Stephanshöh -- A Presumptuous Landlord -- Czechs again --
Stewed Weavers -- Prompt Civilities -- The Iser -- A Quiet
Vale -- Barrande's Opinion of the Czechs -- Rochlitz -- An
offshoot from Tyre -- A Happy Landlord -- A Rustic Guide --
Hill Paths -- The Grünstein -- Rübezahl's Rose Garden --
Dreary Fells -- Source of the Elbe -- Solitude and Visitors
-- The Elbfall -- Stony Slopes -- Strange Rocks --
Rübezahl's Glove -- Knieholz -- Schneegruben -- View into
Silesia -- Tremendous Cliffs -- Basalt in Granite -- The
Landlord's Bazaar -- The Wandering Stone -- A Tragsessel --
A Desolate Scene -- Rougher Walking -- Musical Surprises --
Spindlerbaude -- The Mädelstein -- Great Pond and Little
Pond -- The Mittagstein -- The Riesengrund -- The Last
Zigzags -- An Inn in the Clouds.
Soon after six the next morning I was on the top of
_Stephanshöh_--about twenty minutes' walk from the inn--prepared to
enjoy the view: and did enjoy all that was not concealed by mist.
Every minute, too, as the heaving vapour melted away, so did the
landscape widen and rejoice in the sunbeams. We are here on the roots
of the _Riesengebirge_, and all around is a rolling country, rising
higher and higher towards the north. Because of the view the height is
famous throughout the neighbourhood; visitors come to it even from
Reichenberg.
While I was drinking my early cup of coffee, the landlord came
forward, made a bow, and expressed his hope to see me again some day.
"Hope not," I replied, "for besides plaguing folk about their
passport, you lodge them between dirty sheets over an unswept floor.
Good morning!"
Beware, reader, of Przichowitz!
The road winding along a hill-side leads you onwards high above the
valleys that open at every bend. After about an hour it narrows into a
footpath, which presently branches off into many paths down the steep
slope of a secluded vale. A woman of whom I asked the way shook her
head, and answered, "_Böhmisch_," and to my surprise I found myself
once more among the Czechs. A Sclavonic wedge, so to speak, here cuts
between the German-speaking population who inhabit the northern
border. With its base in the heart of the kingdom, it stretches away
to the Silesian frontier, traceable for the most part by the names of
numerous villages ending in _witz_.
I chose a path for myself which led down between patches of clover and
rye, beetroot and potatoes, through little orchards, under rows of
limes, to a house which, at a distance, had an imposing, spacious
appearance; deceitful till you come near. The ground stage is nothing
but a rough mass of masonry supporting that which is really the
house--a low wooden edifice, swarming with weavers, reared aloft,
probably, to keep it out of the way of floods. As I mounted the rude
steps in quest of information, a weaver opened a casement and put out
his head, letting out, at the same time, a rush of the depraved air in
which he and his mates were working. I asked the way.
He shook his head, and answered, "_Böhmisch_."
He did more. He started up from his loom, came actually forth into
the wholesome air, and ran to a cottage some distance off, making
signs to me to wait his return. He came presently back wearing a
triumphant look, accompanied by another weaver, who could speak German
enough to assure me that I was on the right track for Rochlitz, and
that the mountain stream flowing so merrily past was the Iser. Poor
men! they both had a pale, sodden look, which moved me to recommend
fresh air and open windows. But no: they shivered, and could not weave
when the windows were open.
A bright stream is the Iser, and plenteous of trout: a water such as
the angler loves, now brawling over shallows, now sleeping in
hazel-fringed pools. You will pause more than once while climbing the
hill beyond to scan the vale. All the greater slopes are broken up
with lesser undulations--wherein much is half seen, and
thickly-patched with wood; little cottages nestle everywhere among the
trees, the little chapel near the summit; and here and there on the
outskirts a dark ridge of firs reminds you of the melancholy miles of
forest beyond. Here, far from great roads, all breathes of calm and
content, all sights and sounds are rural; you hear the water babbling
to the whispering leaves, and might fancy yourself in the very home of
happiness. But
"The statutes of the golden age,
That lingered faint and long
In sylvan rites of olden time,
So dear to ancient song,
The world hath trampled in its haste
At Mammon's shrine to bow;
And many a Tyre our steps may find,
But no Arcadia now."
With the Iser the Czechs are left behind. While taking leave of the
oval-faced people, the opportunity seems fitting to bring forward a
few words of testimony concerning them, which may be weighed against
that mentioned in a former page. Barrande, the distinguished
geologist, says, in his _Silurian System of Bohemia_, that, in 1840,
he and his friends commenced a regular exploration of strata,
employing native labourers in different parts of the country, either
singly making new excavations, or in groups opening quarries. "These
labourers," he continues, "provided with the necessary tools, and
practically instructed by working with us for some time, soon acquired
the knowledge indispensable for distinguishing every organic
trace--the objects of our studies--at the first glance. In this
respect we have often had occasion to admire the intelligence of the
Bohemians (Czechs), even of those belonging to the humblest class.
Some among them employed in our researches during ten or twelve years
acquired a remarkable skill as seekers of fossils. They gather up and
put together the smallest fragments which belong to any specimen
broken in splitting the rock; they use a lens to discover the fugitive
traces of the minutest embryo, and they know very well how to
distinguish all rare or new forms in the district to which they are
attached. A sort of nomenclature, improvised by themselves out of the
Bohemian language, has served us to designate both the species and
formations in which they are found."
Thus, with his rustic Czechs, Mr. Barrande could carry on
investigations at a distance, while in his study at Prague he prepared
his truly great work for publication. One of the diggers brought in
the specimens once a week; and in this way were discovered fifteen
hundred species of what geologists call Silurian and Cambrian fossils,
the existence of which in Bohemia was before unknown.
It is not far to Rochlitz--perhaps a mile--but the vale is hidden ere
you arrive by the shoulder of the hill. Almost the first house is
_Gast und Einkehr Haus zur Linde_, and it has a living sign--a
beautiful linden-tree. Here cleanliness prevails, and the speech is
German; but the room is so hot from the scorching stove, that I prefer
to eat my second breakfast on the grass in the shadow of the lime, and
listen to the busy hum of countless bees among the branches. The room,
however, was a study--a sort of museum: racks overhead, three glass
closets, twenty-four pictures, a sofa, a score of daddy-longlegs
chairs, a guitar and fiddle, two beds in view besides one shut off by
a screen, and all the sundries common to a public-house. But for good
housewifery it would be hideous.
The landlord, a man of friendly speech, came out for a talk. From his
orchard we could look down into a charming dell: a sylvan retreat,
marred, alas! by an offshoot from Tyre. From among the trees there
rose the tall chimney and staring walls of a factory; and while we
talked, a dozen men went past, each wheeling a barrow-load of lime,
from a distance of two miles, for the building. Mine host felt glad at
the prospect of work for the people. "We have nine thousand
inhabitants in Rochlitz," he said; "'tis a great place. To walk
through it you must take three hours." And he pointed out a cliff
overlooking a valley where mining works had just been bought by a
Russian for two hundred thousand florins. "Yes, there would be work
enough for the people." Plenty of work at little wages. A weaver earns
one florin twenty-four kreutzers a week, and the happy few who achieve
two florins are regarded as rich by their neighbours: perhaps with
envy and admiration.
Then he pointed out his own ground, and his forest run reaching to the
very hill-top, all of which had cost him fifteen thousand florins; and
he turned to all quarters of the compass with the air of a man well
pleased with himself. "Those," he said, stretching his finger towards
a row of short, round, wooden columns with conical roofs--"those are
my beehives; come and look at them."
These hives are about four feet high, fixed clear of the ground by
stakes driven through the turf, and are constructed in compartments
one fitting above the other. The bees begin to work in the lowest,
and, when that is filled, ascend into the upper stories. One among
them seemed deserted.
"Let us see what's the matter," said the landlord; and he lifted off
the top story. Immediately there swarmed out thousands of earwigs.
"Huhu! that's not the sort of bees we want. Coobiddy, coobiddy!" And
judging from the lusty crow that followed it, chanticleer and his
seraglio must have had a satisfactory repast.
But _Schneekoppe_ was yet far off, and there was no time to be lost if
I wished to reach that Mont Blanc of German tourists before night. I
inclined to leave the rough-beaten track through the valleys for short
cuts across the hills, and asked the landlord about a guide. His
woodcutter, who was splitting logs close by, knew great part of the
way, and was ready to start there and then and carry my knapsack for a
florin. He put a piece of coarse brown bread into a bag, which he
lashed to one of the straps, and away we went.
"Good-bye!" said the landlord: "a month later and you would have had
company enough; for then students come in herds to see the mountains."
We struck at once up a grassy hill on the left, and could soon look
down on Rochlitz--houses scattered along either side of a narrow road
in a deep valley; and, far in the rear, on Hochstadt, a wee town of
great trade. Then we came to a _Jägerhaus_, and plunged into a pine
forest, walking for two or three miles along winding paths, paved with
roots, under a solemn shade where, here and there, sunny gleams sought
out the richest brown of the tall, straight stems, and the brightest
emerald among the patches of damp moss. At times we came to graceful
birches scattered among the firs, and their drooping branches and
silvery boles looked all the more beautiful amid companions so
unbending.
We emerged on a bare, turfy slope, and came presently to a stony ridge
on the right--the _Grünstein_--so named from a large bright green
circle of lichen on the broken rocks which first catch your eye. A
little farther along the same ridge, and the guide points to a great
ring of stones on the slope as _Rübezahl's_ Rose-garden, and the name
makes you aware that here is the classic ground of gnomery. You
remember the German storybooks read long ago with delight, wonder, or
fear: the impish pranks, the tricks played upon knaves, the lumps of
gold that rewarded virtue; the marvellous world deep underground, and
all the weird romance.
You will perhaps think that imps had a right to be mischievous in such
a region. On the left opens a wild, dreary expanse of fells--the
coarse brown turf strewn with hassocks of coarser grass, and pale
lumps of quartz intermingled, and rushy patches of darker hue showing
where the ground is soft and swampy. It has a lifeless aspect,
increased by a few scattered bushes of _Knieholz_ that look like firs
which have stunted themselves in efforts to grow. Now and then an
Alpine lark twitters and flits past, as if impatient to escape from
the cheerless scene.
We crossed these fells, guided by an irregular line of posts planted
far apart. In places the ground quakes under your foot, and attempts
to cut off curves are baffled by treacherous sloughs. On you go for
nearly an hour, the view growing wilder, until, in the middle of a
spongy meadow, known as the _Naworer Wiese_, you see a spring bubbling
up in a circular basin. It is the source of the Elbe.
Here, 4380 feet above the sea-level, the solitude is complete. Here
you may lie on your back looking up at the idle clouds, and enjoy the
luxury of silence, for the prattle of the water disturbs it not. You
will think it no loss that nothing now remains of monuments which the
Archdukes Joseph and Rainer once erected here to commemorate their
visit: the lonely scene is better without them. There are monuments
not far off more to your mind. Towards the south rises the _Krkonosch
Berg_[G]--sometimes called the _Halsträger_--and _Kesselkoppe_
towards the west; great purple-shaded slopes of darkest green.
Not often during the summer will you find real solitude, as we did;
for the Germans come in throngs and sit around the little pool to
quaff the sparkling water, or pour libations of richer liquor. Is not
this the birthplace of the Elbe, the river that carries fatness to
many a broad league of their fatherland, and merchandise to its marts?
Many a merry picnic has _Krkonosch_ witnessed, and many a burst of
sentiment. Hither used to come in the holidays--perhaps he comes
still--a certain rector of a Silesian school with his scholars; and
after their frolics he would teach them that the life of a river was
but the symbol of their own life; and then, after each one had jumped
across the sprightly rivulet, he bade them remember when in after
years they should be students at Wittenberg, how they had once sprung
from bank to bank of the mighty stream. The Elbe has, however, two
sources: this the most visited. The other is ten miles distant on the
southern slope of _Schneekoppe_. They unite their waters in the
_Elbgrund_.
A stream is formed at once by the copious spring. We followed it down
the slope--
"Infant of the weeping hills,
Nursling of the springs and rills"--
to a rocky gulf, where it leaps a hundred feet into the precipitous
chasm, and chafes onwards in a succession of cascades far below,
gathering strength for its rush through the mountain barrier--the
Saxon Highlands--and its long, lazy course through the plains of
Northern Germany. Here a little shanty is erected, the tenants of
which dam the water, and let it loose for its plunge when tourists
arrive who are willing to pay a fee to see Nature improved on. But you
may scramble about the rocks and down to the noisy influx of the
_Pantsche Fall_ as long as you please, and peep over into the deep
gulf, without any payment.
Then up a steep stony acclivity to a higher elevation, another of the
great steps or terraces which compose the Bohemian side of the
mountains. From the top we should have seen _Schneekoppe_ himself, had
he not been hidden by clouds; however, we saw a mass of gray cumulus
behind which old Snowhead lurked, and that was something.
Rougher and rougher grows the way: more and more of the big boulders
lying as if showered down; and here and there singular piles of rock
appear. Some resemble woolsacks heaped one above another, and
flattened; some a pilastered wall, all splintered and cracked, sunken
at one end; some heathen tombs and imitations of Stonehenge; and some
animal forms hewn by rude people in the ancient days with but
indifferent success. On one, an experienced guide--which mine was
not--will show you the impression of a large hand, and tell you it is
_Rübezahl's_ glove.
The path makes many a jerk and twist among the rocks; at times through
a dense scrub of _Knieholz_--a dwarfish kind of fir, crooked as
rams'-horns, peculiar to these mountains, and, as travellers tell us,
to the Carpathians. To its abundant growth some of the hills owe their
dark green garment. Half an hour of such walking brought us in sight
of _Rübezahl's_ chancel--walls of rocks split into horizontal
layers--and strangely piled, as if by the hands of crazy Cyclopean
builders. A fearsome place in olden time; now a shelter to the
_Schneegrubenhaus_, where you will choose to rest and dine before
further exploration.
The house stands on the verge of a mighty precipice, from which you
have a wide view over the most beautiful and picturesque part of
Silesia. It was a glorious sight, miles of hill and dale, forest and
meadow stretching far away--yellow and green, and blue and
purple--touched here and there by flashing lights where the sun fell
on ponds and lakes; villages, seemingly numberless, basking in the
warmth of a July sun. The _Hirschbergerthal_, into which we shall
travel ere many days be over, lies outspread beneath as in a map;
Warmbrunn, with its baths in the midst, five hours distant, and yet
apparently so near that you fancy a musket-shot would break one of the
gleaming windows. Although, as some say, there is a want of water, you
will still think it a view worth climbing the _Riesengebirge_ to see.
"There is only one Silesia!" cried the Great Frederick, when he looked
down upon it from the _Landeshuter Kamm_.
Having feasted your eye with the remote, you will turn to look at the
two _Schneegruben_--greater and lesser snow-gulfs. To the right and
left the precipice is split by a frightful chasm a thousand feet deep,
between jagged perpendicular cliffs. Looking cautiously over the edge,
you scan the gloomy abyss where the sun never shines except for a
brief space in the early morn. You see a chaos of fallen blocks and
splinters, where the winter's snow, often unmelted by the summer
rains, forms miniature glaciers, from one of which the Kochel springs
to charm wondering eyes with its fall in the lowlands by Petersdorf.
You see how the jutting crags threaten to tumble; how the heaps far
below are overgrown by treacherous _Knieholz_, and form ridges which
dam the sullen waters of two or three small lakes. A patch of green, a
small meadow, smiles up at you from the lesser gulf; and it surprises
you somewhat to be told that a painstaking peasant makes hay there, by
stacking the grass on high poles, and carries it in winter when snow
enables him to use a sledge.
If sure of foot, you may scramble down the ridge and look at the
cliffs from below, and on the way at a remarkable geological
phenomenon. In the western declivity the ruddy granite is cut in two
by a stratum of basalt, which broadens as you descend, its surface cut
up by pale gray veins resembling a network. It is said to be the only
instance in Europe of basalt found at such a height, and in such
intimate neighbourhood with granite. It is laborious walking at the
base, and dangerous where vegetation screens the numerous crevices.
However, if you take pleasure in botany, there are rare plants to
repay the exploit; and if you care only for the romantic, to have been
frowned down upon by the tremendous cliffs will suffice you.
When you climb back to the summit the host will ask you to look at his
museum, and collection of knick-knacks for sale--memorials of the
_Schneegruben_. There are crystals, and specimens from the
neighbouring rocks, and carvings cut out of the _Knieholz_, an
excellent wood for the purpose. Among these latter are heads of
_Rübezahl_, with roguish look and bearded chin, to be used as
whistles, or terminations for mountain-staves. Or, if you desire it,
he will fire a small mortar to startle the echoes. You may, however,
rouse echoes for yourself by rolling big stones into the gulf; but
beware lest you meet the fate of Anton, the guide, who, in 1825, while
starting a lump of rock, lost his balance, fell over, and was dashed
to pieces against the crags.
Such cliffs are said to be characteristic of the _Riesengebirge_.
Another example of a _Schneegrube_ occurs near Agnetendorf, which is
six hundred feet deep. And close by it is the Wandering Stone, a huge
granite block of thirty tons' weight, which has moved three times
within memory, to the wonder of the neighbourhood. In 1810 it
travelled three hundred feet, in 1822 two hundred, and in 1848,
between the 18th and 19th of June, about twenty-five paces.
Another characteristic of these mountains, as I discovered, is that
when you have climbed up one of their great steps or terraces, you
have to make a deep descent on the farther side before coming to the
next, whereby the labour of the ascent is increased. On leaving the
_Schneegruben_, you traverse a level so thickly strewn with boulders
and rocky fragments that you fancy more would not lie, till, coming
presently to the descent, you find nothing but stone. In and out, rise
and fall; now a long stride that shakes you rudely; now a cheating
short step--such is the manner of your going down. Nothing but stone!
the track in many places scarcely visible though trodden for years.
You will think it a terrible stair before you have finished. Near the
foot we met a party going up, one a lady seated in a _Tragsessel_--a
sedan-chair without its case--carried by two men. Talk of
palanquin-bearers in Hindoostan! their work must be play compared
with that of these Silesian chair-carriers. I pitied them as they
toiled up the stony steep, hard to climb with free limbs, much more so
with such a burden; and yet they looked contented enough, though very
damp. We met three more chairs, each with its lady, in the course of
the next two hours.
Nothing has ever realized my idea of utter desolation so entirely as
the sight of that stony steep when I looked back on it from below. A
great rounded hill of stone, blocks on blocks up-piled to the summit,
sullen as despair, notwithstanding the greenish tinge of clinging
lichen. I wondered whether the accursed hills by the Dead Sea could
look more desolate.
Rough walking now, through straggling _Knieholz_; across stony ridges,
and past more of the uncouth piles of rock that look weird-like in the
slanting sunbeams. All at once you hear the noise of a hurdy-gurdy: a
surprise in so deserted a region, and you may fancy _Rübezahl_ at his
pranks again; but presently you see a beggar squatted in the bush,
whose practised ear having caught the sound of footsteps before you
came in sight, the squeak is set a-going to inspire charity. And now
these musical surprises will beset you every half-mile--flageolet,
tambourine, clarionet, or fiddle. Where do the musicians live? No
signs of a house are visible near their lurking-places.
We came to a _Baude_, a lonely farmstead, with a few fields around:
the dwelling roughly built of wood, without upper story. Many similar
buildings are scattered among the mountains--cause of thankfulness to
weary travellers, for the inmates are always ready with rustic fare
and lodging. Here the guide had to ask the way, having already come
farther than he knew. The path led us across swampy ground, where you
walk for a mile or two on stepping-stones through open fir woods,
always meeting some group of rocks. Another half-hour, and we emerged
into a little green vale, shut in by high steep hills and forest, the
_Spindlerbaude_ standing at the upper end. My guide being afraid to
venture farther, I released him, and engaged another; one in full
professional costume--tall boots, peaked hat, and embroidered
jacket--who undertook to go the remaining distance with me for twenty
kreutzers. While I drank a glass of beer, a man and woman made the
room ring again with harp and clarionet.
It was past six when we started, and betook ourselves at once to the
steep ridge behind the _Baude_. Once up, we saw _Schneekoppe_ rising
as a dark cone in the distance, and away to the right the
_Mädelstein_, so named from a shepherdess having been frozen to death
while sheltering under the rock from a snow-storm. On the Bohemian
side, towards the south, the view is confined; but northwards, over
Silesia, it spreads far as eye can reach, the nearer region in deep
shade, for the sun is dropping low. By-and-by we leave the broken
stony ground for the grassy ridge of the _Lahnberg_, where the path
skirts a cliff, which, curving round to the right and left, encloses
the _Grosser Teich_, a black lake, on which you look down from a
height of six hundred feet. The inky waters fill an oval basin about
twenty-four acres in extent and seventy-five feet deep, and remain
quite barren of fish, although attempts have been made to stock it
with trout. The superflux forms a stream named the Great Lomnitz.
From hence more rock-masses are in sight: the _Mittagstein_, so named
because the sun stands directly over it at mid-day, a sign to the
haymakers and turf-diggers; the _Dreisteine_, fifty feet high,
resembling the ruin of a castle, split into three by a lightning
stroke a hundred years ago; the _Katzenschloss_ (Cat's Castle) and
others, which the guide will tell you owe their names to _Rübezahl_.
We cross the _Teichfelder_ and look down on the Little Pond: a lively
sheet of water, for the surface is rippled by a waterfall that leaps
down the precipice, and beneath trout are numerous as angler can
desire. You will notice something crater-like in the form of the
cliffs of both ponds: no traces of lava are, however, to be
discovered.
We passed the Devil's Gulf, through which flows the Silver Water, and
came to more rough ground, and scrub, and lurking bagpipers. The veil
of twilight was drawn over Silesia, and the peaks and ridges on the
right loomed large and hazy against the darkening sky. We came to the
_Riesenbaude_ on the edge of the _Riesengrund_ (Giant's Gulf), from
which uprears a steeper slope than any we had yet encountered.
It is incredibly steep, the path making short zigzags, as on the
Gemmi, fenced by a low wall. On either side you see nothing but loose
slabs of stone, which must have made the ascent well-nigh impossible
to unpractised feet, before Count Schaffgotsch constructed the new
path at his own cost. A hard pull to finish with. However, in about
twenty minutes we come to a level, where the wind blows strong and
cold, and something that looks like a house and a circular tower
looms through the dusk. The guide steps forward and opens a door,
which admits us to a dim passage. He opens another door, and I am
dazzled by the lights of a large room, where some forty or fifty
guests are sitting at rows of tables eating, drinking, and smoking,
while three women with harps sing and play in a corner.
To step from the chill gloom outside into such a scene was a surprise;
and after my long day's walk to find a comfortable sofa five thousand
feet above the sea, was a solace which I knew how to appreciate.
FOOTNOTE:
[G] _Krkonoski Hory_ is the Czechish name for the whole range of the
_Riesengebirge_.