HUNGARIAN CATTLE
an open country, with broken mud banks, where we heard the plaintive music of shepherds’ pipes, saw stalwart swineherds against the sky, and startled, as we drifted past, great droves of wild-looking cattle cooling themselves in the shallows. The life on the bank became at intervals more busy, and all sorts of domestic operations were carried on in the open air along the muddy shores. Whole families splashed about in the shallow water as little heedful of our presence as if we belonged to them. The River Raab sneaks into the Danube in the guise of a lesser side lagoon, and but for our delightful flower-carpeted camp in sight of the group of barges at its mouth and within the sound of the tattoo of many mills, we should scarcely remember it as a feature of our trip. A brief pause at Komorn, regular and uninteresting architecturally as most Hungarian towns are, did not increase our desire for exploration, and we voted, since our time was limited, to land in the future only at places which, smaller and less Germanized by the commerce of the river, would probably be more characteristic and picturesque. But the great Cathedral of Gran—Esztergom is the sonorous Hungarian name—rising above the ruins of a great brick fortress on a prominent height among vineyard slopes, made us accept a speedy amendment to this resolution, and under the lee of its bridge of boats we drew up alongside of one of the great arks which recall the naval architecture of the pre-deluge period. We sampled the characteristic cookery of its famous restaurant, and passed an hour or two of wild excitement over the wonderful colors in the market-place, where shoulder-high heaps of scarlet paprika (big sweet peppers) set the key for a combination of rich and varied tones that would have exhausted the palette of an old Venetian painter; and when at last an inviting breeze rippled the water, we forced ourselves away and sailed down the beautiful reaches among grand hills, our eyes still full of the kaleidoscopic sparkle of enchanting Esztergom.
Our frisky boats lost the breeze in the narrow, crooked defile below, and we settled ourselves to a quiet drift under the great ruins of Visegrád, where villas, bath-houses, and a level road, gay with ladies and children, marked the little village as the first sybaritic outpost of Budapest. Preoccupied with the beauties of the scenery, we did not at first notice the frantic waving of the Union-jack in the hands of some one on the shore, but we soon turned our bows in the direction of this unmistakable invitation to land, and were welcomed on shore by an English gentleman, a summer resident there, who explained that, having read of our trip in a Vienna newspaper, he and his family had been on the watch for us for many days. Such hearty hospitality as he offered us could not be refused, although it was the Delilah to our Samson strength of purpose, and we went ashore. A party of ladies and gentlemen was speedily formed, and we made an excursion up the hill, through pleasant groves and along shady paths, to the ruins of the old castle of the Hungarian kings, who resided here as early as the eleventh century. Matthew Corvinus enlarged and improved the castle, and it was long the chief stronghold of this region. The royal
GRAN (ESZTERGOM)
crown of Hungary was once concealed in a deep pit cut in the solid rock under one of the towers, and there are various other notable historical legends connected with the place. Another castle near the water’s edge, although it is partially restored, had a sentimental interest for us because we were informed that it had been intended for the summer residence of the unfortunate Prince Leopold. The former commander-in-chief of the Hungarian army in the revolution of 1848, General Görgei, lives quietly in a pleasant villa high above the river. Surrounded by his family and busying himself with all sorts of mechanical operations, to which he is devoted, the old general appears to have secured the greatest blessing known to man—contentment. The weight of the forty odd years that have passed since he gave up his sword has not bowed his straight figure, and his dark eyes still have the fire of youth in them. At his own request we went to call on him, and found him, like all the men of Kossuth’s time, enthusiastically fond of America, and grateful for the sympathetic aid and comfort of the whole English-speaking race. Lingering long in his company, the summer twilight stole upon us before we knew it, and warned us to seek a camp. The tempting offers of hospitality so heartily given, the fascinations of the people and the place, and the unique charm of society which is peculiar to Hungary alone, all these and many other delights made it next to impossible for us to take our leave. But at last we hardened our hearts, pushed off, waved a last farewell to the young ladies who accompanied us a short distance in a wherry, and paddled out into the glowing twilight.