There are a few paintings worth looking at in the Romish church: one of them represents the rescue of a Count Schaffgotsch from drowning; and in the Evangelical church hang two portraits, one of the present king, the other of Blucher. But the museum established in the same building with the library, by the liberality of the Count, is the great attraction. Among the weapons you may see the scimitar which Sobieski snatched with his own hand from the grand vizier's tent when he raised the siege of Vienna; and near it a horsetail standard, a trophy of the same event, brought home by Johann Leopold von Schaffgotsch, one of the Count's ancestry. In other rooms are a collection of coins, of maps and charts—among them a few old globes, interesting to geographers—the Lord's Prayer in one hundred different languages, a model of the Riesengebirge, and other curiosities, which, with the library, afford abundant means for instruction and amusement. Then there is music twice a day in the Schloss garden, and the theatre is open in the evening, besides the numerous excursions to the hills and mountains around.
The Allée, about six hundred paces long, commands a striking view of the mountain chain from its farther end, where the ground falls away with gentle slope. I could see the prominent points which I had walked over a few days before; and nearer—about half an hour's walk—the Kynast, that much-talked-of ruin, crowning a dark-wooded hill. It attracts visitors as much by its story as by its lofty and picturesque situation. There once lived the beautiful but stony-hearted Cunigunda, who doomed many a wooer to destruction; for none could win her hand who had not first ridden his horse round the castle on the top of the wall. One after another perished; but she had vowed a vow, and would not relent. At last came one whose handsome face and noble form captivated at once the lady's heart. She would have spared him the adventure, but her vow could not be broken, and she watched with trembling heart while the stranger knight rode along the giddy height. He accomplished the task in safety; she would have thrown herself into his arms; but with a slap on her face, and a reproach for her cruelty, the Landgrave Albert of Thuringia—for he it was, who had a wife at home—turned his horse and galloped away.
While sauntering, I met the two Breslauers—my companions on the descent to the Grenzbäuden—and under their guidance explored yet more of the neighbourhood. The guard at the frontier had treated them mercifully, and after half an hour's detention in a little room up-stairs, let them go. Since then they had been making the usual round of excursions: to the fall of the Zacken, to the Norwegian church at Wang, to the Annakapelle, to Hirschberg, and other places—all within two or three hours' walk. Two days more and they would have to return to the counting-house at Breslau. Near the refreshment-houses in the fields young girls followed us offering packets of Oblatt for sale. This is a crisp cake, of agreeable flavour, thinner and lighter than the unleavened bread of the Jews, friendly to the enjoyment of a glass of beer on a hot afternoon; as we proved by eating a few packets while emptying our tankards in full view of the mountains, under an airy colonnade.
On our return to the village we met the Wirth from Schneekoppe, who had come down from his cloudy dwelling to bury a relative. I took the opportunity to send my compliments to Father Hübner, with a hint that his topographical information had not appeared to me of much more value than his man's morality.
Mineral springs are frequent in the mountains. Flinsberg, a quiet village on the Queiss, about four hours from Warmbrunn, in the Isergebirge, is resorted to by women, to whom the saline water impregnated with iron is peculiarly beneficial. One of the springs is so highly charged with carbonic acid gas that the villagers call it the Bierbrunnen (Beer Spring). And a short distance beyond Flinsberg, on the Bohemian side of the mountains, is Liebwerda, a romantic village, where springs of health bubble up, and Wallenstein's castle is within a walk. Quietest of all is Johannisbad, on the southern slope below Schneekoppe, not far from Marschendorf. There the fountains are lukewarm, and their influence is promoted by complete seclusion and repose.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Hirschberg—The Officers' Tomb—A Night Journey—Spiller—Greifenberg—Changing Horses—A Royal Reply—A Griffin's Nest—Lauban—The Potato Jubilee—Görlitz—Peter and Paul Church—View from the Tower—The Landskrone—Jacob Böhme—The Hidden Gold—A Theosophist's Writings—The Tombs—The Underground Chapel—A Church copied from Jerusalem—The Public Library—Loebau—Herrnhut.
It was so dark when the omnibus from Warmbrunn arrived at Hirschberg—about five miles—that I lost the sight of its pretty environment, watered by the Bober and Zacken, and of its old picturesque houses, the gables of which were dimly visible against the sky. The town has more than seven thousand inhabitants, and for trade ranks next to Breslau. Its history is that of most towns along this side of Silesia: so much suffering by war, that you wonder how they ever survived. A memorial of the latest scourge is to be seen in the Hospital churchyard—a cast-iron monument in memory of three Prussians, who, wounded at Lützen in 1813, died here on the same day. Under their names runs the inscription: They died in an Iron time for a Golden.
Not being able to see anything, I booked a place by Stellwagen for Görlitz, and supped in preparation for a night of travel. We started at eleven, a company numerous enough to fill three vehicles, those lowest on the list taking their seats in the hindmost. As these hindmost carriages are changed at every stopping-place with the horses, I and other unfortunates had to turn out at unseasonable hours, and to find, in two instances, that we had not changed for the better—soft seats and cleanliness for hard seats and fustiness. So at Spiller: so at Greifenberg.
It adds somewhat to one's experiences to be roused from uneasy slumber at midnight with notice to alight. You feel for umbrella and knapsack, and step down into the chill gloom of a summer night; and while the leisurely work of changing goes on, stroll a little way up or down the roughly-paved street, looking at the strange old houses, all so still and lifeless, as if they were fast asleep as well as their inmates. Why should you be awake and shivering when honest folk are a-bed? and you feel an inclination to envy the sleepers. If you turn a corner and get out of sight of the Posthouse, the houses look still more lonely and unprotected: not a glimmer to be seen, and it seems unfair that every one should be comfortable but you. Or from the outside of a house you picture to yourself those who inhabit it; or, perhaps, you get a peep into the churchyard, or venture through a dark arch to what looks like an ancient cloister, and your drowsy thought gives way to strange imaginings.