Zwickau -- Beer Bridge -- Beer Mount -- The Triller Estate
-- Triller Bierbrauerei -- The Braumeister -- The Beer --
Four Hundredth Anniversary of the Prinzenraub -- A Friendly
Clerk -- "You will have a Tsigger?" -- Historical Portraits
-- A Good Name for a Brewery -- A Case of Disinterestedness
-- Up the Church Tower -- The Prospect -- Princess
Schwanhildis -- The Fire-god Zwicz -- Luther's Table -- The
Church -- Geysers -- Petrified Beds -- Historical Houses --
Walk to Oberhaselau -- The Card-players -- The Wagoners.
The dark roofs of a few dull streets, a lofty old church tower, the
tall chimneys, and clouds of steam and smoke of a busy suburb, rising
amid orchards, gardens, and hop-grounds in the pleasant and
thickly-wooded valley of the Mulde, are the features presented by
Zwickau as you approach it from the terminus. There needs no long
research to discover that the _Prinzenraub_ is a household word among
the people: hanging on the wall in the hotel you may see engravings of
the _Prinzenhöhle_, the castle of Stein, the monastery at Grünhain,
and other places incidental to the robbery; and the waiters are ready
to tell you that the Triller estate lies near Eckersbach, about half
an hour's walk to the east of the town.
On my way thither I crossed the Mulde, a lively stream, flowing
between steep slopes of trees, broken here and there by a red
fern-fringed cliff. A Saxon liking--one which the Anglo-Saxon has not
forgotten--is betrayed in the name of the bridge--Beer Bridge; it
leads to Beer Mount, which conceals within its cool and dark interior
countless barrels of the national beverage. While walking up the
hollow road that winds round the hill, you see on one side the
entrances to the deeply excavated cellars, on the other a tavern,
overshadowed by linden-trees, offering refreshing temptations to the
thirsty visitor.
The road presently rising across open fields brings you in sight of a
pile of huge bright-red brick buildings, erected on the farther side
of a deep, narrow dell, contrasting well with the green of a cherry
orchard and woods in the rear. There lies the _Triller_ estate. Times
are changed; and where the sinewy _Köhler_ tilled his field and reared
his family, now stands a brewery--_Triller Bierbrauerei_. The wakeful
genius of trade has taken possession, and finds in the patriotic
sentiment inspired by the history of the place a handsome source of
profit.
I addressed myself to the _Braumeister_--_Brewmaster_--who on hearing
that one of England's foremost authors had published the story of the
_Prinzenraub_, manifested a praiseworthy readiness to satisfy my
curiosity. The estate had long been out of the hands of the _Triller_
family, so long that he could not remember the time--perhaps fifty
years. But the _Trillers_ were not extinct: one was living at
Freiberg, and two others elsewhere in Saxony. The place now belongs to
a company, under whose management _Triller_ beer has become famous in
all the country round; and not undeservedly, as I from experience am
prepared to affirm. There is a large garden, with paths winding among
the trees, and open places bestrewn with tables and chairs enough for
the innumerable guests who quench their thirst at the brewery.
As we strolled about the premises, the _Braumeister_ called my
attention to a writing over the main entrance--
_Dulcius ex ipso fonte bibuntur aquæ_,
remarking that he had never known a visitor disposed to quarrel with
it. Then, abandoning his laconic phrases, he told me how the four
hundredth anniversary of the _Prinzenraub_ had been celebrated on the
8th of July, 1855. It was a day to be remembered in all the places
made historic by the event. From Schedewitz, on the farther side of
Zwickau, a long procession had walked to the Brewery, under triumphal
arches erected on the way. First came a troop of Coalers, in forest
garb, then friends of the company on foot and in wagons, and bands of
music; altogether eight hundred persons, and among them the three
_Trillers_. Airs were played and songs sung that made all the fire of
patriotism glow again; and so earnestly did the multitude enter into
the spirit of the celebration, that--a merry twinkle gleamed in the
_Braumeister's_ eye as he told it--"They drank a hundred eimers of
beer. There they are: look at them," he added, pointing to an
engraving of the whole procession--the _Trillerzug_, as he called it.
A similar festival was held at Altenburg, Hartenstein, and Grünhain on
the same day, to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, and the
reinvigoration of Saxon loyalty.
I was seated at one of the tables with a tankard of beer before me,
when a young man came up, looked at me inquisitively, and said, "E
shmall Eng-lish speak"--meaning, "I speak a little English."
I felicitated him on his acquirements, when he proceeded to tell me
that he was one of the clerks employed in the counting-house, and
having heard of my arrival from the _Braumeister_, could not resist
the desire of speaking with an Englishman. Moreover, he would like to
show me certain things which I had not yet seen, and he said, "If you
pleasure in _Prinzenraub_ find, so is glad to me."
We were friends in a moment. He led me first to the counting-house,
and showed me the bust of Herr Ebert, who, as chief proprietor, had
headed the procession in the former year, but was since deceased,
saying, "We very, very sorry; every man love him. Ah! he was so good."
Then running up-stairs to a large whitewashed apartment--one of the
drinking-rooms used when guests are driven in-doors by bad
weather--where a few portraits hung on the walls, he cried, "Here is
something to see. But wait--you will have a tsigger?"
"With pleasure," I answered, "if it's good to drink."
"No, not drink," he replied. "What you call him?--to shmoke."
The room echoed with my laugh, and he prolonged it, as I rejoined,
"Oh! you mean a cigar! No, thank you. Tobacco is one of the things I
abhor."
"What you call him?" he exclaimed, in amazement--"cigar! Then what for
a teacher is mine. But he is a German."
Our friendly relations were in no way deranged by my dislike of a
"tsigger;" and we turned to the portraits, which comprised some of the
personages involved in the _Prinzenraub_. The brave old _Triller_ is
represented in the costume of the period--a stalwart fellow, with
ample black beard, bare legs, broad-brimmed hat, and loose frock tied
by a belt round the waist. In one hand he grasps his pole, with the
other supports the prince, who wearing red hosen and peaked red boots,
looks up to him with tearful eye. Kunz appears lying down in the
background, looking half-stunned and miserable. There are two
miniatures--of the _Triller_ and his wife--apparently very old,
believed to be likenesses. In the excitement occasioned by the four
hundredth anniversary, a poor shoemaker, hearing it talked of, came to
the brewery with the paintings in his hand, and sold the two for a
shilling. Besides these there are seven or eight other portraits,
among which the features of Kunz impress you favourably. He has dark
curly hair, a high forehead, a clear bright eye, moustache and pointed
beard; the whole appearance and expression reminding you of Sir Philip
Sidney.
What with fluent German and broken English the young clerk worked
himself into enthusiasm, and showed me everything that had the
remotest connexion with the subject, ending with a book containing the
latest history of the _Prinzenraub_, and engravings of its incidents.
Nor could he think of letting me depart till I had seen the whole
premises, and the enormous cellars.
"The _Triller_ is a good name for the brewery," he said, as we paced
between the furlongs of barrels.
On my return to the town I found out the ancient dame who keeps the
key of the church tower, and as she unlocked the door offered her a
small silver coin. "No! no! no!" she exclaimed, "that is too much. A
_Dreier_ (halfpenny) is enough for me." A rare instance of
disinterestedness. Once admitted, you find your way alone up to the
topmost chamber, where dwells a woman with two or three children. She
was winding up from the street below her daily supply of water when I
entered out of breath with the ascent of so many steps, and paused in
her task to conduct me to the platform, a height of about two hundred
feet, from which the steeple springs one hundred and fifty feet
higher. Wide and remarkable is the prospect: the rows of poplars which
border the roads leading on all sides from the town divide the
landscape into segments with stiff lines that produce a singular
effect as they diminish gradually in thickness and vanish in the
distance. Plenty of wood all around, merging towards the south into
the vast fir forest which there darkens the long swells and rounded
summits of the _Erzgebirge_: a region of contrasts, with its abounding
fertility and unpicturesque foundries and mining-works. The town
appears to better advantage from above than below, for the many green
spots in the rear of the houses come into the view, and you see
gleaming curves of the Mulde, and a great pond as at Altenburg, and
the remains of the old walls, and the ditches, now in part changed
into a garden promenade.
The mind becomes interested as well as the eye. You may grow dreamy
over the fabulous adventures of the fair Princess Schwanhildis, in
whose adventures, as implied in hoary tradition, the place originated;
and if you desire proof, is it not found in the three swans, still
borne in the town arms? Or you may revert to the sixth century only,
when the Wends had a colony here, and worshipped Zwicz, one of their
Sclavish fire-gods in the _Aue_, or meadow--whence the present name,
Zwickau. Or you may remember that Luther often mounted the tower to
gaze on the widespread view; and imagine him contemplating the scenes
on which your eye now rests--a brief pause in his mighty work of
rescuing Europe from the toils of priestcraft. A clumsy table yet
remaining on the platform, though tottering and fallen on one side
with age and weakness, is called "Luther's table;" the great Reformer
having, as is said, once sat by it to eat. But the sentiment which
such a relic should inspire is weakened by the inference that as the
Zwickauers take no pains to preserve it from the weather, they at
least are sceptical concerning its merits.
And the church itself. It is the largest, the finest specimen of
Gothic, and has the biggest bell, in all Saxony, and excepting two
towers in Dresden, is the highest. It dates from the eleventh century,
and has been more than once restored. The interior well repays a
visit. The slender, eight-sided pillars of the nave, the rare carvings
of the bench-ends, and others about the choir and confessional, and in
the sacristy, the high altar, by Wohlgemuth, of Nuremberg, the only
one remaining of twenty-five which formerly stood around the walls,
raise your admiration of art. If curious in such matters, you may see
a splinter of the true cross--a relic from Popish times--still
preserved. There are some good paintings, of which one by Lucas
Cranach the Younger represents Jesus as "Children's Friend." It was
painted at the cost of a burgomaster in honour of his wife's memory.
For one with time at discretion, Zwickau and the neighbourhood would
yield a few days of enjoyable exploration. A remarkable instance of
volcanic action is to be seen between Planitz and Niederkainsdorf,
which has existed from time immemorial. Steam is continually bursting
up from the coal strata beneath, of so high a temperature that the
ground is always green even in the hardest winters. An attempt was
made, a few years ago, to utilize the heat by establishing a
forcing-garden on the spot; and in the adjacent forests there are
land-slips, produced by disturbances of the strata, which are
described as romantic in their effects. The valley of the Mulde offers
much pleasing scenery; the castle of Stein and the _Prinzenhöhle_ are
within half a day's walk; and somewhat farther are the singular rocks
at Greifenstein, a pile as of huge beds petrified. The legend runs
that a princess, having married while her betrothed, whom she had
promised never to forget, was absent, the fairies, exercising their
right of punishment, turned her and all her household gear into stone,
and the beds remain to commemorate the perfidy. There are, besides,
baths and mineral springs at the village of Oberkainsdorf, and at
Hohensteiner Bad; and curious old carvings in the castle of
Schönfels; and, if you incline to geology, the coal measures abound in
fossil plants and shells, while of minerals there is no stint.
The town has attractions of another sort: early-printed books, rare
manuscripts, original letters by Luther and other Reformers, in the
Library; the _Rathhaus_, on the front of which, over the door, you may
see the three swans; and, among the archives, more letters by Luther
and Melancthon. There are portraits of the two, by Cranach, in the
neighbouring castle of Planitz. The house, No. 22, in the
market-place, is that in which Luther lodged in 1522; Melancthon
sojourned in No. 444, in the _Burggasse_; and No. 576, in the
_Schergasse_, is where Napoleon had his quarters in 1812.
It was evening when I slung on my knapsack and began my walk in
earnest. A short stage at the outset is no bad preparation for the
work to follow. The road runs between the noisy factories, past
vitriol works, smelting furnaces, and, thick with dust, is, for the
first three or four miles, far from pleasant. At length the busy
district is left behind, the trees bordering the highway look greener,
and the river, separated but by a narrow strip of meadow, is near
enough for its rippling to be heard. Excepting a miner now and then,
wearing his short leathern hinder-apron, and a general shabbiness of
dress, the people I met might have been mistaken for English, so
marked is the similarity of form and feature. Transported suddenly to
any of the roads leading out of Birmingham, no one would have imagined
them to be foreigners.
About three hours, at an easy pace, brought me to a wayside
public-house near Oberhaselau, where I halted for the night. There
were sundry rustic folk among the guests, one of whom told me, while I
ate my supper, that he had taken part in the _Prinzenraub_
celebration, along with hundreds of foresters and villagers, at a
_Wirthshaus_ built on the spot where the _Triller's_ cabin stood--a
day to be remembered as long as he lived. He had, moreover, seen the
_Triller's_ gaberdine hanging in the monastery at Ebersdorf.
Later in the evening came in three men of dignified appearance, who
sat down at a card-table in one corner, to a game of what might be
described as three-handed whist. Gustel, the maid, showed them much
deference, and placed before each a quart-glass of beer. They were,
she whispered to me, the _Actuarius_ of the village, and the Inspector
and Doctor. From time to time, during the game, they broke out into a
rattling peal of laughter, as one of them threw a set of dice on the
table and handed round a few extra cards. I requested permission to
look at the cause of merriment, and, to my amazement, discovered that
both cards and dice were disgustingly obscene, out of all character
with the respectable appearance of their possessors.
Before the game was over, some six or eight wagoners, who had arrived
with their teams, spread bundles of straw on the floor, pulled off
their boots with a ponderous boot-jack chained to the door-post, and,
stretching themselves on their lair, soon united in a discord of
snores.