonically, “who would think of giving clothes to a gipsy?”

Whilst this colloquy is taking place, F., surrounded by a knot of peasants a little higher up the village, is making the boys run for kreuzers. Amongst them is a gipsy urchin, who he insisted should be permitted to take part in the race, but who so invariably came in first, that after a few times he had to be handicapped; whilst a juvenile specimen of the male Slovak, whose particular mission in life would seem to be to lug about a big baby, cried so pitifully because he was unable to join the sport, that he had to be consoled with kreuzers.

Then the small fry—the little four-year-olds—are made to run. In vain the bell summons them to afternoon school. In vain the long-robed priest comes out to see what can be the reason of their absence. A complete state of demoralisation has taken place—the Slovak urchins heed neither the schoolmaster nor his Reverence, call they never so loudly, and so the afternoon has to be declared a general holiday.

At length it was proposed that the men should compete, a race in which our Jehu joins. Jankó had evidently made a great impression on the minds of the gentle Slovak by his Sontagh livery, which consists of a scarlet waistcoat and blue hussar jacket and tights, embroidered with bright yellow braid. All the village turns out to see the fun, even the babies, who whine plaintively, and receive not only kreuzers, but extra shoves on the part of their small nurses, who are scarcely bigger than themselves. I think I never saw so many babies together in all my life as in this Slovak village; and had it rained babies and hailed babies, instead of the conventional cats and dogs, during a recent heavy storm, I doubt whether they could have been more numerous. The day’s excitement is at last brought to a blissful termination by a feu de joie, in the shape of a general scramble for small coins, and we gallop away amidst the blessings and acclamations of the multitude, whom we have made quite happy at the cost—divided into infinitesimal fractions—of the magnificent sum of four and a half gulden.