A July Holiday in Saxony, Bohemia, and Silesia

by Walter White

And quickly the question followed: "But what do you think of the marriage in England. Is it very popular?"

"Not very," I answered; "your Prussian Prince would have stood no chance had the King of Sardinia only been a Protestant. Nothing but her wholesome ingredient of Protestantism saves Prussia from becoming an offence to English nostrils."

"So-o-o-o-o!" ejaculated the Dresdener, while he made pointed arches of his eyebrows. "That sounds pretty in the Prince's own castle."

We went to the top of the tower, and looked out on the domain, the mountain chain, and the encircling hills—among which the rocky Falkenstein—the climbing test of adventurous tourists—rises conspicuous. According to tradition, great things are in store for the quiet little village of Fischbach; it is destined to grow into a city. In the Kittnerberg, a neighbouring hill, a golden donkey is some day to be found, and when found the city is forthwith to start up, and the finder to be chosen first burgomaster.

Erdmannsdorf, once the estate of brave old Gneisenau, was bought by the former King Frederick William III., who built in a style combining Moorish and Gothic the Schloss, or palace, which, with its charming grounds and bronze statues of men-at-arms at the entrance keeping perpetual guard with battle-axes, rivals the Tyrolese and their houses in attracting visitors. No barriers separate the grounds from the public road, and you may walk where you please along the broad sandy paths, under tall groves, through luxuriant shrubberies, round rippling lakes, and by streams which here and there tumble over rocky dams. The place is a miniature Chatsworth, with its model village. Within the limits of the smooth green turf and well-kept walks stands the church, an edifice with a tall square tower in the Byzantine style. The palace, too, has a tall tower, from the top of which, on our return to Erdmannsdorf—that is the Dresdener and I—we got a view of the royal domain, and the scattered houses of the Tyrolese, and always in the background the Riesengebirge.

Remembering their native valley, the Tyrolese named their settlement Zillerthal, and many a one comes here expecting to see a romantic valley. But all immediately beneath your eye is a great plain watered by the Lomnitz—the stream which flows out of the Big Pond up in the mountains—cut up by fields and meadows, crowded with trees around the palace, and in the deer-park adjoining. Only in Ober-Zillerthal, which lies nearer to the mountains, do the colonists have the pleasure of ascending or descending in their walks.

The Tyrolese themselves built their first house entirely of wood, after the old manner; and this served as model for all the rest, which, with stone walls for the lower story, have been erected at the king's expense. The colonists find occupation in cattle-breeding and field-work, or in the great linen factory, the tall chimney of which is seen from far across the plain; and are well cared for in means of education and religious worship. In their Friedhof you may see the first Tyrolese grave, the resting-place of Jacob Egger, a blind old man of eighty-three, who died soon after the immigration.

Not far from the palace is a singular group of rocks named Käse und Brod (Cheese and Bread), on the way to which you pass a stone quarry, where you can pick up fine crystals of quartz, and see men digging feldspar for the china-manufacturers at Berlin.

Here I parted from the Dresdener and took the road to Warmbrunn—about six miles distant. Half way, at the foot of the rocky Prudelberg, lies the village of Stohnsdorf, famed for its beer; and not without reason. But while you drink a glass, the landlord will tell you that clever folk in distant places—Berlin or Dresden—damage the fame by selling bottled Stohnsdorfer brewed from the waters of the Spree or Elbe.

If inclined for a scramble up the Prudelberg, take a peep into Rischmann's Cave among the rocks, for from thence, in 1630, the prophet Rischmann delivered his predictions with loud voice and wild gestures. He was a poor weaver, who fancied himself inspired, and, although struck dumb in 1613, could always find speech when he had anything to foretel. Woe to Hirschberg was the burden of his prophecy: war, pestilence, and famine! The tower of the council-house should fall, and the stream of the Zacken stand still. Honour and reverence awaited the weaver, for everything came to pass as he had foretold. The Thirty Years' War brought pestilence and famine; the tower did fall down; and the Zacken being one of those rivers with an intermittent flow, its stream was subject to periodical repose.