The Danube--Singers--Shady nooks--Geisingen--Mill
weirs--Rapids--Morning Crowd--Donkey's
stable--Islands--Monks--Spiders--Concert--Fish--A race.
At first the river is a few feet broad, but it soon enlarges, and the
streams of a great plain quickly bring its volume to that of the Thames
at Kingston. The quiet, dark Donau winds about then in slow serpentine
smoothness for hours in a level mead, with waving sedge on the banks and
silken sleepy weeds in the water. Here the long-necked, long-winged,
long-legged heron, that seems to have forgotten to get a body, flocks by
scores with ducks of the various wild breeds, while pretty painted
butterflies and fierce-looking dragon-flies float, as it were, on the
summer sunbeams, and simmer in the air. The haymakers are at work; and
half their work is hammering the soft edges of their very miserable
scythes, which they then dip in the water. Now they have a chat; and as
I whiz by round a corner, there is a row of open mouths and wondering
eyes, but an immediate return to courtesy with a touch of the hat, and
"Gut tag" when presence of mind is restored. Then they call to their
mates, and laugh with rustic satisfaction--a laugh that is real and
true, not cynical, but the recognition of a strange incongruity, that of
a reasonable being pent up in a boat and hundreds of miles from home,
yet whistling most cheerfully all the time.
Soon the hills on either side have houses and old castles, and then
wood, and, lastly, rock; and with these, mingling the bold, the wild,
and the sylvan, there begins a grand panorama of river beauties to be
unrolled for days and days. No river I have seen equals this Upper
Danube, and I have visited many pretty streams. The wood is so thick,
the rocks so quaint and high and varied, the water so clear, and the
grass so green. Winding here and turning there, and rushing fast down
this reach and paddling slow along that, with each minute a fresh view,
and of new things, the mind is ever on the _qui vive_, or the boat will
go bump on a bank, crash on a rock, or plunge into a tree full of gnats
and spiders. This is veritable travelling, where skill and tact are
needed to bear you along, and where each exertion of either is rewarded
at once. I think, also, it promotes decision of character, for you
_must_ choose, and that promptly, too, between, say, five channels
opened suddenly before you. Three are probably safe, but which of these
three is the shortest, deepest, and most practicable? In an instant, if
you hesitate, the boat is on a bank; and it is remarkable how speedily
the exercise of this resolution becomes experienced into habit, but of
course only after some severe lessons.
It is exciting to direct a camel over the sandy desert when you have
lost your fellow-travellers, and to guide a horse in trackless wilds
alone; but the pleasure of paddling a canoe down a rapid, high-banked,
and unknown river, is far more than these.
Part of this pleasure flows from the mere sense of rapid motion. In
going down a swift reach of the river there is the same sensation about
one's diaphragm which is felt when one goes forward smoothly on a lofty
rope swing. Now the first few days of the Danube are upon very fast
waters. Between its source and Ulm the descent of the river is about
1,500 feet.[VIII.] This would give 300 feet of fall for each of a five
days' journey; and it will be seen from this that the prospect for the
day's voyage is most cheering when you launch in the morning and know
you will have to descend about the height of St. Paul's Cathedral before
halting for the night.
[VIII.] The best geographical books give different estimates of
this, some above and others below the amount here stated.
Another part of the pleasure--it is not to be denied--consists in the
satisfaction of overcoming difficulties. When you have followed a
channel chosen from several, and, after half-a-mile of it, you see one
and another of the rejected channels emerging from its island to join
that you are in, there is a natural pride in observing that any other
streamlet but the one you had chosen would certainly have been a
mistake.
These reflections are by the way; and we have been winding the while
through a rich grassy plain till a bridge over the river made it seem
quite a civilized spot, and, just as I passed under, there drove along
one of the green-boughed waggons of jovial singers returning from
Donaueschingen. Of course they recognised the canoe, and stopped to give
her a hearty cheer, ending with a general chorus made up of the few
English words of their vocabulary, "All r-r-r-r-ight, Englishmánn!" "All
r-r-r-r-ight, Englishmánn!"[IX.]
[IX.] See sketch, _ante_, page 49.
The coincidence of these noisy but good-humoured people having been
assembled in the morning, when the canoe had started from the source of
the Danube, caused the news of its adventure to be rapidly carried to
all the neighbouring towns, so that the Rob Roy was welcomed at once,
and the newspapers recorded its progress not only in Germany and France,
but in England, and even in Sweden and in America.
At the village of Geisingen it was discovered that the boiler of my
engine needed some fuel, or, in plain terms, I must breakfast. The
houses of the town were not close to the river, but some workmen were
near at hand, and I had to leave the canoe in the centre of the stream
moored to a plank, with very strict injunctions (in most distinct
English!) to an intelligent boy to take charge of her until my return;
and then I walked to the principal street, and to the best-looking
house, and knocked, entered, asked for breakfast, and sat down, and was
speedily supplied with an excellent meal. One after another the people
came in to look at the queer stranger who was clad so oddly, and had
come--aye, _how_ had he come? that was what they argued about in
whispers till he paid his bill, and then they followed to see where he
would go, and thus was there always a congregation of inquisitive but
respectful observers as we started anew.
Off again, though the August sun is hot. But we cannot stop now. The
shade will be better enjoyed when resting in the boat under a high rock,
or in a cool water cave, or beneath a wooden bridge, or within the
longer shadow of a pine-clad cliff.
Often I tried to rest those midday hours (for one cannot always work) on
shore, in a house, or on a grassy bank; but it was never so pleasant as
at full length in the canoe, under a thick grown oak-tree, with a book
to read dreamily, and a mild cigar at six for a penny, grown in the
fields we passed, and made up at yesterday's inn.[X.]
[X.] Two stimulants well known in England are much used in
Germany,--tea and tobacco.
(1) The tobacco plant (sometimes styled a weed, because it also grows
wild) produces leaves, which are dried and rolled, and then treated with
fire, using an appropriate instrument, by which the fumes are inhaled.
The effect upon many persons is to soothe; but it impairs the appetite
of others. The use is carried to excess in Turkey. The leaves contain a
deadly poison.
(2) The tea weed (sometimes styled a plant, because it also grows under
cultivation) produces leaves, which are dried and rolled, and then
treated with fire, using an appropriate instrument, by which the
infusion is imbibed. The effect upon many persons is to cheer; but it
impairs the sleep of others. The use is carried to excess in Russia. The
leaves contain a deadly poison.
Both these luxuries are cheap and portable, and are daily enjoyed by
millions of persons in all climates. Both require care and moderation in
their use. Both have advocates and enemies; and it cannot be settled by
argument whether the plant or the weed is the more useful or hurtful to
mankind.
Let it be well understood that this picture only describes the resting
time, and not the active hours of progress in the cooler part of the day
before and after the bright meridian sun.
In working hours there was no lazy lolling, the enjoyment was that of
delightful exertion, varied at every reach of the river.
You start, indeed, quietly enough, but are sure soon to hear the
well-known rushing sound of a milldam, and this almost every day, five
or six times. On coming to it I usually went straight along the top edge
of the weir, looking over for a good place to descend by, and surveying
the innumerable little streams below to see my best course afterwards.
By this time the miller and his family and his men, and all the
neighbours, would run down to see the new sight, but I always lifted out
my little black knapsack and put my paddle on shore, and then stepped
out and pulled my boat over or round the obstruction, sometimes through
a hayfield or two, or by a lane, or along a wall, and then launched her
again in deep water. Dams less than four feet high one can "shoot" with
a headlong plunge into the little billows at the foot, but this wrenches
the boot if it strikes against a stone, and it is better to get out and
ease her through, lift her over, or drag her round.
In other places I had to sit astride on the stern of the canoe, with
both legs in the water, fending her off from big stones on either side,
and cautiously steering.[XI.]
[XI.] The invention of this method was made here, but its
invaluable advantages were more apparent in passing the second rapid of
Rheinfelden. See _post_, page 186, where described, with a sketch.
But with these amusements, and a little wading, you sit quite dry, and,
leaning against the backboard, smoothly glide past every danger, lolling
at ease where the current is excessive, and where it would not be safe
to add impetus, for the shock of a collision there would break the
strongest boat.
If incidents like these, and the scenery and the people ashore, were not
enough to satisfy the ever greedy mind, some louder plashing, with a
deeper roar, would announce the rapids. This sound was sure to waken up
any sleepiness, and once in the middle of rough water all had to be
energy and life.
I never had a positive upset, but of course I had to jump out
frequently to save the boat, for the first care was the canoe, and the
second was my luggage, to keep it all dry, the sketch-book in
particular, while the third object was to get on comfortably and fast.
After hours of these pleasures of work and rest, and a vast deal seen
and heard and felt that would take too long to tell, the waning sun, and
the cravings within for dinner, warned me truly that I had come near the
stopping-place for the night.
The town of Tuttlingen is built on both sides of the river, and almost
every house is a dyer's shop or a tannery, with men beating, scraping,
and washing hides in the water. As I allowed the boat to drift among
these the boys soon found her out--a new object--and therefore to boys
(and may it always be so) well worth a shout and a run; so a whole posse
of little Germans scampered along beside me, but I could not see any
feasible-looking inn.
It is one of the privileges of this water tour that you can survey
calmly all the whereabouts; and being out of reach of the touters and
porters who harass the wretched traveller delivered to their grasp from
an omnibus or a steamboat, you can philosophize on the whole _morale_ of
a town, and if so inclined can pass it, and simply go on. In fact, on
several occasions I did not fancy a town, so we went on to another.
However, I was fairly nonplussed now. It would not do to go further, for
it was not a thickly-peopled country; but I went nearly to the end of
the place in search of a good landing, till I turned into a millrace and
stepped ashore.
The crowd pressed so closely that I had to fix on a boy who had a toy
barrow with four little wheels, and amid much laughter I persuaded the
boy to lend it (of course as a great honour to him), and so I pulled the
boat on this to the hotel. The boy's sixpence of reward was a fact that
brought all the juvenile population together, and though we hoisted the
canoe into a hayloft and gave very positive injunction to the ostler to
keep her safe, there was soon a string of older sightseers admitted one
by one; and even at night they were mounting the ladder with lanterns,
women as well as men, to examine the "schiff."
A total change of garments usually enabled me to stroll through the
villages in the evening without being recognised, but here I was
instantly known as I emerged for a walk, and it was evident that an
unusual attendance must be expected in the morning.
Tuttlingen is a very curious old town, with a good inn and bad pavement,
tall houses, all leaning here and there, and big, clumsy,
honest-looking men lounging after their work, and wonderfully
satisfied to chat in groups amid the signal darkness of unlighted
streets; very fat horses and pleasant-looking women, a bridge, and
numerous schoolboys; these are my impressions of Tuttlingen.
[Illustration: MORNING VISITORS. Page 65.]
Even at six o'clock next morning these boys had begun to assemble for
the sight they expected, and those of them who had satchels on their
backs seemed grievously disappointed to find the start would not come
off before their hour for early school.
However, the grown-up people came instead, and flocked to the bridge and
its approaches. While I was endeavouring to answer all the usual
questions as to the boat, a man respectfully asked me to delay the start
five minutes, as his aged father, who was bedridden, wished exceedingly
just to see the canoe. In all such cases it is a pleasure to give
pleasure, and to sympathize with the boundless delight of the boys,
remembering how as a boy a boat delighted me; and then, again, these
worthy, mother-like, wholesome-faced dames, how could one object to
their prying gaze, mingled as it was with friendly smile and genuine
interest?
The stream on which I started here was not the main channel of the
Danube, but a narrow arm of the river conducted through the town, while
the other part fell over the mill-weir. The woodcut shows the scene at
starting, and there were crowds as large as this at other towns; but a
picture never can repeat the shouts and bustle, or the sound of guns
firing and bells ringing, which on more than one occasion celebrated the
Rob Roy's morning paddle.
The lovely scenery of this day's voyage often reminded me of that upon
the Wye,[XII.] in its best parts between Ross and Chepstow. There were the
white rocks and dark trees, and caverns, crags, and jutting peaks you
meet near Tintern; but then the Wye has no islands, and its muddy water
at full tide has a worse substitute in muddier banks when the sea has
ebbed.
[XII.] Murray says: "The Meuse has been compared to the Wye; but
is even more romantic than the English river." I would rank the Wye as
much above the Meuse as below the Danube for romance in scenery.
The islands on beauteous Donau were of all sizes and shapes. Some low
and flat, and thickly covered with shrubs; others of stalwart rock,
stretching up at a sharp angle, under which the glassy water bubbled all
fresh and clear.
Almost each minute there was a new scene, and often I backed against
the current to hold my post in the best view of some grand picture.
Magnificent crags reached high up on both sides, and impenetrable
forests rung with echoes when I shouted in the glee of health, freedom,
and exquisite enjoyment.
But scenes and sentiments will not feed the hungry paddler, so I decided
to stop at Friedingen, a village on the bank. There was a difficulty now
as to where the canoe could be left, for no inn seemed near enough to
let me guard her while I breakfasted. At length a mason helped me to
carry the Rob Roy into a donkey's stable, and a boy volunteered to guide
the stranger to the best inn. The first, and the second, and the third
he led me to were all beerhouses, where only drink could be had; and as
the crowd augmented at every stage, I dismissed the ragged cicerone, and
trusted myself instead to the sure leading of that unnamed instinct
which guides a hungry man to food. Even the place found at last, was
soon filled with wondering spectators. A piece of a German and English
dictionary from my baggage excited universal attention, and was several
times carried outside to those who had not secured reserved seats
within.
The magnificent scenery culminated at Beuron, where a great convent on a
rich mound of grass is nearly surrounded by the Danube, amid a spacious
amphitheatre of magnificent white cliffs perfectly upright, and clad
with the heaviest wood.
The place looks so lonely, though fair, that you could scarcely believe
you might stop there for the night, and so I had nearly swept by it
again into perfect solitude, but at last pulled up under a tree, and
walked through well ploughed fields to the little hamlet in this
sequestered spot.
The field labourers were of course surprised at the apparition of a man
in flannel, who must have come out of the river; but the people at the
Kloster had already heard of the "schiff," and the Rob Roy was soon
mounted on two men's shoulders, and borne in triumph to the excellent
hotel. The Prince who founded the monastery is, I believe, himself a
monk.
Now tolls the bell for "even song," while my dinner is spread in an
arbour looking out on this grand scene, made grander still by dark
clouds gathering on the mountains, and a loud and long thunder peal,
with torrents of rain.
This deluge of wet came opportunely when I had such good shelter, as it
cooled the air, and would strengthen the stream of the river; so I
admired the venerable monks with complacent satisfaction, a feeling
never so complete as when you are inside, and you look at people who
are out in the rain.
A young girl on a visit to her friends here could talk bad French
rapidly, so she was sent to gossip with me as I dined; and then the
whole family inspected my sketch-book, a proceeding which happened at
least twice every day for many weeks of the voyage. This emboldened me
to ask for some music, and we adjourned to a great hall, where a concert
was soon in progress with a guitar, a piano, and a violin, all well
played; and the Germans are never at a loss for a song.
My young visitor, Melanie, then became the interpreter in a curious
conversation with the others, who could speak only German; and I
ventured to turn our thoughts on some of the nobler things which ought
not to be long absent from the mind--I mean, what is loved, and feared,
enjoyed, and derided, as "religion."
In my very limited baggage I had brought some selected pieces and
Scripture anecdotes and other papers in French and German, and these
were used on appropriate occasions, and were always well received, often
with exceedingly great interest and sincere gratitude.
Some people are shy about giving tracts, or are even afraid of them. But
then some people are shy of speaking at all, or even dislike to ride,
or skate, or row. One need not laugh at another for this.
The practice of carrying a few printed pages to convey in clear language
what one cannot accurately speak in a foreign tongue is surely
allowable, to say the least. But I invariably find it to be very useful
and interesting to myself and to others; and, as it hurts nobody, and
has nothing in it of which to be proud or ashamed, and as hundreds of
men do it, and as I have done it for years, and will do it again, I am
far too old a traveller to be laughed out of it now.
The Kloster at Beuron is a favourite place for excursionists from the
towns in the neighbourhood, and no doubt some day soon it will be a
regular "place to see" for English travellers rowing down the Danube;
for it is thus, and only thus, you can approach it with full effect. The
moon had come forth as I leaned out of my bedroom window, and it
whitened the ample circus of beetling crags, and darkened the trees,
while a fainter and redder light glimmered from the monks' chapel, as
the low tones of midnight chanting now and then reached the ear. Perhaps
it is better to wear a monk's cowl than to wear consistently a layman's
common coat in the workday throng of life; and it _may_ be better to
fast and chant and kneel at shrines than to be temperate and thankful
and prayerful in the busy world. But I doubt.
After leaving Beuron, with the firing of guns and the usual pleasant
good wishes from the shore, the Danube carried us between two lofty
rocks, and down calm reaches for hours. The water was unspeakably clear;
you could see right into deep caverns far below. I used to gaze
downwards for so long a time at the fish moving about, and to strike at
them with my long paddle (never once hitting any), that I forgot the
boat was swinging along all the time, till bump she went on a bank, or
crash against a rocky isle, or rumbling into some thick trees, when a
shower of leaves, spiders, and rubbish wakened up my reverie. Then,
warned by the shock, I return to the plain duty of looking ahead, until,
perhaps, after an hour's active rushing through narrow "guts," and over
little falls, and getting out and hauling the boat down larger ones, my
eyes are wandering again, gazing at the peaks overhead, and at the
eagles soaring above them, and at the clear blue sky above all; till
again the Rob Roy heels over on a sunken stone, and I have to jump out
nimbly to save her from utter destruction. For days together I had my
feet bare, and my trousers tucked up, ready to wade at any moment, and
perfectly comfortable all the time, for a fiery sun dried every thing in
a few minutes.
The physical enjoyment of such a life to one in good health and good
spirits, with a good boat and good scenery, is only to be appreciated
after experience; for these little reminders that one must not actually
_sleep_ on a rushing river never resulted in any disaster, and I came
home without a cold or a scratch, or a hole in the boat, or one single
day regretted. May this be so for many a John Bull let loose on the
Continent to "paddle his own canoe."
On the rivers where there is no navigation and no towing paths it was
impossible to estimate the distances traversed each day, except by the
number of hours I was at work, the average speed, the strength of the
wind and current, and the number of stoppages for food or rest, or
mill-weirs, waterfalls, or barriers. Thirty miles was reckoned to be a
good day's work, and I have sometimes gone forty miles in a day; but
twenty was quite enough when the scenery and incidents on the way filled
up every moment of time with varied sensations of new pleasures.
It will generally be found, I think, that for walking in a pleasant
country twenty miles a day is enough for mind and body to be active and
observant all the time. But the events that occur in river work are far
more frequent and interesting than those on the road, for you have all
the circumstances of your boat in addition to what fills the
pedestrian's journal, and after a little time your canoe becomes so much
a companion (friend, shall I say?) that every turn it takes and every
knock and grate on its side is felt as if it were your own. The boat
gets to be individualized, and so does the river, till at last there is
a pleasant rivalry set up, for it is "man and boat" _versus_ the river
and all it can place in your way.
After a few tours on the Continent your first hour in a railway or
diligence may be new and enjoyable, but you soon begin to wish for the
end of the road, and after a short stay in the town you have come to you
begin to talk (or think) of when you are to leave. Now a feature of the
boating tour is that quiet progress can be enjoyed all the time, because
you have personal exertion or engagement for every moment, and your
observation of the scenery around is now most minute and interesting,
because every bend and slope of it tells at once what you have to do.
Certainly the pleasure of a day is not to be measured by the number of
miles you have gone over. The voyage yesterday, for instance, was one of
the very best for enjoyment of scenery, incident, and exercise, yet it
was the shortest day I had. The guide-book says, "Tuttlingen is twelve
miles"--by river, say eighteen--"from Kloster Beuron, where the fine
scenery begins. This part of the Danube is not navigable."
I will not say that on some occasions I did not wish for the end of the
day's work, when arms were weary, and the sun was low, and yearnings of
the inner man grumbling for dinner, especially when no one could tell
how far it was to any house, or whether you could stop there all night
if you reached it.