Then we fell to work once more, and when the wagon was laden I showed to the ragged urchin who was hired to drive, three of the lumbering old copper coins, bigger than penny-pieces, which pass for kreutzers in the neighbourhood, and at sight thereof he made the old horse drag the load home and come back for another in less time than horse had ever accomplished the task in Ulrichsthal. The second load was the last: by the time it was all pitched up our shadows grew long, and we followed it up to the house, where the mother had coffee and Semmel ready for us.

Now Röschen, reminding me once more of my promise to be tractable, revealed the secret. Karl was coming down, and Gottfried—the sweetheart I had seen the night before—and perhaps another, and then we were all to go to the Wirthshaus, about half an hour's walk. Presently the young men came in, and the lasses having changed their rustic garb for holiday gowns and dangling gold ear-drops, we walked in procession across fields to the rendezvous. A shout of welcome greeted our arrival from the young fellows already assembled—the Londoner was duly introduced, and treated by the host with especial favour, and we all sat down to a table, every man with his tankard of beer. The cup circulated literally, the custom being that everybody should drink from everybody's tankard. The lasses took their turn, though modestly and with discretion, as became them. The talk crackled merrily for awhile, and when it flagged a small tray bearing a set of little ninepins which were to be knocked down by a teetotum was placed on the table. The pins were so contrived that they could be all erected at once by pulling a string at one end of the tray, and the game went round not less briskly than the tankards, shouts of laughter repaying him who set the teetotum a-spinning without molestation to the pins. Then I proposed a song, and Karl charmed all ears with a musical ditty: another followed with a harmonious ballad, which had a chorus for burden, and as the tuneful harmony filled the room I could not help contrasting it with what would have been heard in a similar rustic alehouse in England. The ballad led to a talk about poetry, and one and another recited stanzas of favourite poems, and all seemed familiar with the best authors, drawing illustrations from Bürger's Lenore, Schiller's Song of the Bell, Goethe's Erl King, and one or two ventured upon the Niebelungenlied.

The moon was high in heaven when we broke up, and gently the night wind swept across the fields laden with the freshness of dew. As we walked along the narrow paths Gottfried had to undergo a test: his maiden plucked a large ox-eye daisy, pulled the petals off one by one, keeping time with a few spoken surmises[E]:

The last petal came off with vom Herzen, but yet the inquirer was not quite content. It was all very well to be loved from the heart; but with pain or grief would have been much better. Then nothing would do but Röschen must try the experiment on me, and reciting and plucking she went round the frail circlet, and ended with gar nicht. She looked curiously at Karl, and Karl looked as if he were not by any means dissatisfied that she had got not at all for a conclusion.

It was past twelve when we came to our door, and then "farewell" had to be said, and "adieu till to-morrow;" and so ended for me a day of rural life that I shall long remember.

If, reader, you should ever pay a visit of inquiry to the Ulrichsthalers, I feel assured they will tell you that next to themselves the best fellow in the world is an Englishman.

CHAPTER XIX.

More Hospitality—Farewells—Cross Country Walk—Steinschönau—The Playbill—Hayda—All Glass-workers—Away for the Mountains—Zwickau—Gabel—Weisskirchen—A Peasant's Prayer—Reichenberg—Passport again—Jeschkenpeak—Reinowitz—Schlag—Neudorf—A Talk at Grünheid—Bad Sample of Lancashire—Tannwald—Curious Rocks—Spinneries—Populousness—Przichowitz—An Altercation—Heavy Odds—The Englishman Wins—A Word to the Company.

Fresh Semmel for breakfast again the next morning, and renewed entreaties for my stay. I could only reply by putting on my knapsack. The old man grieved that infirmity prevented his showing me the shortest way to Hayda, some ten miles distant, where I should strike the main road. "But," he said, "Röschen knows the way, and she will be glad to go. I can trust her with you, for you are an Englishman."

I felt bound to thank him for his compliment to my nationality, and not less for the unexpected pleasure of his daughter's company. Röschen went to put on her round hat, and then the mother said she would like to go too, "just a little half-hour," and tied on her kerchief. Then I had to give a kiss to the rest of the family—barring the old man—and with cordial hand-grip and many a good-bye I stepped from beneath the hospitable roof.

The day was as bright and breezy as heart could wish, and it was delightful walking in and out, choosing the short cuts across the fields. The "little half-hour" brought us to a great cross by the wayside, where the mother, who lamented all the way that I would not let her carry my knapsack, gave me a hearty kiss, hoped I would soon come again and stay a month, bade Röschen take care of me, and turned away homewards with tears in her eyes.

I thought to myself, if my gracious masters—long may they live!—did but grant me an uncircumscribed holiday, I would stay a month now. And would I not, oh, worthy hearts! strive to repay your hospitality by lessons to that young daughter of yours, who craves to learn English as a hungry man for bread. I had no claim on you: you had never heard of me, and yet you entertained me as if I had been your son. May the love that befalls the cheerful giver dwell ever with you!

Röschen knew all the byepaths and little lanes running through belts of copse, by which, with many a rise and fall among the hills, we took our way, she all the time wondering at my pleasurable emotions at sight of the picturesque cottages and pretty scenery. To her they were nothing remarkable. By-and-by we saw Steinschönau on the left, where the surrounding hamlets buy groceries, hardware, and napery, and resort at times for a holiday. While skirting it we saw here and there on a cottage wall bills of the next Sunday's play. It would be, so states Herr Direktor Feichtinger, In celebration of the highest delighting occurrence of the birth of an Imperial Sproutling, with festive Illumination. First, the Heart-elevating Austrian Folks-hymn: then Hanns Sachs, Shoemaker and Poet, a Drama in Four Acts. And he ends with a notification: Price of Places as always. But to Generosity no Limit will be set. Röschen promised herself much pleasure from a sight of the play.

Hayda, though a small town, is a place of much importance in the glass trade. You hear the noise of wheels in every house. "None but glass-workers here," said the landlord of the inn where we dined. The repast over, I said good-bye to Röschen, vexed with myself for having occasioned her so long a walk, and taking the road which I had left at Markersdorf, stepped out for the Riesengebirge—distant a three days' tramp. The country between teems with manufactures and population—a cheerful country, hill and dale, grain, flax, and fruit-trees, and the people for the most part good-looking. Their faces are round, but not flat, and seemed to me to combine some of the best points of the German and Czech.

You see dye-works and hear looms at Zwickau—not the Saxon town we explored a fortnight ago, but a dull place, with a great dull square; the wooden houses dingy, the brick houses rough and ragged. Beyond, we pass strange-looking rocks and short ranges of cliffs, the castle and grounds owned by Count Clam Gallas, and so to Gabel, a town which bears a fork in its coat-of-arms; and is burdened with recollections of disasters from fire and sword. It has of course a great square, in the centre of which stands a tall column, surmounted by a figure of Christ looking towards the domed church. Its aspect is cheerful, notwithstanding that the old wooden houses with projecting gables are blackened by age.

Then the road becomes more hilly, and the distance appears mountainous. We pass a singular mass of boulders—huge compressed bladders turned to stone; and from time to time other strangely formed rocks, betokening extraordinary geological phenomena, as if to prepare us for what we shall see a few days hence at Adersbach.

By-and-by a deep glen, dark with firs above, green with birches below, into which you descend by long zigzags. Here among the trees sat a cuckoo, piping his name loud enough for all that passed to hear. It was the second time I had heard the gladsome note in Bohemia: the first was on the White Hill, while walking into Prague. Broad views, bounded always by hills, open as you emerge from the last slope, and there in a hollow lies the little village of Weisskirchen, where I tarried for the night. The innkeeper calls his house the Railway Inn, although there is no railway within half a day's walk, and in matter of diet all he could offer was smoked sausage—which is my abomination—and bread and butter.

On the way to Reichenberg next morning I saw a small, tasteful iron crucifix, with a lamp, set up on a stone pedestal by the wayside, at the cost, so runs the inscription, of Gottfried Hermann, Bauer in Rosenthal; and underneath the devout peasant adds a prayer for the solace of wayfarers:

At ten o'clock I came to Reichenberg: a town pleasantly situate on hilly ground, and animated by many signs of industry. It is the capital of the manufacturing region, and in importance ranks next to Prague. In 1848 the German Bohemians, not relishing the dictatorial tone of the Czechs in the metropolis and southern parts of the kingdom, made it the seat of their Reform Committee, and held meetings, in which speech, intoxicated by sudden, and, as it proved, short-lifed freedom, mistook words for things, and, before the mistake was discovered, lay once more fettered—faster than ever.

I found out the Bezirksamt at the farther end of the town, and was there told to go back to the middle, and get my passport signed at the Magistratur. I had to wait while four others passed the desk. The first, a portly gentleman, evidently of some consideration, was dismissed in half a minute, and treated to a pinch of snuff by the clerk. The second, a petty trader, was kept five minutes, and had to tell why he wished to journey, and what he meant to do. The third, a peasant, was only released after a cross-examination, as if he had been a conspirator; and a rigorous scrutiny of his passport, which occupied a quarter-hour. The fourth, a poor woman, as I have before mentioned, was denied, and went away with tears in her eyes. Then came my turn.

"Where are you going?"

I had always the same answer: "To the Riesengebirge."

But as no visa could be given for mere mountains, I named Landeshut, a few miles beyond the frontier, telling the functionary at the same time that I had no intention of visiting the town, and should in all probability not go thither.

Apparently it mattered not, for the visa was made out and stamped. This done, the clerk took my passport, and withdrew to an inner room. His brother clerks in all the offices I had yet entered had done the same. What did it mean? Is there a secret chamber where some highest functionary sits with a black list before him, in which he must search for suspected names? No one would tell me. After five minutes the clerk returned, gave me back my passport, but, less courteous than his fellows, did not wish me a pleasant journey.

I dined at the Rothen Adler; strolled through the market-place and the arcades of the old houses on either side, noting the ways of the crowd who were buying and selling meal, fruit, and vegetables. Groups of countrywomen were passing in and out of the church at the upper end; and countrymen arrived with trains of bullock-wagons—the vehicles so disproportionately small when contrasted with the animals, that you could not look at them without laughing. However, they carry away cotton bales and dyestuffs, of which you see good store in the warehouses. You see piles of woollen cloth, too, and troops of factory-girls going to dinner.

You will tarry awhile to admire the view from the hill beyond the town, and will, perhaps, think the tall chimneys rising here and there without the crowding roofs rather picturesque than otherwise. All around is hill and dale; the graceful peak of the Jeschken, 3000 feet high, is in sight; and away to the north-east, inviting you on, rise heaps of blue mountains. And as you proceed you descend every two or three miles into a charming little valley, where you see little factories, and stripes of linen stretched out to bleach on the grassy slopes. So at Reinowitz; so at Schlag; so at Neudorf; so at Morchenstern. At Grünheid, where I stayed for a half-hour's rest, there was a noticeable appearance of cleanliness. The inn, inviting of aspect, would have satisfied even a Dutchwoman. While drinking my glass of beer I had a talk with the hostesses—two happy-looking sisters, who presently told me they had a brother in England, at Oldham, learning how to spin cotton and manage a factory. Did I know Oldham?—had I ever been there?—could I tell them anything about it?—and so forth. Having visited more than once that hard-working town, I was enabled to gratify their curiosity. Then they told me of an Englishman who was employed in a factory about a mile distant. He had been there three years, yet his manners were so coarse and disagreeable that no one liked him, although at first many would have been his friends. He had learned but very little German, and that of the worst kind, and was over fond of drinking too much beer. "He has been trying for some time," they said, "to get a wife; but no woman will have him. While good Bohemian husbands are to be had, who would marry a bad Englishman? And so now he is going to fetch a wife from his own country."

And then they asked, "Are all Englishmen such as he?"

Need I record my answer? It enlightened them as to the real value of the sample they had described, and made them fully aware that I for one did not regard Lancashire as England's model county.

More curious rocks as we drop down towards Tannwald—a place, as its name indicates, of fir forests. It lies deep among hills, watered by a stream brawling along a stony bed, and here and there you see the weatherbeaten heads of huge boulders peering from among the trees. The road makes short and frequent windings by the side of the stream; now skirted by groves of mountain ash, and slopes red with clustering loosestrife; now by feathery larches, green and graceful, contrasting beautifully with the melancholy firs. Then you pass an enormous spinnery, its thousand spindles driven by the dashing torrent; and peeping between the plants and flowers with which nearly every window is adorned, you see an army of girls within, busy at the machinery. Another and another spinnery succeeds; the houses of the masters appear aloft on pleasant sites, and signs of prosperous trade crowded into the bend of a narrow valley. In one place you see a broad alley through the firs to the top of the highest hill, cut at the masters' cost for the recreation of the workpeople. Thickly-strewn cottages betoken a numerous population. "I wish there were more factories," said the landlord of the Goldene Krone, "for we have people enough—more than enough." Every year things got dearer, greatly to the folks' surprise. Not many months ago a traveller has passed through, who told them that things would never be cheap again; but no one would believe him. Some of the best spinners could earn from five to six florins a week: thriftiness, however, was a rare virtue, and to earn the money easier than to save it. Perhaps mine host was the man of all others in Tannwald best able to speak with knowledge on this economical question.

If so minded, you can travel from Reichenberg to Tannwald by Stellwagen; beyond, the road becomes more and more hilly, and worsens off to a stony track broken with deep ruts. By taking a short cut directly up the hill you may save a mile or more on the way to the next village—Przichowitz; a name that looks unpronounceable. It is a steep climb for about half an hour, provoking many a halt, during which you enjoy the ever-widening view. From the expanse of hill and dale to the numberless cottages all around you, each fronted by a fenced flower-garden, and haunted by the noise of looms, you will find ample occupation for the eye. And if you wish to observe domestic labour competing with the factory-units with an organized multitude—the opportunity is favourable.

Przichowitz stands on what appears to be the very top of the hill till you see the wooded eminence, Stephanshöh, beyond. There are two inns: the Grünen Baum, with a fourth share of a bedroom; the Gasthaus zur Stephanshöh, somewhat Czechish in its appointments. I quartered myself at the latter; and discovered two redeeming points—good wine and excellent coffee.

At bedtime the landlord demanded my passport, with an intimation that he should keep it in his possession all night. I demurred. He might bring his book and enter my name if he would: as for giving up to him a document so essential to locomotion anywhere within sight of the black and yellow stripes, I saw no reason why I should, and therefore shouldn't.

"But you must."

"But I won't."

"The gendarme will come."

"Let him come. He will find at least one honest man under your roof."

The hostess came forward and put in her word: the company present, who were topping-off their three hours' potation of Einfach with a glass of Schnaps, ceased their conversation, and put in theirs:

the Kellnerinn waiting all the while with my bed-candle in her hand. Every one, except the serving-maid, who held her peace, sided with the landlord.

I urged the same reply over and over again, that not having been asked at any other Wirthshaus to yield possession of my passport for a night, I could not believe that any regulation to the contrary prevailed for Przichowitz.

At length the company, as it appeared, having exhausted their suggestions, the landlord fetched his book, and had dipped a pen into the inkstand, when two soldiers, who were eating a supper of sausage, brown bread and onions, at a table apart, beckoned him, and whispered something in his ear.

The whisper revived his suspicions, and would have renewed the altercation; but I took up my knapsack, asked what was to pay, and declared for a moonlight walk to Rochlitz.

The demonstration made him pause: he opened the book, dipped the pen once more into the inkstand, and looked wonderingly at my passport, which I held open before him. He tried to spell it out; but in vain. The pen went into the inkstand again; but to no purpose. He was completely bothered; and at last, putting the pen in my hand, he said, not now in a peremptory tone—"Will you enter your own name, if I let you do it?"

It would have served him right had I refused, and left the task entirely to him. However, not to be too hard upon him, I promised not to inscribe Brown, Jones, or Robinson, and wrote what was required.

Then, looking round on the company, I said: "A pretty set of cowards you are! Here are nine of ye, two of them soldiers, and you all take the part of a suspicious landlord against one—and that one a foreigner. No wonder you are all afraid of a gendarme; and submit to ask leave when you want to go a day's journey. Try, in future, and remember that honesty does not become rogue by travelling on foot. Good night!"

"So, now it's settled," said the Kellnerinn, who still waited with the candle in her hand; and she led the way up-stairs.

Before sleeping I repented of my speech; for what could be expected from people who never attended a vestry meeting—never saw a general election—never exercised the privilege of booting a candidate on the hustings?

And never had a Times to publish their grievances.

CHAPTER XX.

Stephanshöh—A Presumptuous Landlord—Czechs again—Stewed Weavers—Prompt Civilities—The Iser—A Quiet Vale—Barrande's Opinion of the Czechs—Rochlitz—An offshoot from Tyre—A Happy Landlord—A Rustic Guide—Hill Paths—The Grünstein—Rübezahl's Rose Garden—Dreary Fells—Source of the Elbe—Solitude and Visitors—The Elbfall—Stony Slopes—Strange Rocks—Rübezahl's Glove—Knieholz—Schneegruben—View into Silesia—Tremendous Cliffs—Basalt in Granite—The Landlord's Bazaar—The Wandering Stone—A Tragsessel—A Desolate Scene—Rougher Walking—Musical Surprises—Spindlerbaude—The Mädelstein—Great Pond and Little Pond—The Mittagstein—The Riesengrund—The Last Zigzags—An Inn in the Clouds.

Soon after six the next morning I was on the top of Stephanshöh—about twenty minutes' walk from the inn—prepared to enjoy the view: and did enjoy all that was not concealed by mist. Every minute, too, as the heaving vapour melted away, so did the landscape widen and rejoice in the sunbeams. We are here on the roots of the Riesengebirge, and all around is a rolling country, rising higher and higher towards the north. Because of the view the height is famous throughout the neighbourhood; visitors come to it even from Reichenberg.

While I was drinking my early cup of coffee, the landlord came forward, made a bow, and expressed his hope to see me again some day.

"Hope not," I replied, "for besides plaguing folk about their passport, you lodge them between dirty sheets over an unswept floor. Good morning!"

Beware, reader, of Przichowitz!

The road winding along a hill-side leads you onwards high above the valleys that open at every bend. After about an hour it narrows into a footpath, which presently branches off into many paths down the steep slope of a secluded vale. A woman of whom I asked the way shook her head, and answered, "Böhmisch," and to my surprise I found myself once more among the Czechs. A Sclavonic wedge, so to speak, here cuts between the German-speaking population who inhabit the northern border. With its base in the heart of the kingdom, it stretches away to the Silesian frontier, traceable for the most part by the names of numerous villages ending in witz.

I chose a path for myself which led down between patches of clover and rye, beetroot and potatoes, through little orchards, under rows of limes, to a house which, at a distance, had an imposing, spacious appearance; deceitful till you come near. The ground stage is nothing but a rough mass of masonry supporting that which is really the house—a low wooden edifice, swarming with weavers, reared aloft, probably, to keep it out of the way of floods. As I mounted the rude steps in quest of information, a weaver opened a casement and put out his head, letting out, at the same time, a rush of the depraved air in which he and his mates were working. I asked the way.

He shook his head, and answered, "Böhmisch."

He did more. He started up from his loom, came actually forth into the wholesome air, and ran to a cottage some distance off, making signs to me to wait his return. He came presently back wearing a triumphant look, accompanied by another weaver, who could speak German enough to assure me that I was on the right track for Rochlitz, and that the mountain stream flowing so merrily past was the Iser. Poor men! they both had a pale, sodden look, which moved me to recommend fresh air and open windows. But no: they shivered, and could not weave when the windows were open.

A bright stream is the Iser, and plenteous of trout: a water such as the angler loves, now brawling over shallows, now sleeping in hazel-fringed pools. You will pause more than once while climbing the hill beyond to scan the vale. All the greater slopes are broken up with lesser undulations—wherein much is half seen, and thickly-patched with wood; little cottages nestle everywhere among the trees, the little chapel near the summit; and here and there on the outskirts a dark ridge of firs reminds you of the melancholy miles of forest beyond. Here, far from great roads, all breathes of calm and content, all sights and sounds are rural; you hear the water babbling to the whispering leaves, and might fancy yourself in the very home of happiness. But

With the Iser the Czechs are left behind. While taking leave of the oval-faced people, the opportunity seems fitting to bring forward a few words of testimony concerning them, which may be weighed against that mentioned in a former page. Barrande, the distinguished geologist, says, in his Silurian System of Bohemia, that, in 1840, he and his friends commenced a regular exploration of strata, employing native labourers in different parts of the country, either singly making new excavations, or in groups opening quarries. "These labourers," he continues, "provided with the necessary tools, and practically instructed by working with us for some time, soon acquired the knowledge indispensable for distinguishing every organic trace—the objects of our studies—at the first glance. In this respect we have often had occasion to admire the intelligence of the Bohemians (Czechs), even of those belonging to the humblest class. Some among them employed in our researches during ten or twelve years acquired a remarkable skill as seekers of fossils. They gather up and put together the smallest fragments which belong to any specimen broken in splitting the rock; they use a lens to discover the fugitive traces of the minutest embryo, and they know very well how to distinguish all rare or new forms in the district to which they are attached. A sort of nomenclature, improvised by themselves out of the Bohemian language, has served us to designate both the species and formations in which they are found."

Thus, with his rustic Czechs, Mr. Barrande could carry on investigations at a distance, while in his study at Prague he prepared his truly great work for publication. One of the diggers brought in the specimens once a week; and in this way were discovered fifteen hundred species of what geologists call Silurian and Cambrian fossils, the existence of which in Bohemia was before unknown.

It is not far to Rochlitz—perhaps a mile—but the vale is hidden ere you arrive by the shoulder of the hill. Almost the first house is Gast und Einkehr Haus zur Linde, and it has a living sign—a beautiful linden-tree. Here cleanliness prevails, and the speech is German; but the room is so hot from the scorching stove, that I prefer to eat my second breakfast on the grass in the shadow of the lime, and listen to the busy hum of countless bees among the branches. The room, however, was a study—a sort of museum: racks overhead, three glass closets, twenty-four pictures, a sofa, a score of daddy-longlegs chairs, a guitar and fiddle, two beds in view besides one shut off by a screen, and all the sundries common to a public-house. But for good housewifery it would be hideous.

The landlord, a man of friendly speech, came out for a talk. From his orchard we could look down into a charming dell: a sylvan retreat, marred, alas! by an offshoot from Tyre. From among the trees there rose the tall chimney and staring walls of a factory; and while we talked, a dozen men went past, each wheeling a barrow-load of lime, from a distance of two miles, for the building. Mine host felt glad at the prospect of work for the people. "We have nine thousand inhabitants in Rochlitz," he said; "'tis a great place. To walk through it you must take three hours." And he pointed out a cliff overlooking a valley where mining works had just been bought by a Russian for two hundred thousand florins. "Yes, there would be work enough for the people." Plenty of work at little wages. A weaver earns one florin twenty-four kreutzers a week, and the happy few who achieve two florins are regarded as rich by their neighbours: perhaps with envy and admiration.

Then he pointed out his own ground, and his forest run reaching to the very hill-top, all of which had cost him fifteen thousand florins; and he turned to all quarters of the compass with the air of a man well pleased with himself. "Those," he said, stretching his finger towards a row of short, round, wooden columns with conical roofs—"those are my beehives; come and look at them."

These hives are about four feet high, fixed clear of the ground by stakes driven through the turf, and are constructed in compartments one fitting above the other. The bees begin to work in the lowest, and, when that is filled, ascend into the upper stories. One among them seemed deserted.

"Let us see what's the matter," said the landlord; and he lifted off the top story. Immediately there swarmed out thousands of earwigs.

"Huhu! that's not the sort of bees we want. Coobiddy, coobiddy!" And judging from the lusty crow that followed it, chanticleer and his seraglio must have had a satisfactory repast.

But Schneekoppe was yet far off, and there was no time to be lost if I wished to reach that Mont Blanc of German tourists before night. I inclined to leave the rough-beaten track through the valleys for short cuts across the hills, and asked the landlord about a guide. His woodcutter, who was splitting logs close by, knew great part of the way, and was ready to start there and then and carry my knapsack for a florin. He put a piece of coarse brown bread into a bag, which he lashed to one of the straps, and away we went.

"Good-bye!" said the landlord: "a month later and you would have had company enough; for then students come in herds to see the mountains."

We struck at once up a grassy hill on the left, and could soon look down on Rochlitz—houses scattered along either side of a narrow road in a deep valley; and, far in the rear, on Hochstadt, a wee town of great trade. Then we came to a Jägerhaus, and plunged into a pine forest, walking for two or three miles along winding paths, paved with roots, under a solemn shade where, here and there, sunny gleams sought out the richest brown of the tall, straight stems, and the brightest emerald among the patches of damp moss. At times we came to graceful birches scattered among the firs, and their drooping branches and silvery boles looked all the more beautiful amid companions so unbending.

We emerged on a bare, turfy slope, and came presently to a stony ridge on the right—the Grünstein—so named from a large bright green circle of lichen on the broken rocks which first catch your eye. A little farther along the same ridge, and the guide points to a great ring of stones on the slope as Rübezahl's Rose-garden, and the name makes you aware that here is the classic ground of gnomery. You remember the German storybooks read long ago with delight, wonder, or fear: the impish pranks, the tricks played upon knaves, the lumps of gold that rewarded virtue; the marvellous world deep underground, and all the weird romance.

You will perhaps think that imps had a right to be mischievous in such a region. On the left opens a wild, dreary expanse of fells—the coarse brown turf strewn with hassocks of coarser grass, and pale lumps of quartz intermingled, and rushy patches of darker hue showing where the ground is soft and swampy. It has a lifeless aspect, increased by a few scattered bushes of Knieholz that look like firs which have stunted themselves in efforts to grow. Now and then an Alpine lark twitters and flits past, as if impatient to escape from the cheerless scene.

We crossed these fells, guided by an irregular line of posts planted far apart. In places the ground quakes under your foot, and attempts to cut off curves are baffled by treacherous sloughs. On you go for nearly an hour, the view growing wilder, until, in the middle of a spongy meadow, known as the Naworer Wiese, you see a spring bubbling up in a circular basin. It is the source of the Elbe.

Here, 4380 feet above the sea-level, the solitude is complete. Here you may lie on your back looking up at the idle clouds, and enjoy the luxury of silence, for the prattle of the water disturbs it not. You will think it no loss that nothing now remains of monuments which the Archdukes Joseph and Rainer once erected here to commemorate their visit: the lonely scene is better without them. There are monuments not far off more to your mind. Towards the south rises the Krkonosch Berg[G]—sometimes called the Halsträger—and Kesselkoppe towards the west; great purple-shaded slopes of darkest green.

Not often during the summer will you find real solitude, as we did; for the Germans come in throngs and sit around the little pool to quaff the sparkling water, or pour libations of richer liquor. Is not this the birthplace of the Elbe, the river that carries fatness to many a broad league of their fatherland, and merchandise to its marts? Many a merry picnic has Krkonosch witnessed, and many a burst of sentiment. Hither used to come in the holidays—perhaps he comes still—a certain rector of a Silesian school with his scholars; and after their frolics he would teach them that the life of a river was but the symbol of their own life; and then, after each one had jumped across the sprightly rivulet, he bade them remember when in after years they should be students at Wittenberg, how they had once sprung from bank to bank of the mighty stream. The Elbe has, however, two sources: this the most visited. The other is ten miles distant on the southern slope of Schneekoppe. They unite their waters in the Elbgrund.

A stream is formed at once by the copious spring. We followed it down the slope—

to a rocky gulf, where it leaps a hundred feet into the precipitous chasm, and chafes onwards in a succession of cascades far below, gathering strength for its rush through the mountain barrier—the Saxon Highlands—and its long, lazy course through the plains of Northern Germany. Here a little shanty is erected, the tenants of which dam the water, and let it loose for its plunge when tourists arrive who are willing to pay a fee to see Nature improved on. But you may scramble about the rocks and down to the noisy influx of the Pantsche Fall as long as you please, and peep over into the deep gulf, without any payment.

Then up a steep stony acclivity to a higher elevation, another of the great steps or terraces which compose the Bohemian side of the mountains. From the top we should have seen Schneekoppe himself, had he not been hidden by clouds; however, we saw a mass of gray cumulus behind which old Snowhead lurked, and that was something.

Rougher and rougher grows the way: more and more of the big boulders lying as if showered down; and here and there singular piles of rock appear. Some resemble woolsacks heaped one above another, and flattened; some a pilastered wall, all splintered and cracked, sunken at one end; some heathen tombs and imitations of Stonehenge; and some animal forms hewn by rude people in the ancient days with but indifferent success. On one, an experienced guide—which mine was not—will show you the impression of a large hand, and tell you it is Rübezahl's glove.

The path makes many a jerk and twist among the rocks; at times through a dense scrub of Knieholz—a dwarfish kind of fir, crooked as rams'-horns, peculiar to these mountains, and, as travellers tell us, to the Carpathians. To its abundant growth some of the hills owe their dark green garment. Half an hour of such walking brought us in sight of Rübezahl's chancel—walls of rocks split into horizontal layers—and strangely piled, as if by the hands of crazy Cyclopean builders. A fearsome place in olden time; now a shelter to the Schneegrubenhaus, where you will choose to rest and dine before further exploration.

The house stands on the verge of a mighty precipice, from which you have a wide view over the most beautiful and picturesque part of Silesia. It was a glorious sight, miles of hill and dale, forest and meadow stretching far away—yellow and green, and blue and purple—touched here and there by flashing lights where the sun fell on ponds and lakes; villages, seemingly numberless, basking in the warmth of a July sun. The Hirschbergerthal, into which we shall travel ere many days be over, lies outspread beneath as in a map; Warmbrunn, with its baths in the midst, five hours distant, and yet apparently so near that you fancy a musket-shot would break one of the gleaming windows. Although, as some say, there is a want of water, you will still think it a view worth climbing the Riesengebirge to see. "There is only one Silesia!" cried the Great Frederick, when he looked down upon it from the Landeshuter Kamm.

Having feasted your eye with the remote, you will turn to look at the two Schneegruben—greater and lesser snow-gulfs. To the right and left the precipice is split by a frightful chasm a thousand feet deep, between jagged perpendicular cliffs. Looking cautiously over the edge, you scan the gloomy abyss where the sun never shines except for a brief space in the early morn. You see a chaos of fallen blocks and splinters, where the winter's snow, often unmelted by the summer rains, forms miniature glaciers, from one of which the Kochel springs to charm wondering eyes with its fall in the lowlands by Petersdorf. You see how the jutting crags threaten to tumble; how the heaps far below are overgrown by treacherous Knieholz, and form ridges which dam the sullen waters of two or three small lakes. A patch of green, a small meadow, smiles up at you from the lesser gulf; and it surprises you somewhat to be told that a painstaking peasant makes hay there, by stacking the grass on high poles, and carries it in winter when snow enables him to use a sledge.

If sure of foot, you may scramble down the ridge and look at the cliffs from below, and on the way at a remarkable geological phenomenon. In the western declivity the ruddy granite is cut in two by a stratum of basalt, which broadens as you descend, its surface cut up by pale gray veins resembling a network. It is said to be the only instance in Europe of basalt found at such a height, and in such intimate neighbourhood with granite. It is laborious walking at the base, and dangerous where vegetation screens the numerous crevices. However, if you take pleasure in botany, there are rare plants to repay the exploit; and if you care only for the romantic, to have been frowned down upon by the tremendous cliffs will suffice you.

When you climb back to the summit the host will ask you to look at his museum, and collection of knick-knacks for sale—memorials of the Schneegruben. There are crystals, and specimens from the neighbouring rocks, and carvings cut out of the Knieholz, an excellent wood for the purpose. Among these latter are heads of Rübezahl, with roguish look and bearded chin, to be used as whistles, or terminations for mountain-staves. Or, if you desire it, he will fire a small mortar to startle the echoes. You may, however, rouse echoes for yourself by rolling big stones into the gulf; but beware lest you meet the fate of Anton, the guide, who, in 1825, while starting a lump of rock, lost his balance, fell over, and was dashed to pieces against the crags.

Such cliffs are said to be characteristic of the Riesengebirge. Another example of a Schneegrube occurs near Agnetendorf, which is six hundred feet deep. And close by it is the Wandering Stone, a huge granite block of thirty tons' weight, which has moved three times within memory, to the wonder of the neighbourhood. In 1810 it travelled three hundred feet, in 1822 two hundred, and in 1848, between the 18th and 19th of June, about twenty-five paces.

Another characteristic of these mountains, as I discovered, is that when you have climbed up one of their great steps or terraces, you have to make a deep descent on the farther side before coming to the next, whereby the labour of the ascent is increased. On leaving the Schneegruben, you traverse a level so thickly strewn with boulders and rocky fragments that you fancy more would not lie, till, coming presently to the descent, you find nothing but stone. In and out, rise and fall; now a long stride that shakes you rudely; now a cheating short step—such is the manner of your going down. Nothing but stone! the track in many places scarcely visible though trodden for years. You will think it a terrible stair before you have finished. Near the foot we met a party going up, one a lady seated in a Tragsessel—a sedan-chair without its case—carried by two men. Talk of palanquin-bearers in Hindoostan! their work must be play compared with that of these Silesian chair-carriers. I pitied them as they toiled up the stony steep, hard to climb with free limbs, much more so with such a burden; and yet they looked contented enough, though very damp. We met three more chairs, each with its lady, in the course of the next two hours.

Nothing has ever realized my idea of utter desolation so entirely as the sight of that stony steep when I looked back on it from below. A great rounded hill of stone, blocks on blocks up-piled to the summit, sullen as despair, notwithstanding the greenish tinge of clinging lichen. I wondered whether the accursed hills by the Dead Sea could look more desolate.

Rough walking now, through straggling Knieholz; across stony ridges, and past more of the uncouth piles of rock that look weird-like in the slanting sunbeams. All at once you hear the noise of a hurdy-gurdy: a surprise in so deserted a region, and you may fancy Rübezahl at his pranks again; but presently you see a beggar squatted in the bush, whose practised ear having caught the sound of footsteps before you came in sight, the squeak is set a-going to inspire charity. And now these musical surprises will beset you every half-mile—flageolet, tambourine, clarionet, or fiddle. Where do the musicians live? No signs of a house are visible near their lurking-places.

We came to a Baude, a lonely farmstead, with a few fields around: the dwelling roughly built of wood, without upper story. Many similar buildings are scattered among the mountains—cause of thankfulness to weary travellers, for the inmates are always ready with rustic fare and lodging. Here the guide had to ask the way, having already come farther than he knew. The path led us across swampy ground, where you walk for a mile or two on stepping-stones through open fir woods, always meeting some group of rocks. Another half-hour, and we emerged into a little green vale, shut in by high steep hills and forest, the Spindlerbaude standing at the upper end. My guide being afraid to venture farther, I released him, and engaged another; one in full professional costume—tall boots, peaked hat, and embroidered jacket—who undertook to go the remaining distance with me for twenty kreutzers. While I drank a glass of beer, a man and woman made the room ring again with harp and clarionet.

It was past six when we started, and betook ourselves at once to the steep ridge behind the Baude. Once up, we saw Schneekoppe rising as a dark cone in the distance, and away to the right the Mädelstein, so named from a shepherdess having been frozen to death while sheltering under the rock from a snow-storm. On the Bohemian side, towards the south, the view is confined; but northwards, over Silesia, it spreads far as eye can reach, the nearer region in deep shade, for the sun is dropping low. By-and-by we leave the broken stony ground for the grassy ridge of the Lahnberg, where the path skirts a cliff, which, curving round to the right and left, encloses the Grosser Teich, a black lake, on which you look down from a height of six hundred feet. The inky waters fill an oval basin about twenty-four acres in extent and seventy-five feet deep, and remain quite barren of fish, although attempts have been made to stock it with trout. The superflux forms a stream named the Great Lomnitz.

From hence more rock-masses are in sight: the Mittagstein, so named because the sun stands directly over it at mid-day, a sign to the haymakers and turf-diggers; the Dreisteine, fifty feet high, resembling the ruin of a castle, split into three by a lightning stroke a hundred years ago; the Katzenschloss (Cat's Castle) and others, which the guide will tell you owe their names to Rübezahl.

We cross the Teichfelder and look down on the Little Pond: a lively sheet of water, for the surface is rippled by a waterfall that leaps down the precipice, and beneath trout are numerous as angler can desire. You will notice something crater-like in the form of the cliffs of both ponds: no traces of lava are, however, to be discovered.

We passed the Devil's Gulf, through which flows the Silver Water, and came to more rough ground, and scrub, and lurking bagpipers. The veil of twilight was drawn over Silesia, and the peaks and ridges on the right loomed large and hazy against the darkening sky. We came to the Riesenbaude on the edge of the Riesengrund (Giant's Gulf), from which uprears a steeper slope than any we had yet encountered.

It is incredibly steep, the path making short zigzags, as on the Gemmi, fenced by a low wall. On either side you see nothing but loose slabs of stone, which must have made the ascent well-nigh impossible to unpractised feet, before Count Schaffgotsch constructed the new path at his own cost. A hard pull to finish with. However, in about twenty minutes we come to a level, where the wind blows strong and cold, and something that looks like a house and a circular tower looms through the dusk. The guide steps forward and opens a door, which admits us to a dim passage. He opens another door, and I am dazzled by the lights of a large room, where some forty or fifty guests are sitting at rows of tables eating, drinking, and smoking, while three women with harps sing and play in a corner.

To step from the chill gloom outside into such a scene was a surprise; and after my long day's walk to find a comfortable sofa five thousand feet above the sea, was a solace which I knew how to appreciate.

CHAPTER XXI.

Comforts on the Koppe—Samples of Germany—Provincial Peculiarities—Hilarity—A Couplet worth remembering—Four-bedded Rooms—View from the Summit—Contrast of Scenery—The Summit itself—Guides in Costume—Moderate Charges—Unlucky Farmer—The Descent—Schwarzkoppe—Grenzbäuden—Hungarian Wine—The Way to Adersbach—Forty Years' Experience.

Here, on the top of Schneekoppe, you find the appliances of luxury and elegance as well as of comfort. Many kinds of provisions, good wine, and beer of the best. A bazaar of crystals, carvings, Rübezahl's heads, and mountain-staves. Beds for fifty guests, and Strohlager (straw-lairs) for fifty more, besides music and other amusements, make up a total which satisfies most visitors. Do not, however, expect a room to yourself, for each chamber contains four beds, in one of which you will have to sleep or accept the alternative of straw. I heard no demur to these arrangements: in fact, most of the guests seemed to like throwing off conventionalities of the nether world while up among the clouds. For water—that is, to drink—you pay the price of beer, and with a disadvantage; seeing that, from being kept in beer-casks, its flavour is beery.

The company, though German, is very mixed: specimens of the men and women-kind from many parts of Germany. Here are Breslauers, who will say cha for ja: Berliners, who—cockneys of another sort, give to all their g's the sound of y—converting green into yreen, goose into yoose: gobble into yobble: Bremeners, whose Low Dutch has a twang of the Northumbrian burr; besides Saxons, Hanoverians, Mecklenburgers, and a happy couple, who told me they came from Gera—a principality about the size of Rutlandshire. Flat faces and round faces are the most numerous. The Silesians betray themselves by an angular visage and prominent chin. "Every province in Prussia," says Schulze to Müller, "has its peculiarity, or property, as they call it. Thus, for example, Pomerania is renowned for stubbornness; East Prussia for wit; the Rhineland for uprightness; Posen for mixed humour; the Saxon for softness; the Westphalian for hams and Pumpernickel; and Silesia—for good-nature." And here, on the highest ground in all North Germany, you may any day between Midsummer and Michaelmas bring the humourous philosopher's observations to the test.

Hilarity prevailed: the songstresses sang their best and twanged their strings with nimble fingers, and—came round with a sheet of music. Then a few of the guests migrated into the little chambers which on two sides open from the principal room; then a few more; and I noticed that some stopped to read a label affixed to the wall. I did the same. It bore a couplet: