Höllenthal Pass--
Lady Friends--
Night Music--
Manners--
Pontius Pilate--
A Schwartzwald Storm--
Starers--
The Singers--
Donaueschigen--
Banket--
An English Groom--
Waiterdom--
Source of the Danube--
Its Name.
PLANNING your
summer tour is a pleasant ploy.
It is in June or July that the Foreign Bradshaw
suddenly gets interesting, and its well-known
pages of "Steamers and Railways," and (oh,
selfish thought!) only one mind to consult as to
whither away.
All this
pleasure is a good deal influenced,
however, by true answers to these questions. Is this
to be a vacation of refreshment, or an idle lounge?
Are we going off to rest, or to recruit delicate
health, or with vigour to enjoy a summer of active
exertion?
But now
the infallible Bradshaw could not help
me one atom about the canoe, and Baedeker was
not written for a boat; so at Freyburg my
cogitations ended in the simple resolve, "Go at once
to the source of the Danube."
Next morning,
therefore, found the Rob Roy
in a cart, and the grey-clothed traveller walking
beside it on the dusty Höllenthal road. The gay,
light-hearted exultation of being strong and well,
and on a right errand, and with unknown things
to do and places to see and people to meet, who
can describe this? How easy it is at such times
to be glad, and to think that this is being
"thankful!"
After moralizing
for a few miles, a carriage
full of English people overtook me, and soon we
became companions. "The English are so
distant, so silent, such hauteur and gloomy distrust,"
forsooth! A false verdict, say I. The ladies
carried me off through the very pretty glen, and
the canoe on its cart trundled slowly after us
behind, through the Höllenthal Pass, which is too
seldom visited by travellers, who so often admire
the spire of Freyburg from the railway as they
pass on their route to Switzerland.
This entrance
to the Schwartzwald, or Black
Forest, is a woody, rocky, grim defile, with an
excellent road, and good inns. The villages are
of wood, and there is a saw-mill in every other
house, giving a busy, wholesome sound, mellowed
by the patter of the water-wheel. Farther on,
where tourists' scenery stops, it is a grand,
dark-coloured ocean of hills. The houses get larger
and larger, and fewer and fewer, and nearly every
one has a little chapel built alongside, with a
wooden saint's image of life-size nailed on the
gable end. One night I was in one of these huge
domiciles, when all the servants and ploughboys
came in, and half said, half sung, their prayers,
in a whining but yet musical tone, and then
they attacked a hearty supper.
Our carriage
mounted still among crags, that
bowed from each side across the narrow gorge, and
were crested above by the grand old trees that will
be felled and floated down the Rhine on one of
those huge rafts you meet at Strasbourg. But
everybody must have seen a Rhine raft, so I need
not describe it, with its acres of wood and its
street of cabins, and its gay bannerets. A large
raft needs 500 men to navigate it, and the timber
will sell for 30,000l.
At the
top of this pass was the watershed of
the first chain of hills, and the Rob Roy was
safely housed in the Baar Inn, so I set off for a
long walk to find if the tiny stream there would
possibly be navigable.
Alone on
a hillside in a foreign land, and with
an evening sun pouring warm light on the wild
mountains, and the playful breeze and the
bleating sheep around you--there is a strong
sentiment of independent delight that possesses the
mind then with buoyant gladness; but how can I
explain it in words, unless you have felt this sort
of pleasure?
The rivulet
was found to be quite unsuited for
a canoe; so now let me go to bed in my wooden
room, where the washing-basin is oval, and the
partitions are so thin that one hears all the noises
of the place at midnight. Now, the long-drawn
snore of the landlord; then, the tittle-tattle of the
servants not asleep yet,--a pussy's plaintive mew,
and the scraping of a mouse; the cows breathing
in soft slumber; and again, the sharp rattle of a
horse's chain.
The elaborate
construction of that edifice of
housewifery called a "bett" here, and which we
are expected to sleep upon, can only be understood
when you have to undermine and dismantle it
night after night to arrive at a reasonable flat
surface on which to recline.
First you take off a great fluff bag at least two
feet thick, then a counterpane, and then a brilliant
scarlet blanket; next you extract one enormous
pillow, another enormous pillow, and a huge
wedge-shaped bolster,--all, it appears, requisite
for the Teutonic race, who yet could surely put
themselves to sleep at an angle of forty-five
degrees, without all this trouble, by merely tilting
up the end of a flat bedstead.
Simple but real courtesy have I found
throughout. Every one says "Gut tag;" and, even in
a hotel, on getting up from breakfast a guest who
has not spoken a word will wish "Gut morgen"
as he departs, and perhaps "Bon appetit" to
those not satisfied like himself. About eight
o'clock the light repast of tea or coffee, bread,
butter, and honey begins the day; at noon is
the dinner, or "mittagessen," mid-day meal,
giving all proper excuse for another dining
operation in the shape of a supper at seven.
No fine manners here! My driver sat down
to dinner with me, and the waiter along with
him, smoking a cigar between whiles, as he
waited on us both. But all this is just as one
sees in Canada and in Norway, and wherever
there are mountains, woods, and torrent streams,
with a sparse population; and, as in Norway
too, you see at once that all can read, and they do
read. There is more reading in one day in a
common house in Germany than in a month in
the same sort of place in France.
I had hired the cart and driver by the day, but
he by no means admired my first directions next
morning--namely, to take the boat off the main
road, so as to get to the Titisee, a pretty
mountain lake about four miles long, and
surrounded by wooded knolls. His arguments and
objections were evidently superficial, and
something deeper than he said was in his mind. In
fact, it appears that, by a superstition long
cherished there, Pontius Pilate is supposed to be
in that deep, still lake, and dark rumours were
told that he would surely drag me down if I
ventured upon it.
The legend about Pilate extends over Germany
and Italy. Even on the flanks of Stromboli there
is a talus of the volcano which the people dare not
approach, "because of Pontius Pilate."
Of course, this decided the matter, and when I
launched the Rob Roy from the pebbly shore in a
fine foggy morning, and in full view of the
inhabitants of the region (eight in number at last census),
I had a most pleasant paddle for several miles.
At a distance the boat was invisible (being
so low in the water), and they said that only a
man was seen, whirling a paddle about his head.
There is nothing interesting about this lake,
except that it is 3,000 feet above the sea and very
lonely, in the middle of the Black Forest.
Certainly no English boat has been there before, and
probably no other will visit the deserted water.
After this, the Rob Roy is carted again still
further into the forests. Lumbering vehicles
meet us, all carrying wood. Some have joined
three carts together, and have eight horses.
Others have a bullock or two besides, and all the
men are intelligent enough, for they stop and
stare, and my driver deigns to tell them, in a
patois wholly beyond me, as to what a strange
fare he has got with a boat and no other luggage.
However, they invariably conclude that the canoe
is being carried about for sale, and it could have
been well sold frequently already.
About mid-day my sage driver began to mutter
something at intervals, but I could only make out
from his gestures and glances that it had to do
with a storm overhead. The mixture of English,
French, and German on the borders of the Rhine
accustoms one to hear odd words. "Shall have
you pottyto?" says a waiter, and he is asking
if you will have potatoes. Another hands you
a dish, saying, it is "sweetbone," and you must
know it is "sweetbread."
Yes, the storm came, and as it seldom does
come except in such places. I once heard a
thunder peal while standing on the crater of
Mount Vesuvius, and I have seen the
grand
beauty of bright lightning playing on the
Falls of Niagara in a black dark night, but the
vividness of the lightning to-day in the Black
Forest, and the crashing, rolling, and booming of
the terrible and majestic battery of heaven was
astounding. Once a bolt fell so near and with
such a blaze that the horse (albeit tired enough)
started off down a hill and made me quite nervous
lest he should overturn the cart and injure my
precious boat, which naturally was more and more
dear to me as it was longer my sole companion.
As we toiled up the Rothenhaus Pass, down
came the rain, whisting and rushing through the
cold, dark forests of larch, and blackening the top
of great Feldberg, the highest mountain here, and
then pouring heavy and fast on the cart and horse,
the man, the canoe, and myself. This was the
last rain my boat got in the tour. All other days
I spent in her were perfectly dry.
People stared out of their windows to see
a cart and a boat in this heavy shower--what!
a boat, up here in the hills? Where can it be
going, and whose is it? Then they ran out to
us, and forced the driver to harangue, and he
tried to satisfy their curiosity, but his explanation
never seemed to be quite exhaustive, for they
turned homeward shaking their heads and looking
grave, even though I nodded and laughed at them
through the bars of the cart, lifting up my head
among the wet straw.
The weather dried up its tears at last, and the
sun glittered on the road, still sparkling with its
rivulets of rain water. The boat was soon cleared
from wet by a sponge, while a smart walk warmed
its well-soaked captain.
The horse too had got into a cheerful vein and
actually trotted with excitement, for now it was
down hill, and bright sun--a welcome change in
ten minutes from our labouring up a steep forest
road in a thunder-storm.
I suppose that the most rigid teetotaller (I am
only a temperance man) would allow that just a
very small glass of kirchwasser might be
prescribed at this moment with advantage, and as there
was no "faculty" there but myself, I
administered the dose medicinally to the driver and to his
employer, and gave a bran-mash and a rub down
to the horse, which made all three of us better
satisfied with ourselves and each other, and so we
jogged on again.
By dusk I marched into Donauesehingen, and
on crossing the little bridge, saw at once I could
begin the Danube from its very source, for there
were at least three inches of water in the middle
of the stream.
In five minutes a crowd assembled round the
boat, even before it could be loosened from the cart.
[Footnote 1]
The ordinary idlers came first, then the more
shy townspeople, and then a number of strange
folks, whose exact position I could not make out,
until it was explained that the great singing
meeting for that part of Germany was to be held
next day in the town, and so there were 600
visitors, all men of some means and intelligence,
who were collected from a wide country round
about.
The town was in gala for this meeting of song.
The inns were full, but still the good landlord of
the "Poste" by the bridge gave me an excellent
room, and the canoe was duly borne in procession
to the coachhouse.
What a din these tenors and basses did make
at the table d'hôte! Everything about the boat
had to be told a dozen times over to them, while
my driver had a separate lecture-room on the
subject below.
The town was well worth inspection next
day, for it was m a violent fit of decoration.
Every house was tidied up, and all the streets
were swept clean. From the humbler windows
hung green boughs and garlands, rugs, quilts,
and blankets; while banners, Venetian streamers,
arches, mottoes, and wreaths of flowers announced
the wealthier houses. Crowds of gaping peasants
paraded the streets and jostled against bands
drumming and tromboning (if there be such a
word), and marching in a somewhat ricketty
manner over the undoubtedly rough pavement.
Every now and then the bustle had a fresh
paroxysm when four horses rattled along,
bringing in new visitors from some distant choir. They
are coming you see in a long four-wheeled cart,
covered with evergreens and bearing four pine
trees in it erect among sacks which are used as
seats--only the inmates do not sit but stand up in
the cart and shout, and sing, and wave banners
aloft, while the hundreds of on-lookers roar out
the "Hoch," the German hurrah! with only one
note.
As every window had its ornament or device, I
made one for mine also, and my sails were
festooned (rather tastefully, I flatter myself) to
support the little blue silk English jack of the
canoe. This complimentary display was speedily
recognized by the Germans, who greeted it with
cheers, and sung glees below, and improvised
verses about England, and then sang round the
boat itself laughing, shouting, and hurraing
boisterously with the vigour of youthful lungs.
Never tell me again that the Germans are a
phlegmatic people!
They had a "banket" in the evening at the
Museum. It was "free for all" and so 400 came
on these inexpensive terms, and all drank beer
from long glass cylinders at a penny a glass, all
smoked cigars at a farthing a piece, and all talked
and sung, though a splendid brass band was
playing beside them, and whenever it stopped a
glee or chorus commenced.
The whole affair was a scene of bewildering
excitement, very curious to contemplate for one
sitting in the midst. Next me I found a young
bookseller who had sold me a French book in the
morning. He said I must take a ticket for the
Sunday concert; but I told him I was an
Englishman, and had learned in my country that it
was God's will and for men's good to keep
Sunday for far better things, which are too much
forgotten when one day in seven is not saved
from the business, excitement, and giddiness of
every-day life.
There is a feeling of dull sameness about life in
those countries and places where the week is not
steadied and centered round a solid day on which
lofty and deep things, pure and lasting things
may have at least some hours of our attention.
So I left the merry singers to bang their drums
and hoch! at each other in the great hall provided
for their use by the Prince of Furstemburg. He
had reared this near his stables, in which are
many good horses, some of the best being
English, and named on their stalls "Miss," "Pet,"
"Lady," or "Tom," &c.
An English gentleman whom I met afterwards
had been travelling through Germany with a
four-in-hand drag, and he came to Donauesehingen,
where the Prince soon heard of his arrival. Next
day His Serene Highness was at his stables, and
seeing an English visitor there, he politely
conducted the stranger over the whole establishment,
explaining every item with minute care. He
found out afterwards that this visitor was not the
English gentleman, but only his groom!
The intelligence, activity, and good temper of
most of the German waiters in hotels will surely
be observed by travellers whose daily enjoyment
depends so much on that class. Here, for instance,
is a little waiter at the Poste Inn. He is the size
of a boy, but looks twenty years older. His face
is flat, and broad, and brown, and so is his jacket.
His shoulders are high, and he reminds you of
those four everlasting German juveniles, with
thick comforters about their necks, who stand in
London streets blowing brass music, with their
cheeks puffed out, and their cold grey eyes
turning on all the passing objects while the music,
or at any rate a noise, blurts out as if mechanically
from the big, unpolished instruments held by red
benumbed fingers.
This waiter lad then is all day at the beck
of all, and never gets a night undisturbed, yet
he is as obliging at ten o'clock in the dark as
for the early coffee at sunrise, and he quite
agrees with each guest, in the belief that his
particular cutlet or cognac is the most
important feature of the hour.
I honour this sort of man. He tills a hard
place well, and Bismarck or Mussurus cannot do
more.
Then again, there is Ulric, the other waiter,
hired only for to-day as an "extra," to meet the
crush of hungry vocalists who will soon fill the
saal. He is timid yet, being young, and only used
to a village inn where "The Poste at
Donaueschingen" is looked up to with solemn admiration
as the pink of fashion. He was learning French
too, and was sentimental, so I gave him a very
matter-of-fact book, and then he asked me to let
him sit in the canoe while I was to paddle it down
the river to his home. The naive simplicity of
this request was truly refreshing, and if I had
been sure of shallow water all the way, and
yet not too shallow, it would perhaps have been
amusing to admit such a passenger.
The actual source of the Danube is by no means
agreed upon any more than the source of the Nile.
I had a day's exploration of the country, after
seeking exact information on this point from the
townspeople in vain. The land round
Donaueschingen is a spongy soil, with numerous rivulets
and a few large streams. I went along one of
these, the Brege, which rises twenty miles away,
near St. Martin, and investigated about ten
miles of another, the Brigach, a brook rising near
St. Georgen, about a mile from the source of the
Neckar, which river runs to the Rhine. These
streams join near Donauesehingen, but in the
town there bubbles up a clear spring of water in
the gardens of the Prince near the church, and
this, the infant Danube, runs into the other water
already wide enough for a boat, but which then for
the first time has the name of Donau.
The name, it is said, is never given to either of
the two larger rivulets, because sometimes both
have been known to fail in dry summers, while
the bubbling spring has been perennial for
ages.
The Brege and another confluent arc caused to
fill an artificial pond close by the Brigach. This
lake is wooded round, and has a pretty island, and
swans, and gold fish. A waterwheel (in vain
covered for concealment) pumps up water to flow
from an inverted horn amid a group of statuary
in this romantic pond, and the stream flowing
from it also joins the others.
That there might be no mistake however in
this matter, I went on each stream from the first
point where it would float a canoe, and while the
singers sol-faed excessively at the boat, and
shouted hochs and farewells to the English
"flagge," and the landlord bowed (his bill of
thirteen francs for three full days being duly
paid), and the populace stared, the Rob Roy shot
off like an arrow on a river delightfully new.
_____
[Footnote 1:]
After trying various modes of securing the canoe in
a springless cart for long journeys on rough and hilly
roads, I am convinced that the best way is to fasten two
ropes across the top of a long cart and let the boat lie on
these, which will bear it like springs and so modify the
jolts. The painter is then made fast fore and aft, so as to
keep the boat from moving back and forward. All plans
for using trusses of straw, &c., fail after a few miles of
rolling gravel and coarse ruts.