Twilight has drawn her curtain across the saffron sky, and the lights of day have died on the metal cupola of the church as we once more reach Altendorf.

Alighting on its outskirts, we send our carriage on with the luggage to the inn, and walk through the village; in doing which we are greeted with many a nod and smile of welcome from the “gentle Slovak,” as we are recognised in passing. Within a hundred yards of our destination we behold our old friend Gretchen the hostess—whose acquaintance we had made on our former visit—hot in the pursuit of a flock of geese, which she is vainly endeavouring to drive home, and which evince such decided and unmistakable reluctance to return to the family mansion, that had we not arrived upon the scene at that critical juncture to render timely aid, it is doubtful whether it would have been accomplished before nightfall. Just as we were bringing our interesting occupation to a triumphal close by chasing the last unruly emblem of ourselves into its unwished-for shelter behind the inn, a Dunajecz raft-man presented himself to our notice, offering for sale a large fish, which he called Lachsen.

“Lachs” being the German word for salmon, we had some curiosity to taste what this fish was like; but inasmuch as its possessor demanded a florin a pound for it, and refused to part with any unless we took the whole, and moreover, although hungry, we did not quite think we could eat fourteen pounds of fish at one sitting, we declined further negotiations, and F., in the most polished German—which the Slovak, I fear, failed fully to appreciate—commended it to his own digestion, and expressed the hope that he might find it agree with him!

The little “Wirtschaft,” or inn, kept by a worthy couple, was entered by the customary stone kitchen. Beyond it, however, was a small inner room in which a bright fire was burning, and from which the welcome fumes of coffee-roasting reached us; a cup of that invigorating beverage being the very thing we wanted, but a luxury we hardly expected to meet with in a Slovak village. In twenty minutes’ time however we are once more regaling ourselves with café à la crême such as cannot be conceived out of Hungary or the Sublime Porte, and we ascertain from the housewife, who speaks German, that the great secret in its manufacture lies, not only in grinding the berry just before it is required, but in roasting it also—exactly so much and no more than is needed for the moment, grinding it before it has had time to cool, then boiling and serving it immediately, with hot cream as an accompaniment.

Whilst sipping leisurely this delicious nectar, which is far too good to partake of hurriedly, we are reminded of a popular American author’s recipe for German coffee; and if to German, how much more applicable to English:—

“Take a barrel of water and bring it to a boil; rub a bit of chicory against a coffee-berry, and convey the former into the water. Continue the boiling and evaporation, till the intensity of the flavour and aroma of the coffee and chicory has been diminished to a proper degree; then set aside to cool. Now unharness the remains of a once cow from the plough, insert them in a hydraulic press, and when you shall have acquired a teaspoonful of that pale blue juice which a German superstition regards as milk, modify the malignity of its strength with tepid water, and ring up the breakfast. Mix the beverage in a cold cup, partake with moderation, and keep a wet rag round your head to guard against over-excitement.”

Although destitute of every luxury attendant on civilisation, this funny little place is at any rate far better than the generality of inns in Hungarian towns, and especially that of Neumarkt. The beds are clean, and Jews with their corkscrew curls and frowsy Israelitish odour are happily absent. It is true that a pet fowl which had made a snug roosting-place in a corner of the stove insists on descending and having a share of our dinner, and that a calf keeps up a gentle lowing in the adjoining apartment. But these rustic accompaniments are rather interesting than otherwise, and for the rest we are thankful with small mercies, and can make ourselves quite contented with such things as we have. In the outer room, Slovaks, home from their labour in the fields, sit and drink their Schnäpschen (small glasses of spirits). The room is full of these wild-looking creatures, formidable even to us who know them so well, in their slouching hats, long hair, and broad brass-bound girdles, as night wears on and one cannot distinguish clearly the mild expression of their faces. They are, however, perfectly orderly and quiet, and we are disturbed by no noise or ribaldry such as would be usually heard in most country inns under similar circumstances.

At eight o’clock we stroll out into the village. It is bright moonlight, and the distant rhythmic beat of anvils in the direction of the gipsy camp invites us towards them, and assures us its occupants are still awake. We had not forgotten these wretched beings since last we saw them a year ago, and were just descending the little pathway leading to their wretched hovels when we were met by two gipsy women, who, instantly recognising us, cried—

“Inglesca! Inglesca!”

Beckoning both to follow, we returned to the inn, and bestowed upon them and theirs such things as cost us no sacrifice to part with, but which, if we might judge from their expressive voices as they thanked us in their unknown tongue, must have carried joy into their camp that night. And what sacrifice would not have been amply rewarded by the gratification of making for once in their lives these poor outcasts happy? Hastening back with their bundles, they left us, uttering their thanks in that sweet modulation of the voice that always seemed to me more like singing than the mere utterance of words.

I have elsewhere spoken of the melancholy inflexion of the Magyar voice; the same may be observed in that of the Slovaks, and indeed to a greater or less degree in that of all the inhabitants of Hungary. It exists, however, to an incomparably greater extent in that of the Hungarian gipsies, particularly amongst their women, whose voices, once heard, linger on the ear, and can never be forgotten. They are sad, sweet, and low; qualities which, blended together, form a minor cadence often as melodious as the tones of an Æolian harp. I have sometimes tried to believe that these children of nature must have learnt to speak thus from the wailing of the wind, the sighing of trees, or the sad complaining of streams as they flow through tall grasses and murmur plaintively and mysteriously in the forest shade, but I fear that the sad inflexions of their utterance are due to the long centuries of oppression and misery to which their whole race has been subjected.

Sitting on the “word-bearer” beneath the gable in the calm, soft moonlight, we gossip with our hostess Gretchen.

“Do English people ever stay here on their way to the Northern Tátra?” we inquire.

“Yes, we have before some years seen three English gentlemen,” she replied in her Teuton idiom, “and two ladies have been here also, but to what nation they belonged I cannot say; only as they were pleasant and good and schön, I think they must have been English!”

As we sit here we watch the people of the village quietly entering or leaving the house, often taking their Schnäpschen without speaking, and going on their way again.

Presently a flock of sheep come trooping by on their way to the distant plains; large, long-legged, bony creatures with spiral horns, and the longest, shaggiest wool I ever saw. They are accompanied by two shepherds, whom they follow, reminding us of the East; sheep in Hungary never being driven. They follow the shepherd as in ancient Scripture times.

A great deal of Slovak cheese is made in this district, and the poorer classes subsist almost entirely upon it and, of course, black bread. However poor a family may be, they invariably have a few sheep which they keep for the purpose. The cheese is sometimes made by themselves, but far more frequently the little flock is made over, for certain months in the year, to a herdsman who has a sheep-dairy, and who contracts to supply fourteen pounds of cheese from the milk of each animal, reserving whatever else he may make above that quantity as his own profit. Sometimes these dairymen have as many as 500 sheep committed to their charge; indeed, the combined flocks of a whole village.

The Slovak peasants are generally spoken of as being exceedingly poor; but this was by no means the impression we formed concerning them when travelling through their country on either occasion. That they have but little money I can readily believe, but of the kind of poverty too often seen in agricultural districts in England, where a labourer has to support his family on twelve or fifteen shillings a week, we saw none. Here every one works for himself, except in rare instances, the Slovak as a rule having inherited a joch or two of land from his forefathers, on which he grows rye for his black bread and potatoes. In addition to this, he owns a cow or two, together with a few sheep and pigs. The long wool of the sheep the women spin, and then have woven into material for their outer garments. Possessing almost every requisite for their simple lives, what need have they for money?

The “gentle Slovak,” however, is greatly despised by his proud and haughty Magyar neighbour, who at one time designated him by the opprobrious title of “tót,” a word signifying “not a man at all.” “Tót nem ember” being a favourite motto of the ancient Magyars when alluding to the Slávs. The servant of no man, not only the haughty Magyar peasant, but the Slovak likewise, possesses a self-respect and quiet dignity of manner which are very pleasant to see, and I could not help wishing our own poor had but the same advantages joined to the same inherent thrift and industry.

There is, however, one virtue in which the Slovaks eminently fail; namely, cleanliness. Their wooden houses, surrounded on three sides by sheds containing their little live stock, are full of dirt and discomfort. The room in which they live, adorned with crucifixes, grotesque coloured prints and images bought at the neighbouring fairs, is ill-ventilated and ill-furnished, and seldom lighted by more than one small window, whilst the one room is used for all purposes.

Unlike their Magyar sisters, the Slovak women are exceedingly plain. But a Slovak baby is, on the contrary, the wee-est and prettiest little creature possible. At three years old, they are such tiny atoms of creation that, clinging to their mothers’ skirts, they look mere dolls, and with their small round faces, large eyes, long eyelashes, and pensive expression are so irresistibly pretty, that I have often been seized with the desire to kiss them, until, having sought diligently for a clean patch on their faces for the purpose, I have had to relinquish that impulse in despair.

The following day being Sunday, our intention had been to start at 6 A.M. for Kesmark, in order to attend the early service at the old Lutheran church. The carriage which brought us hither from Zakopane, however, to our great annoyance and surprise, had silently departed some time during the small hours of the night! It is true we only hired it in the first instance to bring us on to Altendorf, but, having ascertained on arrival here that there existed not the ghost of a conveyance, we arranged with our Zakopane driver, by the help of the fair Gretchen, who acted as interpreter, that he should take us as far as Kesmark, we on our part agreeing not only to pay extra for the use of the carriage, but promising him a handsome “na vordken” (gratuity) besides.

Here was a dilemma! Left stranded high and dry in a Slovak inn, its charms grew wonderfully less as soon as the prospect of spending an indefinite period within its shelter was presented to our minds, or at any rate until some friendly vehicle passing—goodness knows when, a year hence, probably—might come to tow us off again. It was as much as even patient travellers like ourselves could endure with anything like philosophy. The miscreant had also sneaked off without even paying for the baiting of the horses. What could be his motive for playing us false? Unfortunately F., in the plenitude of his goodness and out of a full heart, had paid him at once on arrival, and bestowed upon him his “na vordken” besides, and he was gone, the fiend! gone for ever.

“Had any one heard him depart?” inquired the landlord of a group of neighbourly Slovaks, who had already scented something unusual in the near horizon.

“No!” was the reply from a chorus of voices, accompanied by a murmur to the effect that whatever time he managed to make his escape, and wherever he might happen to be at present, he would in all probability spend his future in a warmer climate than that to which he had been accustomed in the Northern Tátra for so deceiving “die erwürdigen Engländer” (the gracious English people).

Our case received the sympathy of the entire Slovak population. Women left their cows and came to the fore. The gentle Slovak for once grew quite ferocious under the insult that had been offered to the “strangers.” Finally, the “fat boy” arrived upon the scene, panting under the weight of the big baby.

Now during our travels through this country I trust I have proved beyond all question that we do not regard our dignity as a thing of such light and airy weight that it can be taken off its balance by anything on wheels, but there are limits to indifference to appearances, as well as to bodily endurance; and, anxious as we were to quit Altendorf and proceed on our journey, we did not feel quite prepared to avail ourselves of a vehicle—although deeply grateful for the offer—which an amiable Slovak neighbour, who had gone back to his own premises to fetch it, now brought in triumph to our rescue. Neither did we feel disposed to invest in a pair of broken-kneed, half-starved ponies which another amiable Slovak offered to part with to draw the said vehicle, at the alarming sacrifice of sixty gulden each—about £5, the average price of such animals in this district.

We had just decided to resign ourselves to our fate, until a carriage could be fetched from Kesmark, when a youthful Slovak Hodge, pointing in the direction of the road by which we had come from Zakopane, and opening his eyes very wide, gave vent to the laconic word in the platt, or colloquial Slovatian of the district, “Posri!” (Behold!)

There in truth in the distance, surrounded by such a cloud of dust that not only the wheels of the carriage but the horses’ legs were quite hidden, came the object of our indignation and regret—the faithless driver, seated high upon the box above the white cloud, looking like some dark phantom poised in mid-air. He was repentant, then. Conscience, that faithful monitor, had pricked him on his homeward way, and he is returning to us with all speed, humbled and subdued. We would be magnanimous, and exercise forgiveness, that noblest of all virtues.

A volley of Slovatian expletives more or less complimentary greeted his approach, but to our chagrin he seemed neither repentant nor subdued; on the contrary, giving a flourish to his whip and pulling the horses up short, he pointed triumphantly to their shoes, and said in Slovatian:

“Hotovo!” (Done!)

Then, and not till then, did it occur to us that he had spoken the previous evening about the necessity of the animals being shod in the event of our taking them on to Kesmark over more miles of mountain road. To this end he had arisen when we and the Slovak world were still in dreamland, and, having driven them to our friends the gipsies at the outskirts of the village, had had it done.

At nine o’clock however, the driver having been made radiant by a good breakfast, we get once more under weigh. The morning is fine, but dark clouds hang ominously overhead, and occasionally obscure the sun. In the quiet little Slovak villages through which we pass, people dressed in their Sunday best are coming from church. But the gipsies, who meet us at the entrance to each, and to whom the day brings no rest from labour—the foretaste of that more perfect rest, when, these sad lives of ours, being over, that home is reached “where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest”—are at work as on all other days, lustily striking their small anvils. Gipsy urchins, too, run after us, turn somersaults, and indulge in various other gymnastic exercises, in the hope—vain, alas!—of engaging our attention. But at last, having to climb a steep hill, we pass through another village, where a little bevy of gipsy children keep pace with us; and two of them are carrying such infinitesimal specimens of babies, so small and so old-looking, and with such large brown, melancholy eyes, that they touch our hearts, and cost us unlimited kreutzers. Following them was a pretty little gipsy boy with immense black eyes, his skin almost as dark as that of a Hindoo, and whose only garment was a blue-and-white checquered handkerchief, tied by the corners round his neck, whence, hanging down square over his little back, and extending to his heels, it formed a sort of Spartan mantle.

Stopping the carriage, we alight and put a kreutzer into each of his tiny hands, lest the older ones might rob him of his share of those we had already thrown to the whole party. But he stood silent and pensive. For him the possession of money seemed to bring no joy as to other children; he was one who looked as though he had been born with a weight of care upon his small shoulders, and was an atom of humanity that touched us to the quick. With a dull and heavy feeling at the heart, we left him standing in the road, and, re-entering the carriage, once more wandered on our way.

Continuing the ascent, we see, not far below the summit of the green alp we have to cross, a long procession of white-robed figures, for such they appear to us from a distance, but as they come slowly zigzagging down the steep we find it is a funeral. On an open bier, drawn by two white oxen, is laid the coffin. Where not covered with chaplets of flowers, we see it is painted white with gilt panels, and yet it is evidently the funeral of some peasant. Following the bier are some fifty women dressed in the pretty costume of the district, a short woollen skirt of broad red-and-blue stripes, worn over a blue petticoat, the head and shoulders covered with a long white muslin scarf. It is a picturesque scene as they come pattering along the road with naked feet, and we do not lose sight of them till we reach the summit of the pass, and enter a forest of pines.

We had scarcely proceeded another mile when the rain, which had been threatening all the morning, began to pour; and as we commenced the descent of the mountain on the other side, it increased with such violence that umbrellas were of small avail. In half an hour’s time we were reduced to the condition of sponges, and were so miserably water-logged that, approaching a woodman’s hut which stood a little above the road, we sent the driver up to see whether we could take refuge in it, and he soon returned with the gratifying intelligence that although empty it contained a large fire. The grass under the pines was long and thick, but it was impossible to be wetter than we were already, so we determined upon taking shelter in the hut until the storm should be over. It could not have been long vacated, for the fire, which had evidently been just replenished, was burning brightly on the raised hearth. A pile of wood also stood in a corner, and we heaped it on without ceremony until we had a splendid blaze, which soon dried our soaking, sodden garments. Until we reach Poprád we have no change of raiment whatever—the possibility of such a storm as this not having entered into our calculations when we gave our other garments to the gipsies—and I am afraid it just crosses our minds that “virtue” has hardly been “rewarded” in this instance quite as it might have been.

Whilst we ourselves are revelling in the warmth of the hut, our horses—which have been unharnessed—are grazing in the forest hard by, and the driver is crouching by another fire which he has made for himself under an adjoining shed. And we wonder what the owner of the hut would think were he suddenly to return and find his dwelling thus taken possession of.

The storm was of short duration, and in an hour’s time, leaving on a bench a small gratuity for the worthy woodman by way of remuneration for our having, during his absence, invaded his little domain, we go on our way rejoicing, and soon find that the storm had been so partial that there had been no rain whatever a mile farther on.

Nearing Béla, we meet carts and waggons drawn by two, three, or even four oxen, filled with peasants on their way from church to their homes many a mile distant in the heart of the beautiful mountains, which again tower above us, and cut their rugged way into the deep clear blue. In many of these waggons, as the oxen crawl leisurely along, one of the peasants may be seen reading the Bible, for we are once more amongst the Zipser Protestants, whilst the others sit, with heads uncovered and eyes bent low, listening to the “word of life.”

Having passed through the quaint old town of Béla, we cross another green alp, and from the summit of it gain a wondrous panorama of the plains of Zips and the southern slopes of the Tátra rising out of them, and then, descending further, we see Kesmark lying beneath us like a toy-town, its white houses glistening in the sun.