Three hairy faces lay fast asleep on their pillows in the room to which I was shown. The bodies to which they belonged were covered with coats and wrappers, as well as blanket, for the night was very cold, and the wind blew around the house with an intermittent snarl.
I did not rise with the next morning's sun, but two hours later. By that time the mists had cleared off, or become so thin as not to conceal the landscape, and, on going out among the shivering groups, I saw an open view all round the horizon. The Silesian portion is by far the most attractive. To the south-west the Jeschken catches your eye, and, far beyond, the swelling outline of the Erzgebirge; to the south you see towns and villages in the valley of the Elbe, and in a favourable atmosphere the White Hill of Prague: in like circumstances Breslau can be seen, though forty-five miles distant to the north-east, and Görlitz with its hill—Landskrone—almost as far to the north-west, and on rare occasions, it is said, you can see the foremost of the Carpathians.
Not one of the remotest points was visible. I took pleasure in tracing my yesterday's route, in which the Schneegruben is all but hidden by an intervening ridge, and in surveying that which I had now to follow. There, in the direction towards Breslau, lay Schatzlar, and the lonely peak of the Zobten—the navel of Silesia, as old writers call it; and miles away easterly the Heuscheuer, a big hill on the Moravian frontier, which looks down on Adersbach, where we shall sleep to-night, if all go well. You can see a long stretch of the Isergebirge—mountains of the Iser which form part of the range—and deep gulfs, and grim rocky slopes, and pleasant valleys. But it is not the mountain scenery of Switzerland or Tyrol: you miss the awful precipices, the gloomy gorges thundering ever with the roar of waterfalls, the leagues on leagues of crowding hills, cliffs and forests, rushing higher and higher, till they front the storm zone with great white slopes and towering peaks that dazzle your eye when the sun looks at them. Here no snow remains save one "lazy streak" in a hollow of the crags on the heights above the Riesengrund. Imagine Dartmoor heaved up to twice its present elevation, and your idea of the view from Schneekoppe will come but little short of the reality.
The summit itself is a stony level, half covered by the inn, with its appurtenances and the chapel, leaving free space all round for visitors. Its height is 4965 Prussian feet above the sea. The boundary line between Bohemia and Silesia, which follows an irregular course along the range, crosses it. A chapel, dedicated to St. Lawrence, was first erected here by Count Leopold von Schaffgotsch, in 1668-81; but only since 1824 have Koppe-climbers found a house on the top to yield them shelter and entertainment. While walking about to get the view from every side you will not fail to be struck by the numerous guides in peaked hats, with broad band and feather, velveteen jackets heavy with buttons and braid; and not less by their coarse rustic dialect than by their costume. Extremes meet, and you will notice much in common, in sound at least, between this very High Dutch and the Low Dutch from Bremen and Hamburg.
The afternoon is the best time for the view. The shadows then fall to the east, as when I saw it yesterday from the Schneegruben; the sun is behind you, looking aslant into the Silesian vales, searching out whatever they possess of beautiful, and bringing out the lights on towns and villages for leagues around.
I had been told more than once while on the way that the charges on Schneekoppe were "monstrous;" but my supper, bed, and early cup of coffee with rusks, cost not more than one florin fifty kreutzers, service included; a sum by no means unreasonable, especially when you remember that all the provant has to be carried up on men's shoulders.
I have always been favoured with fine weather when among mountains, and here was no exception. The Riesengebirge, are, however, as much visited by fog, rain, and mist, as the mountains of Wales. Tourists come at times even from the shores of the Baltic, and go back disappointed, through prevalence of clouds and stormy weather. I heard of a farmer living not farther off than Schmiedeberg, who had climbed the Koppe thirteen times to look down on his native land, and every time he saw nothing but rain. There came one summer a few weeks of drought; the ground was parched, and fears were entertained for the crops. Thereupon the neighbouring farmers assembled, waited on the persevering mountain-climber, and besought him to go once more up Schneekoppe.
"Up Schneekoppe! for what?"
"If you do but go, look ye, it will be sure to rain, and we shall be so thankful."
Soon after six I started for the descent into Silesia, in company with two young wool-merchants from Breslau. On this side the slope is easy; but, as on the other side, after falling for awhile, the path makes a rise to pass over Schwarzkoppe (Black Head), a hill rough with heather. To this succeeded pleasant fir-woods, then birch and beech, and before eight we came to Grenzbäuden (frontier-buildings), a place renowned for its hospitality wherever lives a German who has seen the mountains. Three houses offer entertainment; but Hübner's is the most resorted to. There you find spacious rooms, a billiard-table, a piano, maps on the walls, and a colonnade for those who prefer the open air; and sundry appliances by which weather-bound guests may kill time. But, by common consent, Hübner's chief claim to consideration is, that Hungarian wine never fails in his cellar.