The busiest part of Ratisbon is the twelfth-century stone bridge which,
from daybreak until dark, resounds to the tramp of heavy-footed
peasants, and to the clatter of farm wagons and other vehicles. A narrow
street plunges from the end of the bridge under the archway of an old
city gate into a maze of narrow thoroughfares with towering mediæval
houses and a jumble of small shops of all kinds. One of the houses near
the bridge has a startling decoration covering the whole of its front--a
colossal figure of Goliath painted on the stucco--and there are
preserved in some of the other streets the only specimens extant of the
fortified dwelling-houses of the Middle Ages. The Cathedral of St.
Peter, with its exquisite Gothic details, is one of the chief
architectural glories of all Germany, and in its solemn interior are
forgot for the time the Danube, its hurrying current, and the impatient
canoes. The fact that we were not in the ordinary costume of travellers
gave us immunity from the annoyances of guides, and this freedom added
wonderfully to our enjoyment of Ratisbon. We sat on the clean pavement
of the great market-place, in the shadow of church walls, and nearly
made ourselves ill with quantities of wild strawberries from the baskets
of the friendly market-girls close by, paying a ridiculously small sum
for a quart of the luscious fruit. We wandered in and out of the
churches, stood and gazed at our ease on the architectural beauties of
the town, and never were we once spoken to, or even, to our knowledge,
once stared at with curiosity. Even our presence in the crowded tavern,
where the crowds of market-people took their mid-day meal, did not
excite any comment, and during the few hours we passed in Ratisbon we
had the supreme satisfaction of passing unnoticed, which rarely comes to
any one in a foreign country. It is said that 17 per cent. of the 35,000
inhabitants of the city are Protestants, but we concluded that we did
not come in contact with any of the choice minority in religious belief,
for we saw on all sides shrines and crosses and other indications of the
strict adherence of the people to the observances of the Roman Catholic
faith.
The old stone bridge has been saddled with a bad reputation among
river-folk ever since some one started the legend, long ages ago, that
the devil had a hand in its construction. It crosses the river at the
upper end of a rocky island which divides the stream into two unequal
parts, the one on the town side alone being navigable. Four narrow
arches, springing from immense boat-shaped piers, confine the current
into a very narrow compass, and cause the water to rush under the bridge
with great velocity. We had listened to a long description by our
boating friends at Ulm of the dangers of shooting this bridge, and all
the river-side people we had talked with for the previous day or two had
warned us of the perils of the passage. But we saw from the parapet what
we had to encounter in the shape of rapids and whirlpools, and did not
hesitate to trust ourselves and our canoes to the mercies of the
current. The first of the series of bugbears which were in turn
presented to us by the Danube river-folk, and by the accounts we had
read, was disposed of in such an easy manner that the mention of it is
scarcely warranted by its importance as an episode of our journey.
[Illustration: RATISBON FROM THE BRIDGE]
Opposite the lower part of the town the Danube receives the turbid
waters of the Regen (hence the German name Regensburg) coming in from
the north, and then the great river settles down into a gently-flowing,
well-behaved water highway, at times lively with steam tow-boats,
barges, and rafts. It skirts the hills on the left bank for five or six
miles, and then lazily meanders away through the great plain of
Straubing, the chief grain-growing district of Bavaria. The point where
the river leaves the hills is the most northerly limit of its whole
course, and here it changes its general north-easterly direction--which
it has held with many minor variations since Donaueschingen--and bears
away in a south-easterly course towards Vienna. This angle is not far
from midway between these two places, which are 535 miles apart by the
river channel. On one of the great rounded hills, fully 300 feet above
the water’s edge, the great German Temple of Fame, the Walhalla, makes a
conspicuous landmark. Lewis I. of Bavaria, who, it will be remembered,
was the founder of the Befreiungshalle, saw the completion of the
Walhalla the very year he laid the corner-stone of its fellow monument,
thirty miles away, in 1842. It is a classical structure built in
imitation of the Parthenon, but of somewhat larger dimensions, and
occupies a most commanding position. We saw by the guide-book that it
contained Victories and Walkyries, busts of heroes, and friezes painted
to celebrate the early history of the German race. After the perfect
harmony of the Ratisbon cathedral we had no appetite for German
classicality, and paddled past, content to gaze from afar upon the noble
proportions of the temple.
Although we had rain the night before, it was hotter than ever as the
sun mounted high in the heavens, and before we had penetrated far into
the heart of the great plain we found the air so dead and the heat so
oppressive that we
[Illustration: RETURNING FROM MARKET, RATISBON]
were obliged to paddle in self-defence, and by this means create a
draught along the water. The glare of the sun was reflected into our
eyes with painful brilliancy; a few dazzling clouds hung in the sky,
apparently quite stationary. The pitiless force of the sun was never
once hidden by a veil of vapor during the hours we paddled down the
current, which scarcely rippled the surface of the water, as dense in
appearance as molten lead. The town of Straubing, plainly enough visible
when we left the hills, and
[Illustration]
seemingly only a short distance away, avoided us for a long time with
aggravating success. Now it would loom up in front of us, now on one
side and again on the other, and often hid away behind us. At last,
about noon, having quite lost our points of compass in the contortions
of the river, we sneaked up to the will-of-the-wisp town, and, dodging
around a point, came fairly upon it and landed there. We made it a rule
in this part of the river, and, indeed, wherever towns and villages were
frequent, to take our mid-day meal in some hotel or restaurant, for,
unless we did so, we saw absolutely nothing of the shore life. By this
time our standard for towns had become so high that we could not care
much for Straubing, although the stay there refreshed us and interested
us somewhat; but we were off down the sluggish stream, eager to reach
the hills where we knew the current would be faster and the landscape
more interesting. Near Bogen, a few miles below, at the hour in the
afternoon when the heat of the sun seems more intense even than at full
noon, the western sky was suddenly darkened, and a dense storm-cloud
rapidly raised its jagged edge towards the zenith. Opinions varied as to
the advisability of riding out the threatening squall, or going ashore
to wait for it to pass. We paddled on for a considerable distance
discussing this question, and finally decided to run ashore near a large
farm-house resembling in character a large Alpine chalet. We landed not
one moment too soon, for before we got our hatches fastened we heard the
roar of the wind up-stream, and the next instant the squall tore down
the river, lashing the water into a sheet of foam, and bending the trees
like switches. Our loose rigging stood straight out in the blast, and
the hastily-furled sails fluttered like clewed-up top-sails in an
Atlantic gale. We had all we could do to keep the boats from being blown
bodily along the rough beach. In a few minutes the violence of the gale
abated, and a heavy rain set in. We made our little fleet as snug as
possible and as safe as we could by lashing the masts together, and ran
to the farm-house near by, where the farmer and his family welcomed us
with dignified courtesy, and offered us the freedom of the house with
such hearty good-will that we could not help making ourselves at home.
It was a characteristic establishment of the better class, and the main
building was of some antiquity, as the date 1683 on the lintel of the
front door testified. This immense structure was mostly of wood, and a
great shingled roof covered not only a large living apartment, with many
bedrooms, but the stables for the horses and cattle as well. Most of the
farm-work was evidently done by girls, and the farmer told us he
employed them because they were almost as useful as the men, and their
wages were only fifty guldens ($25) a year. A half-dozen of these girls,
indifferent to the pouring rain, with short petticoats, tight bodices,
and with kerchiefs on their heads, were carrying manure in hand-barrows
when we arrived, and when they had finished this task, and had
materially increased the huge pile that occupied the only front yard
there was, they all had a vigorous scrub at the pump, and then came in
and ate bread and milk with us, and chattered away as freely as if we
were old friends. We were loath to leave this pleasant, pastoral
company, but as the sky was bright again at sunset we felt obliged to be
off. We did not succeed in persuading any one to take the money which we
felt was due for the food we had eaten, so we dropped it in the poor-box
near the forlorn little chapel, and paddled away to a camp on a dripping
hill-side, where we found a delicious cold spring and a mossy bed for
our canoes to rest on.
We had met at intervals since leaving Ratisbon great empty flat-boats
towed up-river by horses, and an
[Illustration: LOCAL FREIGHT FLAT-BOAT]
occasional one laden with shingles or other building material had
drifted down past our camp before we started in the morning. As high up
as Ulm we had seen these boats in process of construction, and had
learned all about the cheap flat-boats which in the spring-time carry
cargoes to the lower river, and are then broken up for the sake of their
timber. We had expected to see much more of this kind of river life than
we actually met with, but the fact is the competition of the railways
has practically killed this kind of river commerce, and its glories are
all in the past. The local business still continues to flourish,
however, for many of the river towns have no connection with the
railway, and depend almost entirely on the water highway for cheap
transportation of freight. The day after the storm we ran across several
of the great local freight-boats floating down with the current. These
boats are ordinarily about 20 yards in length, 5 or 6 in beam, and with
a depth of from 4 to 6 feet from the great flat, keelless bottom to the
rail. The bow is high, and the stern-post is often carved and otherwise
decorated. They are built of soft wood, the seams are calked with moss,
and since paint is seldom used except on the perpendicular black
stripes, which is the almost universal fashion for boats on the German
and Austrian Danube, the life of the best of these craft is not often
more than ten years. Each boat has a small, rude skiff for convenient
use, and a supplementary scow large enough to carry considerable cargo,
as well as afford open-air stabling for a pair of strong horses. On the
down trip the horses lead a lazy life in their floating stall, but on
the return they drag the empty boats up against the rapid current,
trained to know every yard of the way, for the varying heights of the
river and the conformation of the banks make a regular towpath out of
the question, and the horses splash along through the shallows for miles
at a stretch. The crew of these boats usually consists of an experienced
skipper with two men and a boy. They all take turns at the steering-oar,
and are constantly obliged to handle the immense sweeps to keep the
cumbersome craft in the best channel. The work of baling water is no
light one, and apparently goes on day and night with little
intermission. They use for this purpose a great wooden scoop, or shovel,
and throw the water out over the side from the floor of the rude little
hut which shelters the bunks of the crew.
Two of us accepted a cheery invitation to go aboard one of these boats,
and we spent the larger part of the forenoon lounging in the shade of
the deck-house and indolently watching the ever-changing panorama on
either side of the river. The skipper, a very fatherly old man, a shrewd
observer, with a great knowledge of river life, was busy part of the
time in tending a large tin kettle which was thrust, gypsy-like, into
the side of a fire which was brightly burning on the tiles with which
the boat was laden. As soon as we saw that the meal was almost ready to
be served we made a move to leave, not wishing to interrupt this
ceremony. But the old man detained us almost by force, and insisted on
our eating before they began. He placed
[Illustration: ON THE TILE-BOAT]
between us a large bowl of coarse, yellow-glazed pottery, gave us a
wooden spoon apiece, and a thick wedge of black bread, which we broke,
according to his commands, into the capacious vessel. When the soup was
ready he poured it over the bread, filled the bowl to the brim, handed
us each a bottle of beer, and bade us eat and drink until not a crumb or
a drop remained. We were hungry, the soup was delicious, and the beer
cool and refreshing, and we did not longer hesitate, but fell to at
once. The only thing which interfered with our full enjoyment of the
meal was the presence of a generous supply of beef in the soup, in
chunks as large as our fists. Our maxillary muscles were not
sufficiently well developed to enable us to masticate the phenomenally
tough fibre of this meat, and we chose our opportunity when the broad
back of the hospitable skipper was turned and slid it overboard. To our
relief it went to the bottom like a sounding lead, and did not, as we
feared, come bobbing up astern to bear witness to our insincerity. We
gave our host a tiny American flag as a souvenir of our visit. He would
take no money nor any of our stores, but was delighted with the Stars
and Stripes, more especially as we had explained that the following day
was Freiheit’s Tag, or Independence Day, in the great Republic of the
West. We left him diligently digging a hole with his knife in the high
stem-piece of the boat to plant the flag there.
Rowing clubs are numerous all along the river from Ulm to Vienna. Soon
after leaving the flat-boat we landed at one near Deggendorf, a quiet
old town with miraculous relics in the church, which attract many
thousands of pious pilgrims annually. Later on in the day, as we were
rounding a great bend in a solitary part of the river where we least
expected to see anything afloat, we suddenly met a single-scull boat of
the newest pattern shooting up the river like an arrow. A handsome
athletic young fellow was pulling with all his might, evidently in
training for a race. Our surprise was naturally mutual, for he no more
expected to see a fleet of graceful, polished canoes than we did to see
the Danube waters parted by the keen bow of a racing boat. He recovered
from his astonishment first, and shouted heartily, “Hip! hip! Hip! hip!”
We replied with the same salutation, for we had learned by this time
that this call was not, as we had at first supposed, a playful imitation
of the English cheer, but the common greeting in boating circles. We
needed no further introduction, and could, indeed, have had no better
one than our canoes, and we freely accepted the hospitalities of the
Winzer Ruder Verein, whose tidy boat-house stands on the river-bank a
mile or more from the village. The club has a membership of thirty-six,
all of them sturdy young fellows of the neighborhood, with an
enthusiastic love of water sports. A certain count, the local magnate,
is the patron of the club, and contributes largely towards the training
of the oarsmen, who compete with success in the regattas all over
Germany. The jolly young fellows made so much of us, and received us so
heartily into their brotherhood, that we had not the courage to explain
that we were not real boating men at all, but only temporary members of
the guild. Indeed, it is doubtful if they would have believed our
statement, for we were quite as sunburned as they were, and our five
days’ canoing had put us in first-rate physical condition. But on this,
as on several other similar occasions, we had a lingering feeling of
mental discomfort, because we could not help knowing that we were
passing for what we were not, and never expected to be--sporting men.