The morning broke just as such mornings should, but so seldom do; the dark and sombre mountains, rearing their perpendicular walls of granite high into the zenith, stood out blue and sharp against the rosy sky, as the sun, still far below the horizon, sent upwards his crimson messengers.

Long before it was light, however—for dawn defers her coming in this mountain gorge—we were suddenly awakened from a sound sleep by hideous, unearthly, and perfectly indescribable noises outside our window, which we afterwards learned proceeded from a duet, if not a trio, of cow-horns. We had fallen asleep under the impression that we should be aroused from our slumbers by the sweet and inspiriting music of the Jägerhorn, but how cruelly was this fond delusion dissipated! We had hardly recovered from the effects of the first deafening blast, when another burst from the inharmonious trio of sound, followed by the snapping of rifles, awoke throbbing and reproachful echoes in the stern mountains, and this time brought the Herr Graf out of his apartment. We had also obeyed the rude summons, and, hastily attiring ourselves—elaborate toilets being at the best of times out of place in the mountains—were soon standing outside the barrack-like building in the chill morning.

Mountain air is much more provocative of hunger than sleep, so that getting up in the small hours is not nearly so uncomfortable a proceeding as in one’s snug home in the lowlands. In any case it was well worth the effort on this occasion, if only to see the breaking of the morn, and to watch one beautiful object after another, rock and tree and flowing water, take shape and grow out of the dim chaos of night.

The hunting party, consisting of about seven men, all either Jäger or Treiber (huntsmen or beaters), were being regaled with coffee before the start; besides whom were several provision Träger and porters for promiscuous baggage, which they carried strapped to their backs like knapsacks. At a little distance, talking confidentially to the landlord, is the youthful Count himself, in all the panoply of the chase, not a single accompaniment wanting. In addition to his hunting costume, he wears wound round his body a large net and rope. The use of the former was somewhat difficult to define, and left us in doubt as to whether it were intended for a hammock, or for catching fish in one of the Alpine lakes in the vicinity of which they were about to beat.

“How do you manage to exist in these solitudes during the long winter?” we inquired of our host after they had gone, as he spread the snowy cloth for our breakfast.

“What can one do?” replied the little man, with a look of sad resignation: “the time seems long, very long, but one must have patience, and then the summer comes, bringing with it the visitors. Ah,” he continued, with a sigh, “we are no longer at home in our once peaceful land. Where Russia rules, no Pole’s house is his own, and none can tell what we have to suffer. In Austrian Poland we are safe from persecution, but in Russian Poland——I am a self-imposed exile, and would rather be a peasant under Austrian rule than a prince under that of Russia.”

Well fortified by an excellent breakfast for our own climb, we mount our ponies at the appointed hour, and crossing the foaming Bystre, at the ironworks of the Baron Ludwig Eichhorn, ascend a steep path through the forest; after leaving which we again reach the region of krummholz, which is growing in dishevelled masses on the abrupt precipice of the Thalkessel.

Our ponies, unaccustomed for nine whole months of the year to carry human freight, have, as may be readily supposed, like my old friend Minsh, their respective idiosyncrasies, and I have a shrewd suspicion that the one on which I am seated has never before carried anything of greater importance than a sack. It manifests in fact such a spirit of antagonism to me personally, that before I had been in the saddle many minutes, it did its best to get rid of me entirely by running close to ledges of rock—where any presented themselves on the left side of the path—as well as against trunks of trees and prickly brushwood or any other obstacle of the like nature, evidently hoping thereby quietly to rub me off as it would have done a fly, or leech, or any other obnoxious and irritating parasite. I must say that considering their patriarchal titles—their names were Abraham and Sarah—they behaved very badly indeed, the former having an uncomfortable trick of keeping to the outer or precipice side of the narrow paths, causing one leg of his rider to hang over the yawning abyss immediately beneath, as if to give him timely warning of the kind of “promised land” he had to expect unless he took heed to his ways. Beyond this odious habit, however, Abraham pursued his course with austere dignity, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

We are getting on fast with our knowledge of the Polish language. When we wish to go faster, we give the patriarchal pair a gentle reminder with a bramble—which has been furnished us in lieu of a whip—and exclaim in commanding tones “Jedj prentko!” and when we desire to stop, cry “Stu-i!” At length, after a climb of an hour and a quarter’s duration, we reach a grass-covered hollow lying between two mountains, and, leaving the ponies behind, continue our climb on foot.

Following our guide and scrambling through the branches of the spreading krummholz, we soon stand at the foot of the Felsenkegel, from whence we have a magnificent view of the north-western portion of the Tátra chain, here called the Krapak. But, beautiful as it is, we do not linger at this spot, having a long climb before us to the Frozen and the Black Lakes, called respectively, in the Sláv dialect of the district, Zamárly Staw and Czarny Staw. Retracing our steps as far as the meadow where our ponies are grazing, we cross a babbling stream and begin to ascend the mountain by a more gentle slope, till we see the Black Lake before us, lying snug and warm in the lap of enfolding mountains, and which, next to the Cszorba-See, is one of the loveliest of which the Tátra boasts. To the west, floating still and calm in its oval-shaped basin, lay a small rocky island covered with the dark krummholz. Not a ripple disturbs the tranquil bosom of the lake, for here, as at the Félka tarn, perfect silence reigns, and not a bird or insect breaks the stillness. Above rises the Kóscielec-Spitze, reflecting its mighty walls in the clear black-green waters, its every outline and feature defined sharply as in a mirror.

“In stormy weather,” exclaimed our Polish guide—who, fortunately for us, spoke German—pointing in the direction of the great peak, “he sends down huge pieces of himself into the lake. I saw him once in a storm of wind and rain when, overtaken in the mountains, I had to flee for shelter beneath that low overhanging rock opposite. It was an awful thing to see him then: the fragments came tumbling down his face, as though he had been a giant weeping tears of stone, and, plunging into the lake with a roar like thunder, sent the water halfway up his sides like a mighty Springbrunnen” (fountain)—and he spoke of the mountains, as so many Alpine guides are wont to do, as though they had been living, sentient things.

These mountain lakes, so far removed from the abode of man, with their dark still waters, possess a weird and indescribable fascination, and always seemed to me to be the abode of some great Spirit, which brooded over them and held them as in thrall. In their silent presence a silence crept over us too—a spell which seemed to forbid the utterance of words. So greatly did this Black Lake impress me individually that I dreamt of it that night. I dreamt that I was standing here alone; it was twilight, as it nearly always is in dreams; when there came to me a presence, felt, not seen, and said, “All those who venture within my sanctuary and once behold my Spirit, I hold them mine for ever.” And instantly I felt my feet grow rooted to the spot. I could not move. Then in struggling to get free I awoke, feeling thankful it was, after all, “but a dream.”

The Frozen Lake, lying at an elevation of nearly 6000 feet above the level of the sea, is approached from the eastern bank of the Czarny Staw. A short but steep climb over large boulders of granite brings us to a small plateau, whence we look down upon it, lying in its snow-girt cradle: and here again the scene is one of grandeur and sublimity impossible to describe. Surrounded by gigantic rock bastions, whose ravines and gullies are filled with colossal fields of snow extending to the lake itself, it seems held in their icy grip; silent, immovable, the most dreary and desolate but impressive thing in nature. As we stand looking down into its frozen depths, a golden eagle—the first we have seen in the Northern Tátra—flies out of a fissure in the rocks and with motionless wings cleaves the azure deeps, and then, swooping down again, seeks its solitary nest.

No vegetation is here, not even krummholz, for no plant could find sufficient soil upon these barren rocks in which to germinate and spread its roots and grow. No lonely Alpine flower holds up its grateful petals to the light. All is barren, sterile, desolate, as if there had once been a curse upon the land that blighted it for ever.

Throughout this rocky labyrinth the eye searches long in vain for outlet. We seem shut in as by lofty battlements and prison-walls, but yonder, nevertheless, there is a narrow gorge through which we make our exit.

The Träger, who for some time past had been loitering in the rear, and whom we feared might—in a paroxysm of hunger—be making a raid upon the provision-bag, now comes in sight. Our suspicions were incorrect however, for we soon find that that inestimable and much-injured individual, in a burst of benevolence and with a singleness of heart quite affecting to contemplate, has been collecting wood for us in some lower elevation, and now comes toiling breathless up the steep with a large faggot on his shoulders, filling our hearts with such remorse on account of our evil thoughts concerning him, that we inwardly determine to make it up to him by the bestowal of an extra florin on his leaving us at night.

A few handfuls of dry moss, which he had also brought up with him, make the wood crackle and send up a hundred merry sparks playing amongst the grey and sombre rocks, and a bright fire soon burns cheerily. Throwing ourselves down before it, we dine like lords, and, after resting for an hour, journey on again with joyful countenance.

The day is lovely. It is indeed a model day, a day of days. Not a cloud flecks the sky, which is of that intense, opaque, and sapphire tint known so well to all Alpine travellers, whilst the air is so clear, and so altogether intoxicating in its freshness, that we are scarcely sensible of fatigue as we climb yet higher, now over loose stones which give way beneath the feet, and now through wastes of dazzling snow, till we reach our goal,—a lofty ridge whence a superb view of almost the entire Tátra is obtained, and which extends as far as the Alps of Liptau.

Below, at our feet, is the highest of the Fünf Seen, lying at an elevation of more than 7000 feet. Of the peaks, the Krivan is lord over these bleak territories, though not by any means the highest, the Eisthaler and Lomnitzer Spitzen carrying off the palm in this respect. But it is not the actual elevation of mountains which impresses the beholder, it is rather their shape, position, and altitude relative to surrounding objects; and I do not think I ever remember having seen, even in Switzerland, so truly wild and majestic a panorama as that of the Tátra and Krapak which is presented to the traveller from this point. In Switzerland the mountains, if I may so express it, are more civilised. In the Tátra they are wild, barren, savage; there is less of gracious beauty, but more of ruggedness in their formation. It is—as I have elsewhere observed—as though Nature had worked herself into a state of frenzy, and created them without either forethought or arrangement.

The lowest of these mountains of the “Central Carpathians” is more than 1000 feet above the region of perpetual snow, whilst the highest is nearly 3800 feet above it; yet on neither, except in inconsiderable quantities, does snow rest much after the beginning of June,—a phenomenon all the more singular from the fact of their northern position, there being no less than 2½° difference between Switzerland and the Tátra region. The average temperature of Kesmark and Poronin shows a difference of 32·81°; whilst the difference in the elevation of these two places is 313 feet. If it be allowed that a decrease in temperature occurs in the upper region in the same proportion, it follows that the theoretical snow-line in the Tátra will be at an altitude of 6254 feet, according to which perpetual snow ought to lie everywhere under the lofty ridges; and yet, although there are ravines in which large masses of snow are found which do not melt even during the hottest summer, a peak covered with eternal snow is nowhere found. The chief reason of its not remaining on the higher peaks and ridges is doubtless their extreme declivity and the absence of ledges or flats on which to rest; the consequence being that the first thaw causes it to slide away and leave the peaks bare.

Not far from the ridge on which we have been standing is the pearl of all the Tátra lakes—the Fisch-See—and the rock pyramid of the Meerauge, but we feel we have had enough climbing for one day, and decide to rest on our laurels at this spot.

Although it was not far from here that the Jäger were to beat, not a voice or sound of shot has reached us, and the mountains and gorges are as still as if the earth had reached that period when all life had passed away, and they stood alone in empty desolation.

Looking down upon a field of snow, however, we presently see a small black dot—a mere fly it looks from this distance. F. raises his binoculars and has a look at it. It is a pedestrian, and carries a staff in its hand. How infinitely does this mere suggestion of human life seem to add to the loneliness of our surroundings! What poetry is there in that small black speck, and what a history Fancy weaves concerning it, as it threads its solitary way over the glittering snow! It is an aged pilgrim, perhaps, making his way to some holy well in the heart of these mountains, where so many streams find their rocky cradle, or perhaps one of those poor men who spend their time in these solitudes searching for gentian-roots.

“Let us go down and meet him, it is on our way home,” exclaimed F. in a gush of benevolence. “Ten to one he is hungry, poor beggar, and we can give him the remains of the provisions; both guide and Träger have had as much as they can eat for one day, I’m sure.”

Imagine our surprise when, descending towards the black speck which had so excited our sympathies as it toiled over the snow, we found it develop into no less a person than the Herr Graf himself, who had evidently been botanising all the time we pictured him to ourselves as circumventing the wily chamois. Not in the smallest degree disconcerted by our having lighted upon him thus suddenly in the mild and contemplative capacity of botanist, which he had exchanged for the excitement of the chase, of which we supposed him at that very moment to be the hero, he greeted us naïvely, saying:

“I left the Jäger up there in the heights. There is a poetical endurance in the manner in which those fellows hunt, which we lowlanders cannot understand. I did not see the fun of perching behind a snowy pinnacle and freezing all day for a possible chamois, so that, having waited in that interesting attitude a full hour, and no game having showed itself, I came away.”

He had not been idle, however, in his subsequent occupation, having collected more than twenty specimens of Alpine flowers, amongst which was one that we had diligently sought for on our way up, but sought in vain, the Gentiana frigida, which grows at the highest elevation of all the gentian tribe.

Preceding us to the plateau whence we looked down upon the Frozen Lake, he led us over a small meadow to a group of sombre granite boulders, looking almost black in contrast with the dazzling snow-fields everywhere around, and pointed to a narrow shelf of rock. There in very truth was the lovely little flower in all its pure and simple beauty, looking down upon us from its shrine of sanctity all amongst the spotless snow—a whole tuft of it reflecting the cerulean blue. Beauty such as this is an awful thing. In that lowly flower there was a grace and purity not of earth’s devising, and I left it where it was, for to handle it seemed little short of sacrilege.

Home at sunset to a dinner of Auerhahn soup, red deer served with cranberry sauce, and Kaiser-Vogel to follow, we feel like hardy mountaineers with a vengeance. The Russians have taken their departure, and some new guests have arrived, who have come hither from Schmecks to make the ascent of the Eisthaler-Spitze. They report a continuance of fog at the little bathing-place, and we congratulate ourselves on having escaped it on this side the Tátra.

Going to the doorway, we find the moon shining brightly. It scarcely seemed night, but merely a spiritual and ethereal extension of day. Tired though we were, the temptation was too strong to be resisted: we must have a stroll up the gorge, for the beautiful mountain stream which came scampering from its frigid birthplace all amongst the clouds seemed to beckon us towards it. It was the same little brook which rang such a merry peal as we rode past it in the morning, and which, falling over mossy stones, and running in and out amongst them, formed tiny bays and sandy shores, where the fairies might have bathed and then danced on its sands in the moonlight. It flows sadder now, though not less quickly, and its melody is more plaintive. Presently the moon, travelling on its pathway through the heavens, begins to cast a shadow from the highest tree-fringed summit of the gorge. Slowly it creeps downwards like a thing of life, slowly but surely. First the topmost branches of the trees are enclosed in darkness, then the rocks; and now it touches the little silvery torrent. It crosses it and begins the ascent of the opposite side. It is almost dreadful to stand and watch it, so like is it to the shadow that so passes over our own lives. On it comes relentless, never pausing, but creeping onwards, upwards; shutting out first this object, then that, till everything is encompassed in the gloom, and I almost shudder as the last light dies upon the topmost crag, and the spirit of the scene has fled, so like is it to death.