We left Dresden in the middle of July, a motley group of five: a Frenchman, an Austrian, two natives of Lübeck, and myself; silversmiths and jewellers together; all of us duly viséd by our several ambassadors through Saxon Switzerland, by way of Pirna, on to Peterswald. The latter is the frontier town of Bohemia, and forms, therefore, the entrance from Saxony into the Austrian empire.
At dusk we were on the banks of the Elbe, at the ferry station near Pillnitz, the summer dwelling of the King of Saxony. Having crossed the broad stream, we leapt joyously up the steep path that led into a mimic Switzerland; a country of peaks, valleys, and pine trees, wanting only snow and glaciers. For three days we wandered among those wild regions; now scaling the bleak face of a rock; now stretched luxuriously on the purple moss, or gathering wild raspberries by the road side. From the abrupt edge of the overhanging Bastei we looked down some six hundred feet upon the wandering Elbe, threading its way by broad slopes, rich with the growth of the vine; or by bleached walls of stone, upon which even the lichens seemed to have been unable to make good their footing. From the narrow wooden bridge of Neu Rathen, we looked down upon the waving tops of fir trees, hundreds of feet beneath us. Then down we ourselves went by a wild and jagged path into a luxuriant valley called by no unfit name, Liebethal—the Valley of Love!
Then there was Königstein, seen far away, a square-topped mountain, greyish white with time and weather, soaring above the river’s level some fourteen hundred feet. And we clambered on, never wearying; by mountain fall and sombre cavern, and round the base of an old rock up to a fortress, till we reached the iron gates; and, amid the echo of repeated passwords and the clatter of military arms, entered its gloomy portal. We entered only to pass through;
and having admired from the summit a glorious summer prospect, we journeyed on again into the plains beyond, and so entered the Austrian territory at Peterswald.
Then there was a great change from fertility to barrenness. From the moment we entered Bohemia we were oppressed by a sense of poverty, of sloth, or some worse curse resulting from Austrian domination, which seemed to have been enough to cripple even Nature herself as she stood about us. It was evident that we had got among another race of people, or else into contact with a quite different state of things. At the first inn we found upon the road, although it was a mighty rambling place, with stone staircases and spacious chambers, there was not bedding enough in the whole establishment for our party of five, and yet we were the only guests. We were reduced to the expedient of spreading the two mattresses at our disposal close together upon the bare boards, and so sleeping five men in one double bed. A miserable night we had of it. We fared better at Prague, which town we entered the next day. That is a fine old city. From the first glimpse we caught of it from an adjoining hill, bathing its feet, as it were, in the Moldan, we were charmed. There was a wonderful cluster of minarets and conical towers, half Eastern, half German, piled up to the summit of the castle hill. There was the beautifully barbarous chapel of Johann von Nepomuk, with its silver tomb. It was all one mass of picturesque details, beautiful in their outline and impressive in their very age,—and, I may add, dirt. A rare picture of middle-age romance is Prague—a fragment of the past, uninjured and unchanged. The new suspension bridge across the Moldan looks ridiculous; it is incongruous; what has old Prague to do with modern engineering? It is a noble structure, to be sure, of which the inhabitants are proud; but it was designed and executed for them by an Englishman.
From Prague we tramped with all the diligence of needy travellers to Brünn, the capital of Moravia. Our march was straggling. Foremost strode Alcibiade Tourniquet, jeweller and native of Argenteuil, the best fellow in the world: but one who would persist in marching in a pair of Parisian boots with high, tapering heels, bearing the pain they gave with little wincing. For him the ground we trod was classical, for we were in the neighbourhood of Austerlitz. Immediately in his rear swaggered the Austrian, with swarthy features and black straggling locks, swaddled and dirty; he was called “bandit” by general consent. The other three men
of our party tramped abreast under the guidance of a Lübecker, a smart upright fellow, who, on the strength of having served two years in an infantry regiment, naturally took the position of drill-sergeant, and was dignified with the name of Hannibal on that account.
We halted to rest in the village of Bischowitz, where the few straggling houses, and the dreary, almost tenantless hostelry, told their own sorrows. But we got good soup, with an unlimited supply of bread, which formed a dinner of the best description; for, besides that the adopted doctrine in Germany is that soup is the best meat for the legs, we found that it also agreed well with our pockets. While in the full enjoyment of our rest, we observed that an earnest conversation had sprung up between the landlord and a ruddy-featured fellow in a green half-livery.
“Whither are you going, friends?” inquired the landlord at length, advancing towards us.
“We were going to Brünn by the high-road,” we answered.