A direct railroad from Berlin to Dresden is talked of: as it is, we were obliged to go round by Leipsig. On this account those travellers who have carriages prefer posting; the conveyance of a carriage by a railroad being always expensive. In no part of the world, however, is the speed of steam more acceptable; a drearier prospect of level desert cannot be imagined. I felt this the less, for being very much fatigued, and not well, I slept nearly all the way. We arrived at about two at Leipsig, dined at the Hôtel de Saxe, and embarked on the Dresden railroad. The carriages are small and uncomfortable. As we drew near Dresden, the country assumed a different aspect; hills appeared, and we beheld again some of the charms of earth. The station is in the New Town, and a drosky took us to the Hôtel de Pologne, which Murray mentions as the best; but in this he is mistaken. It is an hotel a good deal frequented by Englishmen, travelling tutors, and their pupils; but the hotels to which all families go are in the Neu Markt. There are several on a scale as extensive and complete as the Hôtel de Saxe, at Leipsig.

We expected to find a friend here conversant with the town to give us information and advice. We learn that he, as well as everybody else, is away; but instead of going to some fashionable baths, he is rusticating at Rabenau, a village some seven miles off. We at once resolved to visit him there; and hiring one of the hack carriages, we the next morning set out on this expedition.

At first we followed the course of the Elbe, beneath picturesque cliffs, and then turning off we got among some cross-roads of the most impracticable description, up a steep slope; when we reached the top we found a chasm, in the depth of which the village we sought is situated. The road was far too precipitous for the carriage to descend, so we walked down. The country has a singular aspect. In other mountainous lands, we live in the valleys, and look up to the hills as they lift themselves towards the sky. Here, however, we descend from the plain into the ravine. These words require further explanation. I have mentioned that we ascended a hill: this was composed of arable land, the fields, unbroken by tree or rock, spread round in smooth upland; but in the midst we found the chasm, the fissure, the rent I mentioned, and we descended, as it were, down into the bosom of the earth—and deeper, deeper, till the wooded hills close round and almost shut out the sky, and a brawling stream, which turns a mill, frets its way between rocks clothed by trees, that nearly meet on either side. Nothing can be more peaceful, more secluded, more shut in; and if not wildly sublime, yet rock and wood and torrent combined to render it picturesque; a rustic bridge crossed the stream, and there, abutting against the hill side, stood the mill, and before the mill a large pleasant room for the reception of guests, for many come, especially on feast days, to dine here. Here our friend had betaken him to compose his opera. Beside the dashing waterfalls, beneath the music-giving pines; and in grassy nooks shaded by mossy rocks and tree-grown precipices, he found a spot whose breath was melody, whose aspect imparted peace. Earth had opened, and this little ravine was a very nest adorned by nature’s hand with her choicest gifts. When we arrived he was absent; he had gone with his note-book to study among the pines. You know and admire his compositions. Thanks to them, Shelley’s Poems have found an echo of sweet sounds worthy of them. The fanciful wildness, the tender melancholy, the holy calm of the poet, have met a similar inspiration on the part of the musician. They have as much melody as the Italian, as much science as the German school—they appertain most, indeed, to the last; but the airs themselves are original. The song of “Arethusa,” and that entitled “Spirit of Night,” are perhaps the best. The one, light and fanciful; the other, solemn and impassioned; both, beautiful. The rest are second only to these.^[9]

We wandered about rather disconsolate and hungry till our friend appeared, who joyously welcomed us; and dinner was ordered, and ready in a trice. The fare was not very choice, nor delicately served; but very characteristic of what one has read of middle life in Germany. To this secluded bower families came—or students—or a fond pair stole hither from the crowd, to drink beer and smoke on the rustic seats beneath the trees. It was easy, however, to escape from these groups deeper into the ravine, or into other fissures of earth of a similar nature, which branched off; or, clambering up the cliffs, to find freer air on the hill-top. The daughter of the miller, not particularly pretty, but willing and good-humoured, waited on us. Snow-white table-cloths, and sparkling, inviting dinner apparatus, unfortunately, were not among the comforts; but the meats were eatable—the trout more than that; the whole not good enough to invite lingering over the meal; and again we sauntered beside the torrent, and reposed under the trees, and talked over our plans and a thousand other subjects, with the zest of people who found a new and willing listener after long seclusion.

Our eager love of Italy has struck a spark and lighted a similar flame in the breast of our friend. He intended repairing to Vienna in the winter. He now proposes taking Venice in his way; so that, if we will remain a month at Dresden, he will accompany us at least so far on our southern journey. It is thus arranged; not, perhaps, for the best—for, if the heats continue, any town must be disagreeable—still we have come so far into the heart of Germany, that there can be no harm, though it be not the town season, in lingering a few weeks in one of its most celebrated cities. We have accordingly taken convenient lodgings in the Alt Markt; and here we are.

Already, you may be sure, we have visited the Gallery—a labyrinth of lofty halls, adorned by a very mine of painted canvas, which thoroughly to explore would indeed be difficult. Some of its chief gems are in one room. Entering this, we are at once commanded and awed by the “Madonna di San Sisto,” the Virgin bearing the Infant God in her arms, by Raphael. As a painting, technically speaking, I believe there are faults found with it: worst of all, it has been retouched and restored; but no criticism can check the solemn impression it inspires. The Madonna is not the lowly wife of Joseph the carpenter: she is the Queen of Heaven; she advances surrounded by celestial rays, all formed of innumerable cherubim, from whose countenances beam the glory that surrounds her. The majesty of her countenance, “severe in youthful beauty,” demands worship for her as the mother of the Infant Saviour, whom she holds in her arms. And he, the Godhead (as well as feeble mortals can conceive the inconceivable, and yet which once it is believed was visible) sits enthroned on his brow, and looks out from eyes full of lofty command and conscious power. With one hand, he makes the sign of blessing, as in Catholic countries this is bestowed. Below are two angels—both lovely; one inexpressibly so—who are looking up. I have seen copies and engravings from this picture; I have seen these angels well imitated, but never the mother and child. In some, the angelic beauty is sacrificed in the endeavour to portray the majestic glance, which thus becomes stern; or the dignity fades, that the beauty, which thus becomes inexpressive, may be preserved. In truth, copies are very inefficient things; prints are often better; but if you look at the originals, such weak types fade into insignificance.

There are four large Correggios in this room; all among his earlier pictures. As paintings, I am told that they rank higher than the Raphael. They gain by being looked at and studied; the art of painting has never, nor can ever be carried further than the Chiaro Oscuro of this admirable artist; and the attitudes of the figures—the expression of some of the faces—especially of St. Sebastian, in one of them, thrills the frame. Now, the sense of adoration is cold in men’s breasts, and painters can neither see in others, nor conceive within their own breasts, a passion as absorbing as love, while it elevates and purifies those who feel it till their features shadow forth an angelic nature. A fifth Correggio is also here—the Magdalen, a small cabinet picture. It is well known. I am told that Correggio only painted it once; but Allori, a good painter, but whose conceptions, whose types (to use the word of the author of “La Poésie Chrétienne”) are not noble, has made many most admirable copies; it has thus been multiplied; some of the copies are generally said to be by the hand of Correggio himself; yet, in the most celebrated of them, I have not seen the mixed expression which is so wonderful in the face of the original. She is lying on the earth, in a cavern, supporting her head with her hand, reading the blessed promises of the Gospel. Her eyes are red with recent and much weeping; her face expresses earnest hope—or rather scarcely hope yet, but a yearning which will soon warm into satisfied faith; and she is eagerly drinking in the sublime consolations that speak peace to her heart. Her face is not clouded by grief, though you see that she has grieved with bitterness; nor does it express joy, though you see that she anticipates happiness. Is not this the triumph of art? You must add to this inimitable delicacy in shadowing forth expression, an execution quite unrivalled. The word Chiaro Oscuro, as applied to Correggio’s paintings, is familiar to every one. This picture teaches more than any other what it means. With other artists, the flesh in shade, is the flesh darkened—blackened: here—look at the arms, the throat of the Magdalen; they are fair as alabaster—or rather, as the fair skin of woman, and the shadow that obscures them, conceals it in the painting not more than it would do in reality.

The heat is very great; the hours of the gallery excessively inconvenient—from nine to one, when it is inexorably closed, that the attendants may dine at the universal German hour; and they do not open again. I am convinced that one of the reasons that there is heaviness in the Germans, is this early hour for their principal, their interminable meal. Who can be fit for anything, after sitting for two or three hours at mid-day to a plentiful dinner? After such an act, life must be extinct in all the nobler functions for some hours; but, as they go to bed at ten, they do not give scope for the mind to recover itself. To be sure, they rise at five, and therefore their great men have been able to achieve so much.

With regard to the gallery, special permission may be obtained, if sought and paid for, to visit it at other hours. If we were only here for a day or two, it would be worth while to obtain this; but then an attendant would accompany us all the time; now we are free to roam at will. So we shall content ourselves with the public hours.

We are to remain the whole of this month at Dresden; before the end of it, I hope the heat will diminish. It is so excessive that I mean to escape for a few days to Rabenau.

In such and other verse has the “valley of beauty, sunny Rabenau,” been celebrated by one of my friends, who visited it with us, and whose ardent and poetic imagination was warmed by inspiration in this lonely spot. I am sorry to say, that, secluded and beautiful as is the narrow dell, I did not quite share his transports; I obtained no refuge from the heat, from which I had endeavoured to escape. Truly we enjoyed the shade of woods and cliffs, and the refreshing murmur of the stream; but deep down and shut in as is the ravine, we found it close and breezeless. Besides, to my misfortune, I am more fastidious than a traveller ought to be. During the day I sought for a cool spot, and even though I found it not, yet as I loitered among the woods, every object charmed the eye; and evening came at last, bringing relief and enjoyment. But at night it was otherwise. The mill is a very rustic cot; and the Germans are not, as far as I can judge, a cleanly people. At Kissingen we were obliged to exert ourselves vehemently to get the floors (which, being of white smooth deal, to use a servant’s phrase, show dirt) washed. Water had never touched the boards of my room at Rabenau, and in vain I pleaded for a little scouring. Then German beds, especially in the north of Germany, are uncomfortable. Feather-beds everywhere are disagreeable; but here they are constructed on the most odious principle. They are a quarter filled with feathers: so when you lie down, they inclose you on all sides, as a half-empty bladder does your finger if you press it. Usually there are mattresses besides, and one can discard the annoying softness; but at Rabenau there was only a loose straw palliasse, and one of these disastrous beds, which threw me into a state of nervous agitation, that turned the night into a period of pain.

In short, after enduring the annoyance for three nights, P—— and I quitted it, leaving our poet and musician behind, to indulge, for a few more days, in the inspirations of the rocky dell. An old woman stowed carpet-bag, cloaks, and books, into a basket, and putting a weight I could scarcely lift on her back, walked briskly on before. Like gnomes, we emerged from the inner recesses of the earth, and ascended to its outer edge; and again descending the hill side, we reached the high road, where we hoped to find a carriage sent to meet us. We were disappointed; but after a perplexing half hour, during which we expected to have to walk to Dresden, we secured a return britska, and gladly took our way to our temporary home. Could I have foreseen the heat, I had not fixed to remain at Dresden so long, but have gone on to wait for our friend at Töplitz. There is no help now, and I console myself by recollecting that I am in a city I have long desired to see, and can store my mind with the memory of a thousand objects, which hereafter I shall look back on as my choicest treasures.

I ramble in the morning in the Gallery: the heat, indeed, is almost insupportable; but still I cannot tear myself away. There is a lovely picture of Rebecca at the well, by Giorgione. There is a fine one, by Annibal Caracci, of the Angel of Fame. He is springing upwards; wreaths of laurel hang from his arm; one hand bears a crown, the other holds a trumpet, and a halo of flame plays round his head. There is something living and spirit-stirring in this picture, though its colouring is not pleasing. There are the portraits of his three daughters by Palma Vecchio: one of them in particular is very beautiful. The women of this painter resemble those of Titian—the same full feminine form, the same voluptuous repose, joined to queen-like dignity.

One of the gems of the gallery is the Cristo della Moneta, of Titian, which Mrs. Jamieson eulogizes with much taste and judgment. It is among the earliest, and is one of the best of the works of this artist. It is but a small half-length, containing two figures. The Jew shows a coin to our Saviour, and asks to whom tribute should be paid. The questioner looks full of cunning—Jesus, suffering, patient, dignified. As with all these great painters, the countenance expresses many mingled feelings, and you read the thoughts of the martyr, revealed by his searching eye and the sad composure of his mien. “This is a snare. You think to entrap me. You will not succeed. With a word, I brush away the flimsy web of evil. But it will not always be thus; the time will come when I shall be your victim; yet I bear the present insult and future death with resignation for your sake—for the sake of all mankind. My path is before me; I tread it patiently and resolutely, though you strew it with thorns.” All this you read in that face; all gentleness, resignation, love, and suffering. A connoisseur here objects, that the countenance of Christ wants dignity; perhaps it does; yet, methinks, it has as much as the human face, in sorrow, can express. I told you that the gallery shuts at one. I linger to the last. At a quarter before this hour, the men come round, and draw down the blinds, leaving the gallery nearly in darkness. I was in the room containing the Correggios when they did this. The Notte of that painter is among them: The Shepherds visiting Jesus in the manger by night, and the only light emanates from the cradle of the divine child, spreading its halo over the Virgin’s face, which is bent over the babe, while the shepherds veil their eyes with their hands from the dazzling effulgence. When, by the drawing down of the blinds, we were left nearly in darkness, the effect on this picture was miraculous. The child lay in living beams, which seemed to emanate from a focus, and spread rays of light around. I could not have believed that any coloured canvas could have shown such glowing radiance. The intention of the master becomes more clear, and his wonderful art more admirable. No doubt the picture was painted for some niche that favoured the peculiar distribution of light and shadow.

There are some very beautiful specimens of the Dutch school in the gallery; but I do not, of course, send you a mere catalogue; and in mentioning those that gave me most pleasure, you know my preference for Italian pictures.

One day, while wandering about the gallery, I saw a well known face. It was more than a pleasure; it was indeed a gain to meet the accomplished Author of “La Poésie Chrétienne” in the very spot where his knowledge and taste would inform my ignorance and correct my judgment; still more agreeable it is to learn that he is also bound for Italy. His animated conversation and refined society will add more than I can express of interest and pleasure to our rambles.

I drag myself painfully home from the gallery, but find no shade, and short repose.

We have here only a woman who “does for us,” preparing our breakfast and attending to our rooms. Our dinner is another affair. Not far from us there is a Tratoria, kept by a Milanese, well known in Dresden as a good cook, and where we can obtain food not germanized in its preparation. We either go and dine there, or have our dinner sent to us; his prices are exceedingly reasonable. The ceremony of our dinner over, I repose as well as the sun will let me, which has by this time left one part of our house and invaded another, making every portion, beyond conception, sultry. I never found any heat so oppressive. This arises from Dresden being so inland; and no rain having fallen for six months, the dryness of the atmosphere renders its high temperature penetrating, subtle, burning, intolerable.

Evening comes, and though it does not bring with it sufficient coolness to banish lassitude and even pain, still the heat is diminished, and I go out to walk or drive. If on foot, we go usually to the Terrace of Brühl, to which you ascend by a wide flight of steps from the foot of the bridge. The view here is beautiful. I can imagine circumstances which would render it sublime. It overlooks the Elbe; and were that river in “its pride of place”—full—rushing—stormy—it would add movement and grandeur to the scene. But the waters have ebbed even as the Arno does, till the bathers almost walk across without any chance of getting out of their depth; the bed, as a river’s bed always does when the shrunken stream leaves it exposed, is a deformity to the landscape; and the extreme dryness of the season has caused the fields on the other side to resemble those seen by Charles Lamb from his retreat at Dalston. “Talk of green fields,” he said, “every one has green fields; I have drab-coloured fields.” I look over the parapet and try to imagine the river full to the brim; the lower piles of the beautiful bridge bathed and hidden by tumultuous waves; the domes and spires of the city rising silent above a turbid, tempestuous, sea-like river: that would be the scene which is the glory and boast of Dresden; now all is slothful and stagnant. The same is to be predicated of the company assembled; all the beau monde of all the towns of Germany is assembled at various baths, and so I must not wonder that I not only saw no beauty, but nothing either well-dressed or elegant in the promenades. We have driven to the Grosse Garten, a large park, filled with fine trees, and were the lawns laid out in verdant sward, instead of being an incult growth of the coarsest grass, very uninviting, especially in its present arid state, the shady walks and glades would be pleasant. I may say the same of all the other gardens of which this capital boasts. They would be very delightful, only just now they are deficient in freshness and verdure. Do not think I say this as a fault-finder, except that they ought to learn from us what grass when cultivated for ornamental uses ought to be. I consider the gardens and terraces and pleasure-grounds that adorn Dresden more beautiful than those of almost any other capital. The fault is ours, not theirs. The pleasure-grounds of a city ought to be, and in this case are, adapted to the seasons during which the inhabitants make use of them. But in the height of summer, Nature only in her free fresh beauty can afford enjoyment. We have no business to come here now in search of wood and stream and field, which alone can content our souls, athirst and wearied by the heat. The fault, as I have said, is ours; not that of Dresden, which really may be said in some degree to rival Florence in its pretensions to beauty, and which has of course an individual character of its own.

P—— goes almost every night to the Opera. The heat is so very great, that I have only seldom ventured. The house is very pretty; and I had hoped, as there are some good singers, to hear some of the chef-d’œuvres of German composers. I am disappointed. At Berlin, we had Masaniello: here we have La Dame Blanche—Die weisse Frau—instead of the Huguenots, which our musical friend considers the finest composition of modern times—inferior only to Mozart; superior to him, inasmuch as orchestral accompaniment is so wonderfully improved and extended since the day when Figaro and the Zauberflöte were brought out. I am much disappointed in not hearing this opera. The tenor is a young, good-looking man, with a very pleasing voice and good style. It is strange, indeed, how well German sings. Look at the language, with its accumulation of consonants, and it appears worse even than our own for singing; but in reality it is far better; ours being, from its peculiar accent, the worst, I believe, in the world; while the German is smoothed and vocalised and flowing in a manner which, till I heard it sung by natives, I could not have imagined. This same sdruccioli enunciation does not, however, make it pleasing to the ear when spoken.

At length we left the ravine, and entered a forest of firs. After traversing this we found ourselves, as if by magic, at a high elevation, and stood upon the Bastei or Bastion. This is a vast mass of rock, that rises 800 feet above the Elbe, in the depths and centre of which the rent was made which we had thridded. The uttermost edge projects far beyond the face of the precipice, and here we stood looking on a scene so utterly different from every other, that it is difficult to describe it. A caprice of nature is the name usually bestowed on this district; while geologists explain how the action of water on a peculiar species of rock has caused the appearance before us. It is still the same, though on a gigantic and sublime scale. The earth has been broken, and fissured, and worn away. The Elbe sweeps majestically at the foot of the Bastei; a plain is spread beneath, closed in by an amphitheatre of huge columnar hills, which do not, as is usually the case, begin with gradual upland, but rise at once in shape fantastic,—isolated one from the other. Some of the highest and most abrupt have been used as fortresses. The sides of the precipices of the Bastei are clothed in a forest of firs and other wood.^[11] The whole scene was bathed in dazzling sunshine. The heat was so great, that it was painful to stand on the giddy verge, which is protected by wooden rails (for the whole district is prepared for show); yet it was almost impossible to tear oneself away.

There is an inn at the Bastei, where we dined. German cooking is very bad, and we had to wait long, and were served slowly. A young Englishman dined at the same table. In a classification of travellers, what name is to be given to those who travel only for the sake of saying that they have travelled? He was doing his Saxon Switzerland; he had done his Italy, his Sicily; he had done his sunrise on Mount Etna; and when he should have done his Germany, he would return to England to show how destitute a traveller may be of all impression and knowledge, when they are unable to knit themselves in soul to nature, nor are capacitated by talents or acquirements to gain knowledge from what they see. We must become a part of the scenes around us, and they must mingle and become a portion of us, or we see without seeing and study without learning. There is no good, no knowledge, unless we can go out from, and take some of the external into, ourselves: this is the secret of mathematics as well as of poetry.

We indulged, as well we might, in gazing delightedly from this battlement of nature on the magnificent scene around; and then we turned to the prosaic part of travelling, the necessity of getting on. Our driver (provided by the master voiturier who was to take us to Prague) had been told to meet us at the Bastei; he pretended that this was impossible; that no carriage ever came up, and we must walk some three or four miles to join him. We found all this to be utterly false, and that the usual custom was for the carriages to come up to the Bastei. With a burning sun above, and a good deal of labour before us, we were not willing to encounter any unnecessary fatigue: so we sent a man to order the carriage to come to us. It came; but the kutscher refused to take us unless we paid him something extra. This was an obvious piece of rascality, and we begged our friend, who was absolute master of German, to remonstrate with him. But he had, during his long stay in this country, acquired too much laisser-aller for our impatient English natures. Nothing can equal the slow style in which a German makes a bargain, or discusses a disputed point. He never thinks that he can argue with any success, unless he puts one hand on the other’s shoulder, and brings his face close to him. Indeed, this habit of coming so very near in conversation is, as far as I remarked, usual in Germany. I have often edged off till I got into a corner, and then there was no help but, if possible, to run away. To return to our kutscher. With ignorant and deaf ears we saw him and our friend argue and re-argue the point while time flew. Our instructions were, to leave the Bastei at three at latest; it was now long past four. Why not yield to the demand? I believe travellers alone know the swelling indignation and obstinate resistance with which, at the worst of times, they meet extortion. We would not yield; and finding our friend still vainly discussing, another among us took our books and cloaks from the carriage, and, pumping up the only German words he could command, said to the fellow:—“Kannen sie nach Dresden gehen.” If he had been master, he might have taken us at our word; but he knew we should meet his master at Arbesau, so he took fright and consented, without extra pay, to take us to Schandau. He had been engaged to take us some four miles beyond; but we (foolishly enough) consented to be satisfied with being driven so far.

Descending from the Bastei, the road wound round hills, with a stream on the other hand. Schandau is thus placed, and it is a very pretty country inn; the stream in front, with a bridge, and before a garden, secluded and peaceful, reminded one of the inn at Burford Bridge, near Boxhill. It would have been as well to remain here could we have given three instead of two days to our excursion. But this was impossible; and we were anxious, as evening was advancing, to get on. We asked if we could have a calèche to take us to the foot of the Kuhstall, which is the last point where a carriage is serviceable; the rest of the excursion must be performed on foot, in chairs, or on mules.

Our instructions bid us leave Schandau by five at latest; it was now nearly six: so we begged them to hasten with the carriage. Fair promises were given, and we loitered away half an hour in the garden of the inn, and then we grew impatient. After a time it became apparent that the people were playing the very usual trick of delaying bringing a carriage, till too late, so to force us to sleep at their inn. We were rather slow at arriving at this conviction, and not the less resolute to resist the imposition; indeed, yielding would put us to great inconvenience. After answering our expostulations for some time with false promises, they at last impudently declared that we could not have a carriage. Our only resource was the fellow who brought us from Dresden, and who by compact ought at once to have taken us to the place whither we wished to go. Two thalers bribed him, and he agreed to proceed. We asked for a guide, and engaged him; but, at setting off from Schandau, he said it was impossible for a lady to reach the Grosse Winterberg that night, and he refused to go.

On the whole, with evening closing in, the guide deserting, and several miles before us, to sleep at Schandau seemed our best resource; but we would not; the cool evening air was pleasant. I did not object to a little adventure. We should, it is true, miss some points usually visited, but we should gain a great object with the tourist—that of viewing the Grosse Winterberg by moonlight and at sunrise;—we went on, therefore, the road winding at the base of wooded hills, till we reached the foot of the Kuhstall. The mules were all gone, and so were the guides. A countryman who was doing work at the inn of the Grosse Winterberg, offered to show us the way thither, and leaving the carriage, and loading the man with books and carpet-bag, we set out.

We had been obliged to give up the idea of viewing Kuhstall and the Kleine Winterberg, and aimed only at reaching the Grosse, which is situated at the top of a very high hill. It was now past eight o’clock, and evening had closed in. The hill we climbed was clothed with pines, and it was impossible to conceive a more fatiguing ascent. The soil was sand, into which we sank to our ankles, as we toiled up. No breath of air stirred the trees. After the first chill which followed sunset, the night became excessively warm; shut in as we were by trees, we were oppressed by heat and toil. To add to our troubles, it soon grew pitch-dark—not a star-beam penetrated the trees—our guide went on before, and we provided him with a cigar, the light of which alone showed us where he was; and now and then my companions struck sparks from a flint to throw transient radiance on the path, which bordered (I believe, but we could see nothing) a steep precipice on one hand; on the other, we had the broken surface of the mountain, and the boughs of the pines overhead. The way seemed endless—but as we had conquered the people at Schandau, and got our own way, we would not be dispirited—and laughed at our difficulties—and toiled up the steep, plunging as we went deep into the sand. At last we reached the top of the hill, and another half hour brought us to the inn. It was eleven o’clock—so you may imagine that the way had been long, and that we were not a little fatigued.

Late as it was, we determined to reward ourselves with a little amusement. Supper was ordered—and we ordered also three Bohemian girls with their harps. Here, as in Wales, harps form a part of the entertainment given to travellers at the inns; but in Bohemia, they are played by girls instead of men. The harpists were gone, it was so late; but at our call they came, and played and sang several wild national airs. We were now on the frontiers of Bohemia, whence the race of Gipsies was said in old times to have emigrated. I do not know whether there was any Gipsy blood in these girls—their eyes had not the peculiar cast of the race. One of the three was very handsome, and looked proud—as indeed she was—and listened with an air of haughty disdain to every compliment. They had on their faces, that which too often rests on the countenances of the lower order of Germans—an expression of sullenness. I soon grew too tired to listen, and left them playing. The waning moon rose over the sea of hills on which I looked from my window; I was almost too fatigued to see. At sunrise I started up to gaze;—the glory of awakening day was on the mountain tops, which looked more like a stormy ocean than a scene of earth. I scarcely know what I saw; my eyes were drooping with sleep; I knew my companions would not rise, so I went again to bed, and when I awoke, it seemed as if I had dreamed of a glorious sunrise in fairy-land. I looked from the tiny casement of my room—we were on the highest of many hundred hills, nearly two thousand feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a wide horizon, inclosing a district strangely convulsed, wildly heaped up with mountains and rocks of various and fantastic shapes, clothed with wood.

Murray speaks of the inn at the Grosse Winterberg as two or three separate huts, where sorry accommodation may be obtained. This state of things is reformed. On the highest pinnacle of the mountain is a very good country inn, such as may remind the traveller of those found in North Wales. The host was very civil, and we had to put his civility to the test. I had put a quantity of thaler notes in my writing-desk, and this had gone with our luggage; by a miscalculation, I had not brought enough of the dirty paper for our exclusion, and the less that I had expected to pay for our carriage at Prague. But the fellow who drove us insisted on the money, twelve thalers, before he left us at Schandau; two more we had to give him to take us to the foot of the hill of the Grosse Winterberg; and this had entirely drained us. The master of the inn readily agreed to pass us on to the host at Tätchen, who again would trust us till we reached Arbesau, and were possessed of our dear thalers. It is impossible to express the sense of littleness that comes over one when, in travelling, one has no money at all. Gulliver, in the palm of the hand of the Brobdignagian reaper, could not have felt smaller, till we received our host’s ready consent to trust us.

We ought to have left this eagle’s nest on a rock at seven, or, at latest, at nine o’clock. But loitering was the order of the day; and I resolved to give way—to make no remonstrance—and see how long we should linger. We went up to a terrace on the roof of the house, to see a yet wider prospect; we looked at the different specimens of Bohemian glass; we listened to the harpists. My mule was brought; but when three of the party were assembled, a fourth was missing; and when he came, another had gone. We got away, at last, at one o’clock.

Immediately on leaving this elevated spot, we plunged down a ravine clothed with firs, just such a one, I suppose, as we had climbed, only it led in an opposite direction. We were soon told that we had crossed the frontier line, and were in Bohemia. The toil was considerable; the descent so steep, that to walk had been less fatiguing; but, as I was about to get off my mule, another ascent began; and very high and steep it proved till we reached a pinnacle abutting over the side of the mountain, which might almost rival the Bastei. The view was different: the absence of the river rendered it less beautiful. From the side of this rock springs the Presbichthor—a natural arch of vast size, that spans a ravine. The face of the rock from which it springs is cut into terraces; and you climb higher and higher, from one to the other, and reach the summit of the arch. The scene is inconceivably wild. Earth looks rent, convulsed, shattered—isolated, disjointed mountains, rising abruptly from the plain, their sides clothed by firs, are spread around. The majestic arch forms an object of great beauty in the midst. There is an inn here for the refreshment of travellers. We only obtained, however, some bad bread and cheese.

The descent was very abrupt and fatiguing. I walked most part of the way till we reached the Kamnitz, a large stream, or rather river. This added softness, yet movement, to the scene, but took from its singularity. The way was long, but we reached at last Hirniskretschen, where there is a very dirty inn, crowded by travellers—traders, they seemed to be. No rustic holiday inn was this; nor one kept for the accommodation of tourists, but one for the use of the lower order of country people.

Where extortion is not manifest, we ought not to quarrel with the higher prices of hotels in show places, since they are there—oases of civilisation amidst the desert of native dirt and discomfort—for our sole use; and they must be maintained by what they gain during seasons of tours. The singular filth and squalid appearance of this wretched place made us regard even the misdeeds of Schandau leniently.

This village is on the Elbe; and gladly we hired a boat, and exchanged the fatiguing descent of mountain paths for the repose of being carried swiftly and smoothly down the river. In truth, we did not see the Elbe to advantage. On account of the long drought, it had shrunk in its bed: but still a majestic river, sweeping between mountainous banks, always presents varied and agreeable prospects, which seem all peace and enjoyment; and, after our two days of toil, we were right glad of the repose.

Midway on our voyage, we came to the Austrian frontier. The Austrian Government has not joined the league which unites the rest of Germany, and has put an end to the annoyance a traveller suffered, passing in one day the frontiers of several States, and stopped, and his luggage examined at each. However, though the Austrian preserves his right to annoy, he amiably abstained. I had given my passport to my maid, but was not even obliged to get out of the boat to shew myself, the explanation given by my companions being received even with deference. A custom-house officer stepped into the boat: eight gute-groschen (a piece of money similar in value to a shilling) caused him at once to exchange an appearance of extreme official severity to the excess of considerate courtesy. We were detained but a few minutes, and found ourselves admitted in the much-feared Austria with less trouble than we ever before passed a frontier.

Towards sunset we arrived at Tätchen; our boatmen and the bill at the Grosse Winterberg were defrayed by the master of the hotel here. We ordered dinner, and my friends went to bathe in the Elbe. We passed an hour or two pleasantly, but after this, grew uneasy. It was our wish to get on beyond Arbesau that same night, that we might reach Prague on the following day. But the Germans never hurry. It was past six before we got a very bad dinner, with black bread, which nothing but long habit would render edible; and then we had to wait for the carriage, or rather cart, which was to take us on. The first hour or two after sunset was very chilly: that passed, the usual heat returned. I was excessively fatigued, and the jolting of our vehicle was distressing. It seemed as if we should never arrive; and it was past midnight before we entered the open court-yard of the inn, where all slept silently beneath the moon except the dog left by our voiturier to guard the carriage. In our earnestness to get on we were unreasonable enough to call our coachman up and beg him to set off. He was very angry at being disturbed by our outrageous design; and returned grumbling to his straw: for these people never undress, but turn in among straw in the stables, close to their horses. I confess I was not sorry for the ill success of our magnanimous design. We got some tea and some tubs of water, and these were much more suited to us.