The last wing was the most remarkable. Here we saw the helm and breastplate of Attila, king of the Huns, which once glanced at the head of his myriads of wild hordes before the walls of Rome; the armor of Count Stahremberg, who commanded Vienna during the Turkish siege in 1529, and the holy banner of Mohammed, taken at that time from the grand vizier, together with the steel harness of John Sobieski of Poland, who rescued Vienna from the Turkish troops under Kara Mustapha; the hat, sword and breastplate of Godfrey of Bouillon, the crusader-king of Jerusalem, with the banners of the cross the crusaders had borne to Palestine and the standard they captured from the Turks on the walls of the Holy City. I felt all my boyish enthusiasm for the romantic age of the crusaders revive as I looked on the torn and moldering banners which once waved on the hills of Judea, or perhaps followed the sword of the Lion-Heart through the fight on the field of Ascalon. What tales could they not tell, those old standards cut and shivered by spear and lance! What brave hands have carried them through the storm of battle, what dying eyes have looked upward to the cross on the folds as the last prayer was breathed for the rescue of the holy sepulcher.

[Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]

[Footnote B: The population of Vienna, according to the census of 1910, was 2,085,888.]



ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL[A]

BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN

Of the chief objects of architecture which decorate street scenery in Vienna, there are none, to my old-fashioned eyes, more attractive and thoroughly beautiful and interesting—from a thousand associations of ideas than places of worship, and of course, among these, none stands so eminently conspicuous as the mother-church, or the cathedral, which in this place, is dedicated to St. Stephen. The spire has been long distinguished for its elegance and height. Probably these are the most appropriate, if not the only, epithets of commendation which can be applied to it. After Strasburg and Ulm, it appears a second-rate edifice. Not but what the spire may even vie with that of the former, and the nave may be yet larger than that of the latter; but, as a whole, it is much inferior to either—even allowing for the palpable falling off in the nave of Strasburg cathedral.

The spire, or tower—for it partakes of both characters—is indeed worthy of general admiration. It is oddly situated, being almost detached—and on the south side of the building. Indeed the whole structure has a very strange, and I may add capricious, if not repulsive, appearance, as to its exterior. The western and eastern ends have nothing deserving of distinct notice or commendation. The former has a porch; which is called "the Giant's porch;" it should rather be designated as that of the Dwarf. It has no pretensions to size or striking character of any description. Some of the oldest parts of the cathedral appear to belong to the porch of the eastern end. As you walk round the church, you can not fail to be struck with the great variety of ancient—and to an Englishman, whimsical looking mural monuments, in basso and alto relievos. Some of these are doubtless both interesting and curious.

But the spire is indeed an object deserving of particular admiration. It is next to that of Strasburg in height; being 432 feet of Vienna measurement. It may be said to begin to taper from the first stage or floor; and is distinguished for its open and sometimes intricate fretwork. About two-thirds of its height, just above the clock, and where the more slender part of the spire commences, there is a gallery or platform, to which the French quickly ascended, on their possession of Vienna, to reconnoiter the surrounding country. The very summit of the spire is bent, or inclined to the north; so much so, as to give the notion that the cap or crown will fall in a short time.

As to the period of the erection of this spire, it is supposed to have been about the middle, or latter end, of the fifteenth century. It has certainly much in common with the highly ornamental Gothic style of building in our own country, about the reign of Henry VI. The colored glazed tiles of the roof of the church are very disagreeable and unharmonizing. These colors are chiefly green, red, and blue. Indeed the whole roof is exceedingly heavy and tasteless.

I will now conduct you to the interior. On entering, from the southeast door, you observe, to the left, a small piece of white marble—which every one touches, with the finger or thumb charged with holy water, on entering or leaving the cathedral. Such have been the countless thousands of times that this piece of marble has been so touched, that, purely, from such friction, it has been worn nearly half an inch below the general surrounding surface. I have great doubts, however, if this mysterious piece of masonry be as old as the walls of the church (which may be of the fourteenth century), which they pretend to say it is.

The first view of the interior of this cathedral, seen even at the most favorable moment—which is from about three till five o'clock—is far from prepossessing. Indeed, after what I had seen at Rouen, Paris, Strassburg, Ulm, and Munich, it was a palpable disappointment. In the first place, there seems to be no grand leading feature of simplicity; add to which, darkness reigns everywhere. You look up, and discern no roof—not so much from its extreme height, as from the absolute want of windows. Everything not only looks dreary, but is dingy and black—from the mere dirt and dust which seem to have covered the great pillars of the nave—and especially the figures and ornaments upon it—for the last four centuries. This is the more to be regretted, as the larger pillars are highly ornamented; having human figures, of the size of life, beneath sharply pointed canopies, running up the shafts. The extreme length of the cathedral is 342 feet of Vienna measurement. The extreme width, between the tower and its opposite extremity—or the transepts—is 222 feet.

There are comparatively few chapels; only four—but many Bethstuehle or Prie-Dieus. Of the former, the chapels of Savoy and St. Eloy are the chief; but the large sacristy is more extensive than either. On my first entrance, while attentively examining the choir, I noticed—what was really a very provoking, but probably not a very uncommon sight—a maid servant deliberately using a long broom in sweeping the pavement of the high altar, at the moment when several very respectable people, of both sexes, were kneeling upon the steps, occupied in prayer. But the devotion of the people is incessant—all the day long—and in all parts of the cathedral.

Meanwhile, service is going on in all parts of the cathedral. They are singing here; they are praying there; and they are preaching in a third place. But during the whole time, I never heard one single note of the organ. I remember only the other Sunday morning—walking out beneath one of the brightest blue skies that ever shone upon man—and entering the cathedral about nine o'clock. A preacher was in the principal pulpit; while a tolerably numerous congregation was gathered around him. He preached, of course, in the German language, and used much action. As he became more and more animated, he necessarily became warmer, and pulled off a black cap—which, till then, he had kept upon his head; the zeal and piety of the congregation at the same time seeming to increase with the accelerated motions of the preacher.

In other more retired parts, solitary devotees were seen—silent, and absorbed in prayer. Among these, I shall not easily forget the head and the physiognomical expression of one old man—who, having been supported by crutches, which lay by the side of him—appeared to have come for the last time to offer his orisons to heaven. The light shone full upon his bald head and elevated countenance; which latter indicated a genuineness of piety, and benevolence of disposition, not to be soured, even by the most bitter of worldly disappointments! It seemed as if the old man were taking leave of this life, in full confidence of the rewards which await the righteous beyond the grave.

So much for the living. A word or two now for the dead. Of course this letter alludes to the monuments of the more distinguished characters once resident in and near the metropolis. Among these, doubtless the most elaborate is that of the Emperor Frederick III.—in the florid Gothic style, surmounted by a tablet, filled with coat-armor, or heraldic shields. Some of the mural monuments are very curious, and among them are several of the early part of the sixteenth century—which represent the chins and even mouths of females, entirely covered by drapery; such as is even now to be seen and such as we saw on descending from the Vosges. But among these monuments—both for absolute and relative antiquity—none will appear to the curious eye of an antiquary so precious as that of the head of the architect of the cathedral, whose name was Pilgram.

[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.]



THE BELVEDERE PALACE[A]

BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN

To the Belvedere Palace, therefore, let us go. I visited it with Mr. Lewis—taking our valet with us, immediately after breakfast—on one of the finest and clearest-skied September mornings that ever shone above the head of man. We had resolved to take the Ambras, or the little Belvedere, in our way; and to have a good, long, and uninterrupted view of the wonders of art—in a variety of departments.

Both the little Belvedere and the large Belvedere rise gradually above the suburbs; and the latter may be about a mile and a half from the ramparts of the city. The Ambras contains a quantity of ancient horse- and foot-armor, brought thither from a chateau of that name, near Inssbruck, built by the Emperor Charles V. Such a collection of old armor—which had once equally graced and protected the bodies of their wearers, among whom the noblest names of which Germany can boast may be enrolled—was infinitely gratifying to me. The sides of the first room were quite embossed with suspended shields, cuirasses, and breast-plates. The floor was almost filled by champions on horseback—yet poising the spear, or holding it in the rest—yet almost shaking their angry plumes, and pricking the fiery sides of their coursers.

Here rode Maximilian—and there halted Charles his son. Different suits of armor, belonging to the same character, are studiously shown you by the guide; some of these are the foot-, and some the horse-, armor; some were worn in fight—yet giving evidence of the mark of the bullet and battle-ax; others were the holiday suits of armor, with which the knights marched in procession, or tilted at the tournament. The workmanship of the full-dress suits, in which a great deal of highly wrought gold ornament appears, is sometimes really exquisite.

The second, or long room, is more particularly appropriated to the foot- or infantry-armor. In this studied display of much that is interesting from antiquity, and splendid from absolute beauty and costliness, I was particularly gratified by the sight of the armor which the Emperor Maximilian wore as a foot-captain. The lower part, to defend the thighs, consists of a puckered or plated steel petticoat, sticking out at the bottom of the folds, considerably beyond the upper part. It is very simple, and of polished steel. A fine suit of armor—of black and gold—worn by an Archbishop of Salzburg in the middle of the fifteenth century, had particular claims upon my admiration. It was at once chaste and effective. The mace was by the side of it.

This room is also ornamented by trophies taken from the Turks; such as bows, spears, battle-axes, and scimitars. In short, the whole is full of interest and splendor. I ought to have seen the arsenal—which I learn is of uncommon magnificence; and, altho not so curious on the score of antiquity, is yet not destitute of relics of the warriors of Germany. Among these, those which belong to my old bibliomaniacal friend Corvinus, King of Hungary, cut a conspicuous and very respectable figure. I fear it will be now impracticable to see the arsenal as it ought to be seen.

It is now approaching mid-day, and we are walking toward the terrace in front of the Great Belvidere Palace, built by the immortal Eugene[B] in the year 1724, as a summer residence. Probably no spot could have been selected with better judgment for the residence of a Prince—who wished to enjoy, almost at the same moment, the charms of the country with the magnificence of a city view, unclouded by the dense fumes which forever envelop our metropolis. It is in truth a glorious situation. Walking along its wide and well-cultivated terraces, you obtain the finest view imaginable of the city of Vienna.

Indeed it may be called a picturesque view. The spire of the cathedral darts directly upward, as it were, to the very heavens. The ground before you, and in the distance, is gently undulating; and the intermediate portion of the suburbs does not present any very offensive protrusions. More in the distance, the windings of the Danube are seen; with its various little islands, studded with hamlets and fishing-huts, lighted up by a sun of unusual radiance. Indeed the sky, above the whole of this rich and civilized scene, was at the time of our viewing it, almost of a dazzling hue; so deep and vivid a tint we had never before beheld. Behind the palace, in the distance, you observe a chain of mountains which extends into Hungary. As to the building itself, it is perfectly palatial in its size, form, ornaments, and general effect.

Among the treasures, which it contains, it is now high time to enter and to look about us. My account is necessarily a mere sketch. Rubens, if any artist, seems here to "rule and reign without control!" Two large rooms are filled with his productions; besides several other pictures, by the same hand, which are placed in different apartments. Here it is that you see verified the truth of Sir Joshua's remark upon that wonderful artist: namely, that his genius seems to expand with the size of his canvas.

His pencil absolutely riots here—in the most luxuriant manner—whether in the majesty of an altarpiece, in the gaiety of a festive scene, or in the sobriety of portrait-painting. His Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis Xavier—of the former class—each seventeen feet high, by nearly thirteen wide—are stupendous productions in more senses than one. The latter is, indeed, in my humble judgment, the most marvelous specimen of the powers of the painter which I have ever seen; and you must remember that both England and France are not without some of his celebrated productions, which I have frequently examined.

In the old German School, the series is almost countless; and of the greatest possible degree of interest and curiosity. Here are to be seen Wohlgemuths, Albert Duerers, both the Holbeins, Lucas Cranachs, Ambergaus, and Burgmairs of all sizes and degrees of merit. Among these ancient specimens—which are placed in curious order, in the very upper suite of apartments, and of which the backgrounds of several, in one solid coat of gilt, lighten up the room like a golden sunset—you must not fail to pay particular attention to a singularly curious old subject—representing the Life, Miracles, and Passion of our Savior, in a series of one hundred and fifty-eight pictures—of which the largest is nearly three feet square, and every other about fifteen inches by ten. These subjects are painted upon eighty-six small pieces of wood; of which seventy-two are contained in six folding cabinets, each holding twelve subjects. In regard to Teniers, Gerard Dow, Mieris, Wouvermann, and Cuyp, you must look at home for more exquisite specimens. This collection contains, in the whole, not fewer than fifteen hundred paintings, of which the greater portion consists of pictures of very large dimensions. I could have lived here for a month; but could only move along with the hurried step, and yet more hurrying eye, of an ordinary visitor.

[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour," published in 1821.]

[Footnote B: The celebrated Austrian general, who defeated the Turks in 1697, and shared with Marlborough in the victories of Blenheim and Malplaquet.]



SCHOENBRUNN AND THE PRATER[A]

BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN

About three English miles from the Great Belvedere—or rather about the same number of miles from Vienna, to the right, as you approach the capital—is the famous palace of Schoenbrunn. This is a sort of summer-residence of the Emperor; and it is here that his daughter, the ex-Empress of France, and the young Bonaparte usually reside.[B] The latter never goes into Italy, when his mother, as Duchess of Parma, pays her annual visit to her principality. At this moment her son is at Baden, with the court. It was in the Schoenbrunn palace that his father, on the conquest of Vienna, used to take up his abode, rarely venturing into the city. He was surely safe enough here; as every chamber and every court yard was filled by the elite of his guard—whether as officers or soldiers.

It is a most magnificent pile of building; a truly imperial residence—but neither the furniture nor the objects of art, whether connected with sculpture or painting, are deserving of anything in the shape of a catalogue raisonne. I saw the chamber where young Bonaparte frequently passes the day; and brandishes his flag staff, and beats upon his drum. He is a soldier (as they tell me) every inch of him; and rides out, through the streets of Vienna, in a carriage of state drawn by four or six horses, receiving the homage of the passing multitude.

To return to the Schoenbrunn Palace. I have already told you that it is vast, and capable of accommodating the largest retinue of courtiers. It is of the gardens belonging to it, that I would now only wish to say a word. These gardens are really worthy of the residence to which they are attached. For what is called ornamental, formal, gardening—enriched by shrubs of rarity, and trees of magnificence—enlivened by fountains—adorned by sculpture—and diversified by vistas, lawns, and walks—interspersed with grottoes and artificial ruins—you can conceive nothing upon a grander scale than these: while a menagerie in one place (where I saw a large but miserably wasted elephant)—a flower-garden in another—a labyrinth in a third, and a solitude in a fourth place—each, in its turn, equally beguiles the hour and the walk. They are the most spacious gardens I ever witnessed.

It was the other Sunday evening when I visited the Prater, and when—as the weather happened to be very fine—it was considered to be full, but the absence of the court, of the noblesse, necessarily gave a less joyous and splendid aspect to the carriages and their attendant liveries. In your way to this famous place of Sabbath evening promenade, you pass a celebrated coffee-house, in the suburbs, called the Leopoldstadt, which goes by the name of the Greek coffee-house—on account of its being almost entirely frequented by Greeks—so numerous at Vienna. Do not pass it, if you should ever come hither, without entering it—at least once. You would fancy yourself to be in Greece, so thoroughly characteristic are the countenances, dresses, and language of everyone within.

But yonder commences the procession of horse and foot; of cabriolets, family coaches, German wagons, cars, phaetons and landaulets, all moving in a measured manner, within their prescribed ranks, toward the Prater. We must accompany them without loss of time. You now reach the Prater. It is an extensive flat, surrounded by branches of the Danube, and planted on each side with double rows of horse-chestnut trees. The drive, in one straight line, is probably a league in length. It is divided by two roads, in one of which the company move onward, and in the other they return. Consequently, if you happen to find a hillock only a few feet high, you may, from thence, obtain a pretty good view of the interminable procession of the carriages before mentioned: one current of them, as it were, moving forward, and another rolling backward.

But, hark! the notes of a harp are heard to the left, in a meadow, where the foot passengers often digress from the more formal tree-lined promenade. A press of ladies and gentlemen is quickly seen. You mingle involuntarily with them; and, looking forward, you observe a small stage erected, upon which a harper sits and two singers stand. The company now lie down upon the grass, or break into standing groups, or sit upon chairs hired for the occasion—to listen to the notes so boldly and so feelingly executed. The clapping of hands, and exclamations of bravo succeed, and the sounds of applause, however warmly bestowed, quickly die away in the open air. The performers bow, receive a few kreutzers, retire, and are well satisfied.

The sound of the trumpet is now heard behind you. Tilting feats are about to be performed; the coursers snort and are put in motion; their hides are bathed in sweat beneath their ponderous housings; and the blood, which flows freely from the pricks of their riders' spurs, shows you with what earnestness the whole affair is conducted. There, the ring is thrice carried off at the point of the lance. Feats of horsemanship follow in a covered building, to the right; and the juggler, conjurer, or magician, displays his dexterous feats, or exercises his potent spells, in a little amphitheater of trees, at a distance beyond.

Here and there rise more stately edifices, as theaters, from the doors of which a throng of heated spectators is pouring out. In other directions, booths, stalls and tables are fixt; where the hungry eat, the thirsty drink, and the merry-hearted indulge in potent libations. The waiters are in a constant state of locomotion. Rhenish wine sparkles here; confectionery glitters there; and fruit looks bright and tempting in a third place. No guest turns round to eye the company; because he is intent upon the luxuries which invite his immediate attention, or he is in close conversation with an intimate friend, or a beloved female. They talk and laugh—and the present seems to be the happiest moment of their lives.

All is gaiety and good humor. You return again to the foot-promenade, and look sharply about you, as you move onward, to catch the spark of beauty, or admire the costume of taste, or confess the power of expression. It is an Albanian female who walks yonder, wondering, and asking questions, at every thing she sees. The proud Jewess, supported by her husband and father, moves in another direction. She is covered with brocade and flaunting ribbons; but she is abstracted from everything around her, because her eyes are cast downward upon her stomacher, or sideways to obtain a glimpse of what may be called her spangled epaulettes. Her eye is large and dark; her nose is aquiline; her complexion is of an olive brown; her stature is majestic, her dress is gorgeous, her gait is measured—and her demeanor is grave and composed. "She must be very rich," you say—as she passes on. "She is prodigiously rich," replies the friend, to whom you put the question—for seven virgins, with nosegays of choicest flowers, held up her bridal train; and the like number of youths, with silver-hilted swords, and robes of ermine and satin, graced the same bridal ceremony. Her father thinks he can never do enough for her; and her husband, that he can never love her sufficiently.

Whether she be happy or not, in consequence, we have no time to stop to inquire, for see yonder! Three "turbaned Turks" make their advances. How gaily, how magnificently they are attired! What finely proportioned limbs—what beautifully formed features! They have been carousing, peradventure, with some young Greeks—who have just saluted them, en passant—at the famous coffee-house before mentioned. Everything around you is novel and striking; while the verdure of the trees and lawns is yet fresh, and the sun does not seem yet disposed to sink below the horizon. The carriages still move on, and return, in measured procession. Those who are within, look earnestly from the windows, to catch a glance of their passing friends. The fair hand is waved here; the curiously-painted fan is shaken there; and the repeated nod is seen in almost every other passing landaulet. Not a heart seems sad; not a brow appears to be clouded with care.

Such—or something like the foregoing—is the scene which usually passes on a Sunday evening—perhaps six months out of the twelve—upon the famous Prater at Vienna; while the tolling bell of St. Stephen's tower, about nine o'clock—and the groups of visitors hurrying back, to get home before the gates of the city are shut against them—usually conclude the scene just described.

[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour." published in 1821.]

[Footnote B: Marie Louise, second wife of Napoleon, and their son, the King of Rome.]



VI

HUNGARY



A GLANCE AT THE COUNTRY[A]

BY H. TORNAI DE KOEVER

Hungary consists of Hungary proper, with Transylvania (which had independent rule at one time), Croatia and Slavonia (which have been added), and the town of Fiume on the shores of the Adriatic Sea.

The lowlands are exceedingly beautiful in the northeast and west, where the great mountain, peaks rise into the clear blue sky or are hidden by big white clouds, but no beauty can be compared to the young green waving corn or the ripe ears when swaying gently in the breeze. One sees miles and miles of corn, with only a tree here and there to mark the distances, and one can not help comparing the landscape to a green sea, for the wind makes long silky waves, which make the field appear to rise and fall like the ocean. In the heat of midday the mirage, or, as the Hungarians call it, "Delibab," appears and shows wonderful rivers, villages, cool green woods—all floating in the air. Sometimes one sees hundreds of white oxen and church towers, and, to make the picture still more confusing and wonderful, it is all seen upside down. This, the richest part of the country, is situated between the rivers Danube and Theiss, and runs right down to the borders of Servia. Two thirds of Hungary consist of mountainous districts, but one third has the richest soil in Europe.

Great rivers run through the heart of the country, giving it the fertility which is its great source of wealth. The great lowlands, or "Alfoeld," as the Magyars call them, are surrounded by a chain of mountains whose heights are nearly equal to some Alpine districts. There are three principal mountain ranges—the Tatra, Matra, and Fatra—and four principal rivers—the Danube, Theiss, Drave, and Save. Hungary is called the land of the three mountains and four rivers, and the emblem of these form the chief feature in the coat-of-arms of the country.

The Carpathian range of mountains stretches from the northwest along the north and down the east, encircling the lowlands and sending forth rivers and streams to water the plains. These mountains are of a gigantic bulk and breadth; they are covered with fir and pine trees, and in the lower regions with oaks and many other kinds. The peaks of the high Tatra are about 9,000 feet high, and, of course, are bare of any vegetation, being snow-covered even in summer-time. On the well-sheltered sides of these mountains numerous baths are to be found, and they abound in mineral waters. Another curious feature are the deep lakes called "Tengerszem" (Eyes of the Sea). According to folklore they are connected with the sea, and wonderful beings live in them. However, it is so far true that they are really of astonishing depth. The summer up in the Northern Carpathians is very short, the nights always cold, and there is plenty of rain to water the rich vegetation of the forests. Often even in the summer there are snowstorms and a very low temperature.

The Northeastern Carpathians include a range of lower hills running down to the so-called Hegyalja, where the wonderful vine which produces the wine of Tokay is grown. The southeastern range of the Carpathians divides the county of Maramaros from Erdely (Transylvania). The main part of this country is mountainous and rugged, but here also there is wonderful scenery. Everything is still very wild in these parts of the land, and tho mineral waters abound everywhere, the bathing-places are very primitive.

The only seaport the country possesses is Fiume, which was given to Hungary by Maria Theresa, who wanted to give Hungary the chance of developing into a commercial nation. Besides the deep but small mountain lakes, there are several large ones; among these the most important is the Balaton, which, altho narrow, is about fifty miles long. Along its borders there are summer bathing-places, considered very healthy for children. Very good wine is produced here, as in most parts of Hungary which are hilly, but not situated too high up among the mountains. The lake of Balaton is renowned for a splendid kind of fresh-water fish, the Fogas. It is considered the best fish after trout—some even prefer it—and it grows to a good size.

The chief river of Hungary is the Danube, and the whole of Hungary is included in its basin. It runs through the heart of the country, forming many islands; the greatest is called the Csallokoez, and has over a hundred villages on it. One of the prettiest and most cultivated of the islands is St. Margaret's Isle, near Budapest, which has latterly been joined to the mainland by a bridge. Some years ago only steamers conveyed the visitors to it; these still exist, but now carriages can drive on to the island too. It is a beautiful park, where the people of Budapest seek the shade of the splendid old trees. Hot sulfur springs are to be found on the island, and there is a bath for the use of visitors.

The Danube leaves Hungary at Orsova, and passes through the so-called Iron Gates. The scenery is very beautiful and wild in that part, and there are many points where it is exceedingly picturesque, especially between Vienna and Budapest. It is navigable for steamships, and so is the next largest river, the Theiss. This river begins its course in the Southeastern Carpathians, right up among the snow-peaks, amid wild and beautiful scenery, and it eventually empties its waters into the Danube at Titel. The three largest rivers of Hungary feed the Danube, and by that means reach the Black Sea.

Hungary lies under the so-called temperate zone, but there does not seem much temperance in the climate when we think of the terrible, almost Siberian winters that come often enough and the heat waves occasioning frequent droughts in the lowlands. The summer is short in the Carpathians; usually in the months of August and September the weather is the most settled. June and July are often rainy—sometimes snowstorms cause the barometer to fall tremendously. In the mountain districts there is a great difference between the temperature of the daytime and that of the night. All those who go to the Carpathians do well to take winter and Alpine clothing with them.

The winter in the mountains is perhaps the most exhilarating, as plenty of winter sport goes on. The air is very cold, but the sun has great strength in sheltered corners, enabling even delicate people to spend the winter there. In the lowlands the summer is exceedingly hot, but frequent storms, which cool the air for some days, make the heat bearable. Now and then there have been summers when in some parts of Hungary rain has not fallen for many weeks—even months. The winter, too, even in the more temperate parts, is often severe and long, there being often from eight to ten weeks of skating, altho the last few years have been abnormally mild. In the valleys of the Carpathians potatoes, barley, oats, and cabbages are grown, while in the warmer south wheat, maize, tobacco, turnips, and the vine are cultivated. Down by the Adriatic Sea the climate is much warmer, but Hungary, as already mentioned, has only the town of Fiume of her own to boast of. The visitors who look for a temperate winter and want to get away from the raw cold must go to the Austrian town of Abbazia, which is reached in half an hour by steamboat, and is called the Austrian Riviera. Those who visit Hungary should come in spring—about May—and spend some weeks in the capital, the lowlands and hilly districts, and go north to the mountains and bathing-places in the summer months.

Tokay produces some of the finest wine in the world, and the vintage time in that part of the country is most interesting and picturesque.

[Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.]



BUDAPEST[A]

BY H. TORNAI DE KOEVER

Budapest is one of the most beautifully situated cities in Europe. Nobody can ever forget the wonderful sight of the two sister towns divided by the wide and swiftly flowing Danube, with the steamers and barges on her waters. Buda, the old stronghold, is on one side with the fantastic "Gellert" hill, which is a formidable-looking mass of rocks and caves; farther on is the lovely royal palace with its beautifully kept gardens clinging to the hillside; then the oldest part, called the stronghold, which has been rebuilt exactly in the style Matthias Corvinus built it, and which was demolished during the Turkish invasion. Here is the old church of Matthias too, but it is so much renovated that it lacks the appearance of age. Behind the smaller hills larger ones are to be seen covered with shady woods; these are the villa regions and summer excursion places for the people.

Along the Danube are green and shady islands of which the most beautiful is St. Margaret's Isle, and on the other side of the waters is the city of "Pest," with the majestic Houses of Parliament, Palace of Justice, Academy of Science, and numerous other fine buildings. At the present time four bridges join the two cities together, and a huge tunnel leads through the first hill in Buda into another part of the town. One can not say which is the more beautiful sight: to look from Pest, which stands on level ground, up to the varying hilly landscape of Buda; or to look from the hillside of the latter place on to the fairy-land of Pest, with the broad silver Danube receding in the distance like a great winding snake, its scales all aglitter in the sunshine. It is beautiful by day, but still more so at night, for myriads of lights twinkle in the water, and the hillsides are dotted as if with flitting fairy-lamps. Even those who are used to the sight look at it in speechless rapture and wonder. What must it be like to foreigners!

Besides her splendid natural situation, Budapest has another great treasure, and this is the great quantity of hot sulfur springs which exists on both sides of the Danube. The Romans made use of these at the time of their colonization, and we can find the ruins of the Roman baths in Aquincum half an hour from Budapest. During the Turkish rule many Turkish baths were erected in Buda. The Rudas bath exists to this day, and with its modernized system is one of the most popular. Csaszar bath, St. Lukacs bath, both in Buda, have an old-established reputation for the splendid cures of rheumatism. A new bath is being built in Pest where the hot sulfur water oozes up in the middle of the park—the same is to be found in St. Margaret's Isle. Besides the sulfur baths there are the much-known bitter waters in Buda called "Hunyady" and "Franz Joseph," as well as salt baths.

The city, with the exception of some parts in Buda, is quite modern, and has encircling boulevards and wide streets, one of the finest being the Andrassy Street. The electric car system is one of the most modern, while underground and overground electric railways lead to the most distant suburbs. The city has a gay and new look about it; all along the walks trees are planted, and cafes are to be seen with a screen of shrubs or flowers around them. In the evening the sound of music floats from the houses and cafes. There are plenty of theaters, in which only the Hungarian language is used, and a large and beautiful opera-house under government management. There are museums, institutions of art and learning, academies of painting and music, schools, and shops, and life and movement everywhere. At present [1911] the city numbers about 900,000 souls, but the more distant suburbs are not reckoned in this number.

[Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.]

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