“This man will carry you beyond Chradim for a zwanziger a head,” said the landlord, pointing to the half-liveried fellow, who began gesticulating violently, and marking us off with his fingers as if we were so many sheep. This was a tempting offer for foot travellers, each burthened with a heavy knapsack. Chradim was eleven German miles on our road—a good fifty miles in English measurement—and we were all to be transported this distance for a total of about three shillings and sixpence. We therefore inspected the furwerk, which did not promise much; but as it was drawn by a neat sturdy little horse, who rattled his harness with a sort of brisk independence that spoke well for a rapid journey, we readily decided upon the acceptance of the offer made by the Bohemian driver. That worthy shook his head when we addressed him, and grunted out “Kein Deutsch,”—“No German.” Indeed we found that, excepting people in official situations, innkeepers, and the like, the German language was either unknown to, or unacknowledged by the natives. In less than half an hour we had tumbled our knapsacks into the cart—which was a country dray, of course without either springs or seats—and disposing ourselves as conveniently as we could on its rough edges, were rattling and jolting off over the uneven road towards Collin, our station for the night.
The country through which we passed was uncultivated and uninteresting; but, like the rest that we had seen, it spoke of a
poverty rather induced than natural. With the exception of the two villages of Planinam and Böhmishbrod we scarcely saw a house, and human creatures were extremely scarce. As we approached Collin we halted for a moment to look at a column of black marble erected on the roadside to commemorate the devotion of a handful of Russian troops, who had at this spot checked the progress of the whole French army for many hours. A little later, and we were lodged at our inn in the market-town of Collin, where we supped on bread and cheese and good Prague beer. A wild chorus of loud voices, and an overwhelming odour of tobacco and onions, were the accompaniments of our meal. The morrow being market-day in Collin, the whole population of the district had flocked to the town, and the houses of accommodation were all full. Our common room was quite choked up with sturdy forms in white loose coats; broad country faces, flushed with good humour, or beer, shone upon us from all sides. Our driver, who had been very sedate and reserved during the whole of the day, soon joined a cluster of congenial spirits in one corner, and was the thirstiest and most uproarious of mortals. As for ourselves, we seemed to be made doubly strangers, for there was not a word of German spoken in our hearing. Hours wore on, and the country folks seemed to enjoy their town excursion so extremely well, that there were no signs of breaking up, till mine host made his appearance and insisted upon the lights being put out, and upon the departure of his guests to bed. But, beds; where were they? Our military Lübecker laughed at the idea.
“There are never more than two beds in a Bohemian house of entertainment,” said he, “and the landlord by law claims the best of the two for himself. The other is for the first comer who pays for it. Perhaps we shall get some straw, perhaps not. At the worst there are the boards.”
But we did get some straw, after considerable trouble, and the whole crowd of boozers (with the exception of our driver, who went to bed with his horses) set about preparing couches for themselves, with a tact that plainly showed how well they were accustomed to it. The straw was spread equally over the whole chamber, and each man turned over his heavy oaken chair, so that its back became a pillow. Divested of boots and coats, we were soon stretched upon our litters, thirty in a room.
Our morning duty was to shake the loose straw out of our hair and ears, and then to clear away every vestige of our night
accommodation, in order that a delicious breakfast of rich, black, thick coffee, and plain bread, might be spread before us in the same room. The country folks were all at market, and, as far as we could see, so was our driver. He was nowhere to be found. We had vague notions of his having decamped; but considering that we had only paid him two zwanzigers out of the five bargained for, the supposition seemed hardly a reasonable one. After seeking him in vain through every room in the house, in the crowded market place, and in the neat little town, full of low, square-built houses and whitened colonnades, we thought of the stable, and there we found our friend, stretched on his back among the hoofs of his horse, who, careful creature, loving him too well to disturb him, never stirred a limb.
We saw our guide in a new light that day. In spite of all our urging, it was nine o’clock before we fairly quitted Collin, and he was then already in an exhilarated state, having taken several strong draughts to cool his inward fever. We would have given much to have been able to converse with him; for, as we were about to start, he grinned and gesticulated in such a violent way—having, evidently, something to communicate which he was unable to express—that we called the host to our assistance.
“You must not be alarmed,” said the landlord in explanation, “if he should swerve from the high-road, for he thinks of taking you cross country, and it may be a little rough.”
We started at last, and the brave little horse rattled along at a gallant pace. “Hi, hi, hi!” shouted the Bohemian, and away we went along the well-beaten high-road, jolted unmercifully; our knapsacks dancing about our feet like living creatures. We were too much occupied in the task of keeping our seats, to be able to devote much attention to the country, until, having passed Czaslau, we turned suddenly out of the high-road, and came upon a scene of cultivation and refinement that was very charming. A rapid cooling down of our driver’s extravagance of manner was the immediate result of our entering upon the well-kept paths, and between smooth lawns; we went at a decent trot, following a semicircular road, by which we were brought immediately in front of a noble mansion. At the door of an inn, which pressed upon the pathway, our Bohemian halted and addressed to us a voluble and enthusiastic harangue in his own language (one that has a soft and pleasant sound): evidently he meant to impress us with the beauty of the scene.