A LADY'S GLIMPSE
OF THE LATE
WAR IN BOHEMIA.

BODENBACH.
From a Drawing by the Author.

A LADY'S GLIMPSE

OF THE LATE

WAR IN BOHEMIA.

BY

LIZZIE SELINA EDEN.

LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1867.

The right of Translation is reserved.

TO

MRS. BELL,

OF BOURNE,

THIS LITTLE BOOK

IS

VERY AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

[vi CONTENTS.]

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

[vii CONTENTS.]

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

[viii CONTENTS.]

CHAPTER XIV.

[1]

Chapter I.

[2]

[3]

CHAPTER I.

DURING a long journey last summer on the Continent, many of my friends were firmly persuaded that I had, at last once, been taken prisoner by the Prussians; and, as some of my anxious relatives afterwards told me, their fears for my safety even induced them to apply to the Horse Guards, or the Foreign Secretary, for armed escorts, or Queen's Messengers, to be sent out in search of me. It was to set their minds at rest that, during four months absence, I wrote the following pages, originally in the form of letters.

When I said good-bye to my friends in London, in March, we only talked of the pleasurable excursion in store for me; and my mind was more fixed on my sister's approaching marriage at [4 Invited to a Wedding.] Nice, to which I had been summoned, than on any political crisis that might be impending on the Continent.

The last wedding in a family is a very absorbing event, as not only is there the future of the intended bride and bridegroom to talk over and speculate about, but memory also is busy with the recollections of the many former weddings, some of the first of which now reckon among the "long, long ago" days, and bring with them a numerous train of the absent and the dead. What with these thoughts for solitary moments, and the pleasant occupation of receiving letters of congratulation and presents for the bride, and afterwards saying farewell to my friends in England, I found myself crossing the Channel, and on my way to Nice, without having given a thought to Bismark! In fact, despite of him, the wedding at the little English church there went off brilliantly, and I spent a very pleasant fortnight, and found myself, with the friend who had joined me in that [5 Nice to Genoa.] city, standing on the deck of the "Marco Polo," on a bright sunny morning in early April, steaming out of the harbour with only a vague idea that Venetia was discontented – that Prussia was grasping – and that Austria was sleeping in fancied security.

We had a lovely day's journey, coasting along the Corniche road till we got to Savona, from whence we struck across the bay to Genoa. The Corniche was looking, as it always does, beautiful and picturesque; but what will people say of it when the railroad, which seems going on very actively, and looks in many places near completion, is finished. Then we shall have only a confused idea of rushing in and out of tunnels, and short passing glimpses of the Mediterranean, and all the beauty of the road from Nice to Genoa, in its three days journey, will be over! What a pity, and what a heart of stone the engineer must have to design this cruel piece of practical travelling!

After we stood out from the shelter of the land, [6 Virtue Rewarded.] the cold north wind came cuttingly down from the mountains and every one on board was recalled from the recollections of the bright sun, and summer-like scent of the orange-gardens of Nice, back to our English wraps and furs. I noticed a poor servant next me perishing with cold in her light Italian shawl, and I heaped her up with cloaks and rugs, of which we had abundance.

Virtue in this case was not its whole sole reward, for, on entering the harbour of Genoa, the mistress, who was an English lady, came up and thanked me for my kindness to her maid, and if we had not fixed on any hotel, they strongly recommended the "Hôtel des Quatre Nations," to which they were going, and the landlord of which expected to meet them with his boat. We were very glad, and thankfully accepted her kind proposal that we should accompany them; but we were kept waiting an hour nearly, while one of the ship's officers went on shore to present our "bills [7 Hôtel des Quatre Nations.] of health," and obtain leave from the Quarantine for the passengers landing. This was granted in time, and then came the bustle of landing and passing the custom-house, in which our newly-made acquaintances were of great use, as they had lived some time near Genoa, and were used to the ways of the authorities.

The hotel to which they recommended us was extremely comfortable and reasonable, and the landlord quite charming, with an old-fashioned politeness and attention to his guests which made everything very pleasant. After the late table-d'hôte dinner, this kind old man came and suggested that, if we were not too tired, he should be allowed to accompany us through some of the principal streets, as, the next day being Sunday, all the silver and goldsmiths, and, in short, all the shops, would be closed.

So we went through the picturesque streets, alive with busy, thriving industry. They looked more striking by lamplight than when I [8 Genoa.] had seen them at other times by day, especially the gold and silver street, in which all the shops appeared dazzlingly bright and glittering. We were glad of our little stroll in the evening with our kind guide, especially as he pointed out to us churches and galleries which we could afterwards visit by ourselves.

I am not going to tire my reader with a description of what we saw and did in Genoa – of course it is just the same as Murray and Bradshaw, and all the guide-books describe it. I have been there four times, and every time the city looks more superb and beautiful to my imagination, the lonely Vandycks in the Brignole Palace more fascinating, soft, and refined, the streets more picturesque and narrow, and the noise and bustle as astonishing as ever. The environs are beautiful – both the drives on the Corniche road, and those into the country behind the city; and the city itself seems so full of life, and so thriving, with its port crowded with ships from every part of the world.

[9 The Duomo.] It was very pretty on Sunday morning, looking down on the tall masts in a forest below us, each ship, in honour of the day, having hoisted its country's flag. If the ships "dressed" for the day, I am sure the women of Genoa did the same, for my Protestant prayers in the Duomo were much disturbed by the constant rustling of the silk dresses round me. Women came and knelt beside me, clothed in the very richest and stiffest of watered and brocaded silks, of the palest and most delicate colours, but with nothing on their heads except the soft white muslin veil, which they almost invariably retain. I regretted much to see on some dark Italian faces the present frightful little French bonnets, and felt sorry they could not appreciate better their graceful national head-dress.

Our good old landlord (who, in courtesy and attention, reminded me so strongly of dear old Mr. Wright of "the Fountain" at Canterbury, of well-known memory) tried most kindly to persuade [10 A Long Day's Journey.] us, though in vain, to stay another day, and take a drive down to his country-house on the Corniche road, where he offered us luncheon. He also placed his private carriage at our disposal, and offered us the additional inducement of as many flowers as we could carry; but as our time was limited, we had to decline most regretfully all these hospitable offers, and after paying our tiny bill, we prepared for our departure at three o'clock in the morning, our excellent host getting up see us off, a mark of attention which I appreciated more than anything.

From Genoa we went by Milan to Venice, a long day's journey, especially as express trains are things unknown; and it was only for a short distance, after leaving Milan, that the pace was at all accelerated. Indeed, we had a hard battle to be allowed (with our through tickets) to go by it, as they assured us that our train would not start till next morning. However, we had made up our minds to get to Venice that night, and so, with our [11 Italian Railways.] tickets in hand, we seated ourselves, in spite of all remonstrances, in the train that was starting for Peschiera. By-and-by a very civil official came up, and on showing our tickets to him, we were allowed to proceed, after paying a trifle more. But the Italian railways are queerly managed, and the porters are so scrupulous about not infringing the by-laws of the company, that they put themselves out of the way of temptation by steadily and firmly declining to carry any small articles that the passengers can carry for themselves, and for the conveyance of which one would willingly offer a slight remuneration.

They are also extremely particular in not allowing in a first-class carriage any parcel, basket, or box beyond a certain height, depth, and breadth! The least attempt at argument on the part of the unfortunate traveller produces an abominable little measure, with which the dimensions of the article in dispute are determined.

[12 Scenery on the Railway Journey.] We had the mortification at Genoa of seeing consigned to the guard's van the basket on which all our hopes of creature comforts for the long day's journey depended. We had carefully packed books, wraps, food, and drink in it, and, notwithstanding our earnest entreaties, it was ruthlessly torn from us. We were allowed to unpack some things of vital importance, but all our nice little comfortable arrangements for the day were destroyed. However, the scenery was very lovely, and as by good luck we had the carriage to ourselves, we were enabled to enjoy the views on different sides as the landscape opened out.

My last journey was through France, and the change from the frightful flat country, which most of the railway there passes through, to the beautiful varied scene on the road from Genoa to Milan, was most refreshing. After Milan the railway runs closer to the hills, and the country is very pretty. We passed by numberless picturesque villages and some fine towns. Amongst the latter [13 Bergamo.] Bergamo seemed to us most striking, standing on a commanding hill, with its old churches and domes, and strong-looking fortifications and towers. A river runs near the city, and in the distance is the beautiful broken chain of mountains round Como. We agreed that at some future time we must return and take up our quarters at Bergamo, and we promised ourselves many a long day's sketching in the tempting-looking environs.

Near Bergamo, at a little town station where we stopped, we noticed, facing the railway, a small old-fashioned tower on which was one of those quaint antique clocks that only mark to six. One often reads of them, but, as I think, happily, very rarely sees them now, for it appears to me that four sixes in the twenty-four must perplex one considerably. We reached Peschiera late in the afternoon. Just after leaving the custom-house, it struck us we had fallen on troublous times, as an incoming train of Austrian soldiers, coming from Italy, greeted our train with a mix- [14 Venice.] ture of groans and exclamations! – very like those heard from opposition carriages passing each other at an election.

A fortnight or three weeks after this, the bridge we had just passed over at Brescia was partly destroyed, and only rail enough left for the transit of troops.

It was dark when we got to Venice, where we had to go through a sort of custom-house formula again, the marking of our boxes with a piece of chalk, which was done by a tall man (out of uniform for a miracle), who wished us good night with a truly Austrian bow.

Our hotel was dismally grand, but very comfortable, all except the sheets, which were as wet as if they had come out of the canal. It was in vain to expostulate with the chambermaid, who assured us it was their nature in Venice – that all sheets were so there. As we were much too tired and sleepy to argue, we went to bed, taking it for granted at Venice we must do as the Vene- [15 San Marco.] tians do; but sleep was just stealing pleasantly on, when we awoke to the fact that we were in a perfect vapour bath, from the intense damp. The sheets were, therefore, speedily consigned to the floor, and we did very well in shawls and blankets.

I was horribly disappointed in Venice with everything but the Doge's Palace. That is very fascinating, with its splendid rooms and paintings, its finished architecture, its rich adornments, and its dark, gloomy cells, about which the guides narrate such thrilling legends by the light of one very dim, strong-smelling tallow candle, which, by-the-way, sadly spoils the effect!

San Marco is much too oriental to please me for a church, giving one rather the idea of a mosque. I suppose one ought to feel a respect for Venice, when one thinks of her glorious days of old, and sees the remains of her power in the splendid prizes she bore away from the East in her palmy times – but it also makes the contrast suggested by her present state still more depressing. It struck me at [16 Rome and Venice.] Venice, the same as it did in Rome, years ago, that the scenes and events of the present day can be but a mockery of the pomp and splendour of the magnificent olden time. Rome always looks as if it had been formerly peopled by giants – men vast in mind to design such structures, and vast in body to occupy them – and we English, French, and Italians, who swarm over the ruins, appear like pigmies who have found out something marvellous to gaze and wonder at.

Venice produces much the same impression, only that, instead of giants, the ancient city must have been peopled with princes – of whom everything we see now seems the ruined splendour. The palaces still exhibit their original outside grandeur, but one looks in vain for the internal magnificence that ought to distinguish such gorgeous edifices. Some are hotels, some museums, and others stand empty; but desolation and squalid beggary seem to reign paramount. Even the gondolas one may suppose, by the exercise of a little imagination, to be the workhouse coffins [17 Venice.] of the gondoliers of former days, gliding about in jetty blackness. What a contrast, too, is presented by the shabby, starved-looking boatmen of the present day to the picture of their predecessors which memory conjures up from recitals of the olden days!

Venice can never, surely, be anything great and glorious again, but I wondered which government the people, a few years hence, would honestly prefer, if given their choice – that of the Kaiser, of Victor Emmanuel, or the glorious Republican days of yore? They ought to feel grateful to the Kaiser, but they certainly do not, for everywhere in Venice we met with discontent and murmuring. They little thought then what a change the summer would bring them, and I only hope they will derive all the benefit from it they seem to expect, though the fact that they received their freedom from the hands of the French must surely destroy all the bright gilding of the bitter pill, as it was the French who pillaged and ruined the city, and humbled the pride of the [18 Austrians and Italians.] Queen of the Adriatic to the mud (one cannot say dust in Venice, where all is dampness and swamp).

Now the Austrians have everywhere respected the relics of Venetian greatness and the national memories of the people. Even when we were there in April, artisans and mechanics were busy in many public places regilding, restoring, and redecorating, under the orders of the committee for that purpose, appointed by the Emperor of Austria; and certainly the infusion of active German life amongst the sleepy Italians has given a stimulus to hotels and shops.

The dislike to Austria was insultingly manifested by the inhabitants, but borne by the hated Tedeschi with the patient pity they could afford to bestow. We were taking chocolate at the "Europa," on the Piazza of St. Mark, where a respectable number of idle-looking Venetians were lounging about, listening to the music of one of the native strolling bands. As the clocks struck the hour of three, and the Austrian band, in its white [19 The Lido.] uniform, marched into the piazza, one would have thought that three o'clock was the Venetian curfew hour, so swiftly and instantaneously did all the gay spectators and listeners vanish from the scene, leaving only a few amused Austrian officers. There is only one consolation for the Austrians in being so hated, which is, that the Venetians have long detested their next-door neighbours ten times worse, and the Milanese will now probably become again the objects of their capricious spite.

We went to see the Lido one afternoon. A strong north-east wind was blowing furiously, and we were nearly shipwrecked on some of the mud-banks along the Lagune. Fancy what a ludicrous termination to our trip – wrecked in a gondola on a canal in Venice! After much labour and hard pulling, we arrived at the Lido, where the gondoliers assured us it was the right thing for us to land, and walk across to see the famous bathing-place on the sea side of the Lido, [20 The Gondolas and Canals.] whilst they also landed, and drank our health at the little inn opposite the small pier. We were glad of the walk after our icy row and stormy encounter with the gale, and leaving the men to enjoy their sour wine, we started.

An Austrian officer passed and repassed us several times, kindly making his horse curvet and rear, to relieve the monotony of the scene; and when we arrived on the shore of the seaboard, a savage-looking man put his head out of a window to scowl at us; but this was all there was to see – nothing living besides. Spreading for miles was a dreary waste of sand, without a human being, and beyond that the blue stretch of sea, without a sail to break the monotony of the line; but it must be worth the row in fine weather, as the sea looked deliciously clean and fresh for bathing, which certainly could not be said of any water nearer the city of Venice.

We had a better row back, as the wind was more in our favour; but gondolas are heavy, [21 Custom-House Officials.] lumbering things, and, of course, quite unfit for a rough day and high wind. But worse than the gondolas are the canals. I wonder what the Sanitary Commissioners would do in Venice? – I mean a good strict English Commission. They would first be at their wits' end, and then set to work to have all the small canals hermetically sealed, arched, and macadamized. Would those disgusting big rats and loathsome little crabs still crawl about, enjoying life in the dark underground receptacles of horrors that the romantic canals would then be? If Byron, and Dante, and Rogers had not imagined so much beauty about Venice, no doubt she would long ago have become a respectable, healthy city. We found the smells and sights unbearable in April, with a freezing north wind blowing – what must Venice be in the dog-days?

We left at 9.15, by the night train, and had no trouble with the very polite custom-house officials, who merely opened my dressing-case, the silver fit- [22 Night on the Railway.] tings of which they very much admired. I suppose it appeared to them the most unlikely thing that we could smuggle contraband articles in. We also had a most civil guard (Austrian of course), who locked us into a carriage, where we were not disturbed all night, save when an occasional train of merry, excited troops passed, or when we stopped at the frequent stations, and knew we might settle ourselves again for a nap, when the "forward" of the guard (instead of a shrill whistle) started us on our way.

[23]

Chapter II.

[24]

[25]

CHAPTER II.

MY first really successful effort at shaking off sleep, and thoroughly opening my eyes, made me aware that we were slowly and laboriously toiling up a steep incline, with rough, rugged rocks of honeycombed-looking lava on each hand; and, occasionally, as we rounded the side of a hill, we could see the waters of the Adriatic far below us on the right. There are hills about Padua which have been supposed to be volcanic; and this part of Venetia looked very like the refuse remains of an extinct volcano.

About 6 A.M. we reached Nabresina, where we had to wait an hour for the train from Trieste, which time we passed very pleasantly in breakfasting. We should have been glad of the further [26 Wild and Monotonous Country.] luxury of a good wash, but this being an unheard-of thing, we had to go without it. Again to-day we met with much civility. For the greatest part of the journey we had the carriage quite to ourselves – a real comfort, especially where the scenery is very beautiful on both sides, as one can change places as often as one likes.

For some time after leaving Nabresina, the country is very wild and monotonous, reminding me forcibly of the uncultivated parts of Malta – nothing for miles but plains of desolate-looking masses of rocks and stones, without an atom of vegetation. I also noticed in several places large abysses, as if the earth underneath had given way; very like the famous pit at Malta, the Makluba, which no one is permitted to call volcanic, but which looks to an unenlightened mind very like it. Here, in Carniola, it looked exactly as if the pure earth had had a good boiling, and after bubbling and simmering for at least a thousand years, had sunk far down, leaving all [27 Hurricanes.] the scum of rocks and stones in confusion on the surface. To add to the desolation, in many places very high barriers, with strong supports, were erected on the right bank of the railway, as if troops of elephants were in the habit of trespassing on the line, but in reality to prevent the furious winds that rage in these dreary wilds from upsetting the trains. These winds must be something fearful, as even on the tops of cuttings we see the same lofty strong fences. It made one shiver to look across the arid country, and think of the wretched horses and waggons that, with their drivers, are often whirled over the rugged rocks, when caught in these hurricanes. No wonder that even the smallest leaf is not seen in these parts. By-and-by a little vegetation appeared, in the shape of stunted black thorns, looking withered and wind-torn. This desolate scene, however, was only the preparation for a view so beautiful, that the contrast was all the more welcome.

[28 Wild Flowers.] Once past the Julian Alps, the country soon changed; and after the thorn bushes had given us hope of brighter tints to come, we passed several fertile plains, already sprinkled with the purple blossoms of the anemone sylvestris.

We grumble at the slowness of the trains abroad, but where the country is very lovely, the rate of ten miles an hour is not such a hardship. With my love of wild flowers I felt quite glad that our express (which, by-the-bye, runs only twice a week between Trieste and Vienna) enabled me to see and recognise many favourites which are rare in England; but I am not going to trouble my reader with a descriptive list, only while I am on the subject of flowers, I must say that it strikes me as an excellent plan to leave England in the spring – dear old England has such a bilious colouring in its spring garments! The trees have mostly a yellow tinge of green; the corn-fields are often yellow when the farmers shake their heads over them in March; and the meadows are celebrated [29 Spring Aspect of France and Italy.] in prose and verse as yellow with golden buttercups. The spring flowers, too, the aconite, crocus, primrose, jonquil, daffodil, laburnum, cowslip, are all yellow and bilious-looking.

To avoid this jaundice look, come abroad, and pass through France (the south, I mean) in March, and you will see a soft pink blush warming all the landscape, which glows with the delicate blossoms of the almond, peach, and nectarine trees, while scarlet anemones or pink corn flags mix with the bright little pheasant's eye, and make the fields look like a Turkey carpet.

In Italy it is the same, only in it you have the soft tender green of budding vines, fig trees, and pomegranate; and here in Austria, the glorious Carinthian mountains are veined with masses of the intense azure of the cynoglossum, while the plains below are rich in mantles of the Imperial blue of the exquisite gentians.

All that day's journey, from eleven A.M. till night set in, was the most lovely of my life – it [30 Splendid Panorama.] was like sitting in an arm-chair and having a splendid panorama passed before my delighted sight. At one time we were going along the ledge of a mountain clothed with lofty pines, which threw a softened gloomy shade over the passing train; then from the forest we would emerge into the brilliant sunlight, and imagine that we should go for miles along the range of hills which we saw stretching into the distance, still keeping the fertile valley far below, with its snug villages, green meadows, and silvery streams; but in another ten minutes, we came to a sharp curve, and were passing on a gigantic viaduct over our "happy valley," looking our last on this fair scene, only to go through a cutting or tunnel on the opposite hill-side, and again emerge on another vista of broad valleys, steep precipices, and picturesque towns. Beyond all this was the beautiful frame to our ever-changing picture, the Carinthian chain of mountains, most of the way standing towering on the left. Of course in [31 Steinbrück.] such a rocky country the tunnels were frequent, but they were a relief to eyes almost dazzled with so much variety.

Some distance before we reached Steinbrück, the railway proceeds along a narrow mountain pass, with the river Save running many feet below. All the country it traverses, till it joins the Danube, is said to be very beautiful, and is well worth a visit.

At Steinbrück, where the railway takes a turn due north, we stopped an hour to dine. The scenery is still very interesting, but quite different from that of the early part of the day. The valley is much narrower, and, consequently, we have no distant view.

At Marburg, the Drave, another tributary of the Danube, is crossed; and there are plenty of small mountain streams, as well as the river Mur, which runs by the railway for some distance. It is marvellous how, owing to the rocky nature of the country in Styria, the line has to wind. You [32 Grätz.] see nothing but a mountain wall before you, and contemplate the prospect of a long tunnel; but the engineer has discovered some winding narrow valley, along which you glide until you come again to similar impassable-looking walls, where another mysterious outlet through narrow mountain gorges is found.

At Grätz, all the beauty and fashion of that old town seemed to have met at the railway station. Ladies with immense bouquets, and in very smart Parisian-looking toilettes, with officers in the full uniform of different regiments, crowded the platform.

After waiting some time, two of the brothers of the Emperor emerged from the waiting-room, and entered into conversation with those around them. One elderly officer, in a very splendid uniform, decorated with many orders, seemed much moved at the leave-taking, and kissed the hand of Archduke Albrecht with great fervour. All this time livery servants were hurry- [33 The Sömmering Pass.] ing luggage into the van; and when all was arranged, the Archduchess Albrecht, a tall, handsome woman, with a sweet, kind face, came out, and bowed very smilingly, right and left, as, leading her little child by the hand, she passed up the platform to her carriage. Poor thing! she must have had many a moment of anxiety afterwards, when her husband was with the army in Venetia.

When all was settled, we started again, and luckily it was still in broad daylight when we ascended the crowning glory of the day's journey – the beautiful Sömmering pass, the highest of the mountain passes in Styria. The ascent from the Styrian side is so gradual that you are not aware of the great height you have attained, thanks to the puffing, panting engine, which, near the summit, plunges into a tunnel nearly a mile long, and then rests in the chilly air of the high ground on the other side, evidently to take breath and look round. The railway-station at [34 Triumph of Engineering Skill.] Sömmering is 4,000 feet above the level of the sea, the highest perch that splendid bird of passage – the railway – has yet attained.

While we waited here, the children who inhabit the few cottages in this high spot brought a profusion of most lovely bouquets of wild flowers to the passengers, arranged with much taste. They offered them on the ends of long sticks held up at the windows of the carriages, and were very glad of some small pieces of money in return.

When we set off again, it was to glide with great rapidity for some time down the most beautiful and wonderful piece of engineering that mortal brain ever planned. You go for some distance along the ledge of a splendid mountain, with such a maze of tangled beauty extended before you fathoms below. Through the mists that are shading the valley deep down the abyss you see some ruins, and a narrow shining white line. Some half hour later you find yourself, [35 Wonderful Line of Railway.] after innumerable turns and twists, passing under those ruins, the remains of a good-sized château, the white thread near which now appears as a fine broad mountain stream.

It seems as if unlimited boldness of design and amplitude of funds must have been required to execute such a line of railway. You go along a ledge of rock for some distance, and when you come to another gorge (which, if followed, would carry you too far out of your route, and in an opposite direction to that in which you wish to go), the rail is flung over the fearful chasm, on a marvel of a viaduct, of which, in a few minutes, you have an excellent view, as you are now on another ledge. One holds his breath as he gazes over the precipice into the abyss below, and then looks up to the rows of arches over which he has just passed. In some places the rocks have been blasted to allow for the winding road, and in other critical spots solid arches of masonry are built into the fissures of the rocks to [36 Railway between Vienna and Trieste.] supply the foundation. It is a scene so wonderful and so beautiful, that I cannot attempt to describe it. The sensations which I experienced when, safely arrived in the plain, I looked up at the stupendous mountain road I had glided down, the steep inclines and sharp curves of which the train had successfully followed, are equally beyond the power of my pen.

Luckily when we got to the plain twilight was coming on, and as the country is very ugly, we lost nothing, while the quiet of evening enabled us, while we rested, to recall all the beauties which we had passed during the course of the long day. It seems strange that, between two such cities as Vienna and Trieste, there should be only a single line of rail all the way, and but two express trains a week. In times of emergency – as, for instance, lately in war time – the inconvenience must be much felt when the trains are occupied by troops for days together; and even then they can take only a limited number, to allow of [37 Vienna.] the return empty trains being shunted. The sidings seem an enormous length at most of the stations, as I noticed heavy timber trains of very great length, with two and three engines, waiting at some of the mountain stations, on their way to Trieste, for the express to pass.

Except the departure of the Archdukes from Grätz, and some troops exercising at another town, we did not notice any warlike preparations all along our road through Austria.

We reached Vienna at ten, thoroughly tired and weary with our twenty-four hours' journey from Venice. While waiting on the platform for the luggage, one of the officials approached, cap in hand, and asked – "Had he the honour of addressing the Princess of —, as carriages were waiting for her highness?" Of course I had to disclaim the honour, and, instead of the luxurious carriage, had to content myself with the drosky, which was now ready, and the quiet little horses of which soon trotted us to the hotel, where we were most [38 A "Turnip Bogie."] thankful to get a good supper and comfortable rooms.

When I looked in the glass, instead of a "princess," I was almost startled at seeing an exact representation of a "turnip bogie!" – the same perfectly colourless round disk for the face, and two black cavities for eyes. This transformation in my appearance only hurried me to bed the quicker, and all the fatigues of the day were soon forgotten in sound refreshing sleep.

The friend with whom we were going to stay at Pressburg came next morning to meet us, and advised us to go there by the Danube steamer. We fully intended seeing Vienna thoroughly when we left Pressburg – now we were much too tired of sight-seeing to think of it. After breakfast, we paid a visit to the excellent bath not far from the hotel, and close to the Danube. I was rather disappointed that the swimming bath was not yet open, as I had heard that was extremely amusing. The warm baths, however, are very [39 St. Stephen's Cathedral.] comfortable and clean, and thoroughly English in all their appointments.

After a good wash, we left this establishment, crossed the bridge, and found our way to early prayers at St. Stephen's cathedral, in which we were thankful to join, safe at our long journey's end.

Centuries ago, when people went from London to York, prayers for their safe journey were offered up previously; but now we have grown such Pagans, that we go rushing all over sea and land without stopping to feel grateful for safety of life and limbs. The same good Providence rules us still, and the risks, though of a different sort, are surely no less now, if not greater, than in those times when bad roads, infested by highwaymen, were the torment of travelling. In former days such calamities as the destruction of trains full of happy excursionists, suddenly hurried into eternity, were unheard of.

The cathedral is so covered with scaffolding, [40 Vienna to Pressburg.] both inside and out, that one has not much idea of what it will be some years hence, when the repairs are finished. The shops of leather-work in Vienna are most tempting in everything but price – at least, when I was there in April everything was very dear; but I was told that, just before the war, they were almost giving the things away.

We left Vienna at four by the Danube steamer – a very good boat, though not one of the finest, which only took us as far as Pesth. The scenery between Vienna and Pressburg, though not striking, is varied occasionally by very picturesque hills, covered with vineyards. At two small towns, where the streamer stops for passengers, there are the pretty ruins of an old castle. The left bank is very flat and ugly, till you reach Theben, where the March joins the Danube. Here there is a very fine, grand rock, on which was a large, imposing-looking castle, which the French knocked to pieces in 1810. Now there [41 The Gate of the Danube.] are only a few small watch-towers, and the remains of extensive walls and fortresses to show what the "Gate of the Danube" must once have been.

[43]

Chapter III.

[44]

[45]

CHAPTER III.

VERY soon after leaving Theben, the castle above Pressburg is seen over the wooded banks of the river. Shortly after the bridge of boats came in sight, and we landed at the quay at seven o'clock, it being only three hours with the current down from Vienna. The house my friends were living in rejoiced in the euphonious name of "Motesitzkysches Haus," and it used to provoke me to hear the glib way in which the shop-keepers would run the name off when desired to send home parcels.

"Oh! yes, to 'Motesitzkysches Haus,'" just as if it had been Smith's or Jones'! Fancy the name in London, announced at a fashionable ball!

[46 Pressburg.] The city of Pressburg is rather pretty. A great part of it is built on the hill on which the castle stands, and the principal street, which is irregular and picturesque – with a curious old gateway half-way up – runs over a hill, at the top of which is situated the railway-station. The castle looks very well from the other bank of the Danube, from which the prettiest view of the town is also obtained; but on a closer inspection you find that the walls is all that is left of the castle, which was accidentally burnt in 1811.

The hill to which every newly-crowned King of Hungary repairs, on which he menacingly waves his sword to north, south, east, and west, defying the enemies of his country, and which Bradshaw tells us is outside the town, is nothing but a small mound with ornamental stonework balustrades, close to the landing-place and the bridge of boats. The country round is very flat and ugly, and, the soil being light, perpetually dusty in spring.

[47 Ascent of "the Mountains."] We had been invited several times to accompany friends, a charming excursion on foot, to see "the mountains;" and one day we determined to accept this offer, and see these famous hills, which we had looked for in vain. The ascent up the town is steep enough, and only the active little Hungarian horses could trot up it as nimbly as they do! We surmounted it slowly, husbanding our strength for the ascent of "the mountains;" but we walked on for some distance without much exertion in the way of climbing. On each side were vineyards, from whose grapes the pleasant Hungarian wines are made. They were all enclosed by stone walls. Of view there was little or none.

However, we came at last to a summer-house on a high bank, and were told to mount some steps to the top; when certainly it was wonderful, after creeping on between those walls and rows of fruit-trees, to see what a height we had gained, and what an extensive view we commanded! We [48 Promise of a Rich Harvest.] looked over miles and miles of cultivated plains, green with the up-springing young corn, amid which the broad white lines of the Danube and its branches wound for a great distance, till they were lost to view beyond the limits of our horizon.

The scene was extremely flat and unvaried. There was every sign of industry in the fields, which wore the glad garb of spring, the thick masses of healthy young corn promising to repay the toil of the laborious peasantry. The fruit trees, too, were full of buds, and promised an abundant harvest.

Ah! little we thought, as we looked down on the pleasing scene, that those trees would never blossom into summer beauty, and that in only a few short weeks the promise of ripe grain would be marred by the last struggle of that "unholy war in which German fought against German." From the fair bosom of that then smiling Mother Earth might now arise a host of witnesses [49 Results of War.] "before the judgment seat of History, and of the Eternal Almighty God, to bring those who caused the war to account for all the misery entailed on individuals, families, provinces, and countries!"

However, that is a question for the future to settle.

When I stood there, the earth, reposing in thankful peace, was bathed in the glad light of Heaven. Fields torn up and destroyed, trees broken and burnt, are all that remains to tell how the fair promise of that April day has been blighted, and a massive marble monument is the only token left to tell future years that the summer sun of the 22nd of July looked down on the field of Ganzenberg Blumenau, when the harvest gathered in was that of the dead bodies of the brave defenders of their native soil, and the rain that moistened the earth was the blood poured forth, in that unjust and wicked war, not for spoil and plunder – "not for a despot's name" – but for [50 Hungarian Costume.] the rights of King and country, home and Fatherland!

After we had rested sufficiently, we descended, and went to a little tea-garden on the side of "the mountains," where some travelling musicians were playing alternately the everlasting "Csárdás," and an air from the opera of "Schöne Helene," which the Germans seem to appreciate greatly, for they have never tired of it this summer. Here we drank milk and coffee – some of the party even descended to the vulgarity of beer – and then wended our way back to the house with the unpronounceable name.

The thing that strikes a foreigner most forcibly in Pressburg is the prevalence of the Hungarian costume, which all the men, high and low, delight in wearing. Tight high waistcoats, very tight fitting coats, and knee breeches, all most profusely braided, with high Hessian boots, compose this dress, which is always made of dark cloth. Some of the peasants' dresses were much more picturesque, especially on [51 Sheepskin Coat.] Sundays or fête days, when the people from the country came in.

As the wind some days was blowing very keenly, the winter sheep-skin coat had not been laid aside by all. It must be a very comfortable garment, and really I used to envy some of the women, they looked so warm in it. It is also extremely picturesque. The reader must not fancy an Icelandic looking coat of rough skins, without shape or trimming. The description of one of these garments which I saw, will show that a great deal of taste is exhibited in their preparation. The sheepskin was very white and soft-looking, and the jacket made from it was of rather a close-fitting shape. It was lined with scarlet, and the lappets in front and behind were fastened back with very thick braid, to show the bright colour of the lining. The same coarse braid ornamented the sleeves and throat. I felt a great wish to buy the coat from the fair wearer, but it occurred to me in time that I might get more [52 Old Meadow-wood.] than I bargained for, in the persons of certain round flat insects, whose appearance does not strike the Hungarians with the intense disgust that we affect when we unfortunately come into contact with them.

Our favourite walk, after our early dinner, was over the bridge of boats to the public gardens on the other bank of the Danube. They are in the same style as Kensington Gardens in London, only much more extensive and with more underwood. On the outskirts they extend into wild woods and fields of considerable size. The cultivated part is called the New, and the rough the Old Meadows or Woods. In the Old Meadow-wood the wild flowers are most luxuriant, and the thickets are full of lilies of the valley, the white asphodel, a large variety of which is very pretty, and the deceitful blossoms of the wild garlic, which look so pure, white, and innocent, till you attempt to pick them, when the disagreeable garlic smell betrays their real nature. There is also a [53 New Meadow-wood.] very graceful shrub, a sort of wild bird cherry, frequent here, and several other flowering shrubs, with white blossoms. It was curious, indeed, that all the spring flowers were white. A month earlier the ground must have looked like snow with the wild wood anemones.

The New Meadow-wood, which was kept very neat and trim, with broad walks and terraces bordered with flower-beds, as I said before, reminded me much of Kensington Gardens; but the nightingales sing in these Hungarian trees in a way that no nightingale has sung in London in the memory of the oldest inhabitant. All day long and late into the evening we used to hear them in hundreds answering each other from the depths of the glades of thorn and underwood.

Most of the population of Pressburg turn out in the fine evenings to wander in these beautiful woods; rich and poor, counts and tradespeople, officers and soldiers, all seeming to enjoy their rambles here.

[54 Spring in Hungary.] It is wonderful to any one accustomed to our bleak springs, with their disappointing May days and chilly June evenings, how marvellously fast the spring in Hungary comes on. When once the cold winds in April were over, there seemed a lull in nature for a few days, and then the sun exerted its power to some purpose, as you could almost hourly see the fresh green leaves and bright flowers expanding. The song of the spring birds, too, seemed to fill the air in the glad sunshine. Late in April the days were so warm that we used to take our work and sit out in the meadow wood, as in July in England.

One very soft warm evening, a large party of us, English and Hungarians, had been tempted to remain out very late, listening to the nightingales, and finishing by drinking coffee at the pavilion near the race-course. On returning by the long bridge of boats over the Danube, the scene appeared so beautiful, that we stopped to look at the glorious full moon shining on the river.

[55 Foreign Impressions of England.] "Ah!" said a Hungarian lady, looking pityingly at me, "in England, I suppose, you never see a moon like that?"

All her companions, who were apparently of the same opinion, united in a murmur of sympathy. In vain I assured them that we had a moon in England, and that during the harvest season it was so bright that it was almost warm in the moonlight! They listened politely, but I saw they did not believe a word of what I said.

It is marvellous how fully all foreigners are impressed with the firm conviction that we unhappy English live in a land of almost total darkness. Once or twice in the height of summer they suppose we may see a pale, cold sun; but for months together they are convinced that we are in a state of gloomy darkness, from the eternal fogs that always overhang this dreary island.

I have explained (with strong efforts at keeping [56 Climate of England.] my temper) that we have lovely bright weather in England, and that in Kent especially it is very sunny all the year. On the authority of Sir John Herschell, I could assure them that one spot in Kent had an unusual quantity of sunshine to bless it, even in winter. In our home garden the camellias and myrtles, I knew, lived all the year round out of doors, without any protection. The gardens of the Archdeacon of Canterbury, near Hythe, I told them, were like a dream of fairy-land in June, with their glowing masses of camellias, azaleas, and other tender shrubs which had lived out all winter. They might believe the facts I had stated, but they put on them their own interpretation. We might possess all these floral beauties, but it was necessary, even in June, if we wished to see them, to grope our way with lanterns through a thick impervious fog!

I always have an unpleasant idea, when they talk to me of our climate, that they feel as I should do if I were conversing with one of those creatures [57 Light Costume.] who people one of the planets described by some astronomers as being enveloped in such a dense mist all the year round, that nothing flourishes on it but mildew and green mould. One thing I have always noticed, that foreigners almost invariably come to England in November, a month in which they may not find that great centre of attraction – London – very bright.

The spring is certainly very trying in England; and it is seldom that in May we can sit out of doors and enjoy it as we did at Pressburg. The costume of the villagers, too, in May, would have been rather light for England; but it was charming here, and so picturesque – a snowy white shirt, with bright scarlet braces, and very broad belt of the same colour round waist; a dark coat, with heavy silver buttons hung over one shoulder; short olive green or brown breeches, with Hessian boots; and a round Spanish Matador-looking hat, with a bunch of long floating ribbons, and a plume – generally a tuft of heron's feathers, [58 Green Tree Hotel.] but occasionally the feather of a peacock's tail, which they wore almost straight up its full height.

We dined every day at the "Green Tree Hotel," the cookery of which was excellent – the best, I think, that I ever met with in Germany. We had an excellent soup sometimes – clear gravy, with plovers' eggs in it. The fish, too, was very good, sturgeon, salmon, and other large fish that we did not know the names of. I must not forget the tea either, which was delicious – "Caravan tea," enormously dear, but so delicate in flavour! Caviare, and other Russian delicacies, were very cheap.

As we used generally to dine a little later than most of the Pressburg people, we had the room almost to ourselves; but one day Herr Paluquay, the civil landlord, told us that a band of gipsies, or "Cziganies," as they are called, were coming to play in the dining saloon, and we therefore agreed to go to supper at nine.

[59 Austrian Officers at Dinner.] When we entered at that hour, the room was crowded with Austrian officers! We retreated hurriedly, not liking to be the only ladies; but Herr Paluquay came to our rescue, and assured us that there were several of the wives of the officers present. We therefore re-entered, and when our eyes became accustomed to the smoke, we found it was so.

The long table next to ours consisted of thirty-two officers of one regiment; the colonel and his wife sitting at the head – the lady fully occupied eating her dinner – never speaking to any of the officers, but, as they dropped into their places, raising her eyes from picking her chicken-bones (in her fingers, by-the-by), and just returning their salute. They came in one after another, and each chose his dinner from the bill of fare, according to fancy. There were numbers of officers of other regiments in the room, but they all seemed to keep to their respective tables.

In the middle of the evening, the Prince of [60 Czigany Band.] Tour and Taxis came in, when all the officers rose from their seats, and remained standing till he was seated. He is a tall, grim-looking man, and still wears a shade over one eye, the sight of which was destroyed by a sword-cut in the revolution in Hungary in 1849.

The Czigany band consisted of about seven men, dressed in dark Hungarian costume, and looking very like third-rate strolling musicians at some English watering place, only fiercer and dirtier. Their music was mostly national. They gave with great enthusiasm the "Rakotski March," which of course all Hungarians delight in, as it was so long forbidden, being named in honour of the revolutionary leader Rakotski. This enemy of oppression took up arms against the Austrian Government at the end of the seventeenth century, at the instigation of Louis XIV. of France, who, possessing the wisdom of the serpent, left him eventually to his fate. The Hungarian music has a harsh, jerking, wailing sound. My Hungarian-English friends will [61 A Nobleman's Castle.] be surprised when I say it reminds me of Scotch national music.

We drove a long way into the country one day, to see a really national Hungarian nobleman's castle and a village, some distance out of Pressburg. The road to it was singularly uninteresting, deep in sandy dust, and passing through flat plains of light soil, thickly sown with upspringing corn. A few stunted pollard trees on each side formed the only shelter against the burning sun which poured down its rays that day.

The house we came to see was of rather a fantastic style of architecture, but extremely comfortable inside, furnished just like an English residence. The walls were hung with many of Landseer and Andsdell's engravings, and in the boudoir was a portrait of poor Lady Clementina Villers.

The drawing-room tables were covered with pretty knick-knacks and nicely-bound books. The grounds, varied and extensive, con- [62 Military Servants.] sisted of pleasure-grounds, gardens, a small, nicely-planted wood, and a sheet of water, with the proper accompaniment of a bridge and waterfall. The flower-beds were nicely kept, but the lawns were composed of the usual foreign substitute for turf, viz., rank coarse grass.

We were attended and shown over the house and grounds by two of the servants of the owner, dressed in their usual gorgeous hussar livery, with enormous silver spurs, which they clanked and jingled dexterously at every step. When we stopped to look at pictures, or turn over the books, they also stopped, and drew themselves up with soldier-like precision, never moving an inch from the attitude they first assumed, though we must have tried their patience extremely.

We went to the top of one of the towers, but the look-out over the flat, uninteresting plains of that part of Hungary was frightful. The small village church was nearly opposite the house, and a bird's-eye view we had of the village was [63 Hungarian Villages.] very curious, the houses all standing in regular rows which diverged from the centre like rays. This village, Baron C— assured us, was the exact type of every one that you see in Hungary; very clean, but frightfully ugly. The streets are wide, and perfectly even, but all the houses facing into their own particular gardens, each street is composed of side-gables, without a window. A dazzling coat of white-wash spread over cottages and walls gives one an unpleasant idea that the place has been under strict supervision in consequence of the visit of some unwelcome fever, or other contagious disorder. Altogether, the villages in Hungary are indescribably dull and dreary. There is nothing picturesque in them – no cottage-windows full of flowers – no doors open, with children playing about, or neighbours chatting, nothing but the ugly white gables giving one a chilly impression of the cold shoulder.

When we stopped at the only inn in the place, I [64 Explanation of an Old Story.] mistook for the public fountain or well, what turned out to be the public slaughtering-place, opposite the windows of the only house which faced the street. We stopped at the inn, as we heard the sounds of the Csárdás, which I wished very much to see danced. Baron C— went in to find out if we could see it, but came back assuring us that the room, which was very crowded, was so full of overpowering tobacco smoke, that he advised us not to attempt it. Feeling sure he was the best judge of an Hungarian atmosphere, we reluctantly consented to give up the pleasure we had anticipated.

I drove away from this village with a just appreciation, at last, of a tale which used to thrill me with horror as a child, and gave me a bad impression of the Hungarians. It was the story of a young man, who, pursued by a pack of starving wolves, rode through a village of Hungary without a window or door opening to save him, and whose horse's bit and stirrups alone [65 A Cry for Help.] were found next morning. But, of course, if all the windows looked away from the streets, and there were only blank walls to be appealed to, the cry for help might very naturally have been made in vain.

[67]

Chapter IV.

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[69]

CHAPTER IV.

ANOTHER day we took our luncheon and started rather early by one of the river steamers to sketch the rock and ruins at Theben. It was early in my stay at Pressburg, whilst the cold winds were still blowing, and we found them most cuttingly keen. As the east wind was blowing strong up the river, we crept into the lee of some bushes to do our sketch of the beautiful rugged rock, which stands at the confluence of the March and the Danube. We little thought, then, that only a few weeks later the Marchfeld would become a never-to-be-forgotten name in Austria's history. The last-fought battle of the victorious Prussians took place there, and was only stopped by the circumstance that the hour of truce arrived in the middle of the engagement.

[70 Theben.] Before we left there was great excitement in the little village of Theben, small boats putting off hurriedly, and rowing in hot haste up the river March. The boatmen had scarcely time to answer our inquiries, but the cause of the excitement proved to be that a flock of lambs had fallen into the river, and these boats had gone to the rescue. We made a strong resolve to eschew lamb at dinner for some days to come.

We had to wait till rather late for the steamer, and amused ourselves by wandering over the village. I had not been long enough from England not to find interest and amusement in everything, where all was so new and strange. A long train of low waggons came along the valley of Marchfeld, drawn by splendid teams of fine grey oxen, driven by Hungarian peasants, in their fur coats, and guarded by an extremely drunken policeman, who gave us a military salute with absurd attempts at gravity, very nearly upsetting one of us in his attempts to preserve his equilibrium. [71 My Vis-à-vis.] At sunset the cows of the village came running in from the hills and meadows round, each making for its respective home. I could not but admire their instinct, though I was rather alarmed by the presence of so many of these animals scampering about; but I took the precaution to ensconce myself behind the wicket-gate of a pretty little cottage garden, and I congratulated myself when most of my four-footed enemies had passed safely by on the other side of the fence. At last, one ferociously-horned creature – except for these formidable appendages the personification of gentleness – stopped exactly opposite my place of refuge. I urged it to go further, but it persisted in keeping its position; and there we stood vis-à-vis, the cow on one side of the gate and I on the other. At last a young woman passing called out, "The cow wants to get home!" Impossible, I thought, through this garden. However, as I felt there was something ridiculous in my position, I opened the gate with a beating heart, and the [72 The Stars.] cow very quietly walked steadily down the path into a shed at the back. No cow in England, I feel sure, would have found itself in such a position without turning to have a munch at some pet stock or wallflower; but the Hungarian cows are evidently a superior race of animals.

As the village by this time was swarming with cattle, I suggested to my companion that we should go and sit on the little pier till the steamer arrived. We found this a pleasant change, as, except for the splashing of the Danube as it hurried past, and the never-ceasing song of the nightingales on the opposite bank, the place was perfectly quiet. We waited some time – till it was nearly dark, and the stars began to come out. I never see these luminaries now without thinking of a lovely evening in Bohemia two years ago, when, while waiting at a small station for the train, a friend who was with me, talking about the stars which were shining brilliantly overhead, was addressed by a German, who, in broken English, said, as he pointed up to [73 Steamers on the Danube.] the milky way, "And that in England you call Milk Street!"

I have never called it any other name since.

At last the welcome lights of our steamer appeared in the distance – when we had already begun to wish we had brought more food with us – and we gladly entered the ferry-boat and waited in the centre of the river for her. She proved to be one of those large Danube steamers which in ten days go all the way from Vienna to the Black Sea, travelling only by day and thus enabling one to see the beautiful scenery of the river. These steamers are very large and comfortable, with handsome dining saloons on the poop, and comfortable cabins. From the seats and awnings on the top of the saloon, you can have an excellent view as you pass along. Early spring, or late in the autumn, is the best time for a journey of pleasure, as the insects which swarm during summer, on the banks of the Danube, must be a serious annoyance. We were [74 Hungarian Jewelry.] told that Pressburg, in hot weather, was almost unbearable from them; and, indeed, before we left, we noticed several very curious specimens of the creeping kind, and the midges danced in thousands over the bridge of boats.

We purchased some beautiful specimens of old Hungarian jewelry in Pressburg, thanks to a friend who lived in the town, and understood where to find such things. We even procured some which had never been in a trader's hands – white and black enamel earrings, set with river pearls and amethysts, the property formerly of the Esterhazy family; and a beautiful Sevigné, also in black enamel, wrought in the centre into the figure of a pelican, with its young one, the blood trickling from the breast of the parent bird being represented by a garnet, and the whole trinket terminating in a small green frog. This belonged to the family of the Hunyades. These, with some other objects of interest, are now in the loan museum at South Kensington. One of the friends I was stay- [75 Precious Trinkets.] ing with also brought a beautiful set of turquoise, set in black and gold.

We were so extravagant, that we had serious misgivings as to the necessity of walking to Bohemia rather than going by train; but when we looked at our boxes, we saw that there was no alternative. It would have been a great want of taste and judgment on our part if we had failed to secure these wonderful specimens of Venetian jewelry – a consideration which quite restored our self-satisfaction. Since my return to England, I have found no reason to alter that opinion, antiquarians and judges praising these trinkets very much, and opening their eyes in wonder at their cheapness.

It was getting very hot and extremely dusty when we left Pressburg. I cannot say I regretted it – for were we not going back to our dear Bodenbach! We had proposed returning to Vienna, and spending a few days there to see the sights; but our extravagance in the purchase of jewelry [76 A Strange Purchase for Passengers.] decided us against returning to that tempting spot, remembering the old maxim, not to burn the candle at both ends! So we stepped out of the Pesth train at the junction at Ganserndorf, and with stoic fortitude watched it steam away to Vienna.

We had to wait for an hour for the express, which, like the one from Trieste, only runs on Tuesdays and Saturdays, doing the 251 miles between Vienna and Prague in about ten hours, at the rate of twenty-five miles an hour. We got a very respectable diner in the refreshment-room, and afterwards, when one of my companions had a cigar on the platform, we made friends with some old peasant women, who were sitting patiently there, with large baskets of very fine seakale for sale.

It struck us as very extraordinary that people on a journey should buy such things. One can understand the purchase of fruit and flowers, but for passengers to load themselves with heavy [77 Brünn.] heads of seakale, seems very absurd. These poor women complained sadly of bad times, and the scarcity of money; but I never yet met anyone in any country who allowed that the times were good and money plentiful. The good time is always coming, and, it may be, the money with it!

The country through which the railway runs in Austria Proper is singularly uninteresting and flat, though highly cultivated, exhibiting every sign of laudable industry, but not pretty. When we enter Moravia it becomes much more interesting, reminding one very much of Derbyshire, near Mattock – just the same pleasant-looking fir-glens, with streams running through them, broken bits of rock, and bright green meadows.

At Brünn we had to wait a little time for some troops to be taken in. In the capital of Moravia, we were guilty of such a disgracefully vulgar act, that if the doors of society had been closed against us we could not have complained. There was a very neat tidy Moravian going up and [78 Moravian Sausages.] down the platform with a bright clean saucepan, full of small delicate-looking sausages, steaming hot! Several of the passengers and railway men who had bought some began eating them; and one of my friends, who had been intently examining them through her eye-glass, remarked –

"They look excellent! Are you not very hungry?"

The suggestion was sufficient, for one always is hungry travelling. A fragile-looking string of these dainties was quickly handed in at the carriage window, and – shall I confess it? – eaten in our fingers! I am sorry to say, even the guard laughed, we looked so greedily pleased with our treat. Our only excuse was that they were so delicious – so hot – so delicate (not larger than one's finger), and so full of gravy!

I have not made up my mind to this day what they were composed of. I think, however, nothing objectionable, as though Bradshaw tells us that a [79 Prague.] lively trade is carried on at Brünn, it is only for woollen things, carpets, &c. – nothing, in short, of which the débris could be converted into sausages. I make this avowal in order that, if my reader ever finds himself at Brünn, he may be sure to look out for the Moravian with the hot sausages.

It was very late, and quite dark, before we crossed the Moldau, and arrived at beautiful Prague. We found at the station kind friends, who had come to meet us. Everywhere in Germany I have found it the same. When once they profess friendship, they are the kindest and most faithful of friends. They never allow their own personal convenience to stand in the way of their kind offices. Prompt, punctual, and untiring in their friendly services, they win our lasting esteem and regard, and must ever come next in our affection to our English friends!

On proceeding to the "Golden Angel," we did not find things so comfortable as we had anticipated. The people were civil enough, but the [80 The "Golden Angel."] King and Queen of Saxony, with the Princesses and suite, having expressed their intention to occupy, in two months, thirty rooms in the hotel, the landlord had determined to clean and redecorate his establishment, and when we arrived everything was in disorder and confusion. As it was too late, however, to hunt for rooms in another hotel, we put up with those allotted to us, and went down to small side apartments, then used as eating-rooms. Two tables were crowded with eager politicians, thundering forth their opinions on the expected war.

The attendants were only a decrepit old man, and a little boy, from whom we got some supper and went to bed. Oh! how abominably the bedroom smelt of very strong, stale tobacco smoke. It was no use sleeping with the window open, the horrible odour seemed to cling round one, and I find my entry next morning in my journal stands headed, "The 'Golden Angel,' twice tried, is an horrific ghost!"

[81 The Wit of the Regiment.] I got up very early, as sleep was out of the question, and was agreeably entertained by watching out of the window (which looked across the street to the entrance of some barracks) a number of horses which dealers were bringing for selection for a cavalry regiment. The horses were at once taken inside into the courtyard. I was much amused by the guard at the gates – some very stern, solemn-looking hussars – who, when any one besides the dealers attempted to enter with the horses, warned them back with a shake of the head, a wave of the hand, or a few impressive words. Some more daring spirit, who seemed to slight this warning, pressing forward, an hussar, with a corporal's stars and stripes, instantly started out of the guard-room, and caught the intruder. This man was evidently the wit of the regiment, for he used neither force nor strong words, but, evidently, a great deal of "chaff," which not only sent his admiring comrades into peals of laughter, but made the civilian retire dis- [82 Horses for Cavalry.] comfited. Then, with a few cheery words, the corporal would return to the guard-room, till another assailant forced him to reappear, and exert his eloquence again. About fifty horses, all brown, and good strong-looking animals, were chosen that morning. We saw the soldiers go out on them when we came in for luncheon, and a rough, unmanageable lot they seemed, but capitally handled, with much temper and tact. One brute, indeed, plunged and kicked in such a way that it managed to unseat its rider, whose only consolation was a severe rating from his serjeant.

[83]

Chapter V.

[84]

[85]

CHAPTER V.

WE had stayed at Prague for a few days two years ago, and had then done all due homage to the spot on the bridge where St. Johanko von Nepomuk was plunged into the Moldau, by the orders of his tyrant king, Wenceslaus IV. We had also seen, and duly admired, the astounding height of the council-chamber window in the Hradschin, whence the two lords of the Imperial assembly and their secretary were flung by their furious colleagues, an inglorious tumble from which they merely got up, shook themselves, and, after the secretary had humbly apologized for falling on one of them, walked unscathed away. We had also wondered at the iron ring which St. Wenceslaus had grasped in [86 Prague.] his death agony, and pitied the saintly victim of fratricidal treachery. Lastly, we had been to the Jews' quarter, and had visited the glass-shops. In short, we had thoroughly done Prague, and enjoyed our visit there extremely. The short time we had now to stay we therefore devoted to wandering about the beautiful streets, so temptingly picturesque for sketching, either in detail or as views, and in which, every time we passed through them, we found something new or striking to admire. The view from the bank of the Moldau, looking over the river at the old part of the town, with its beautiful towers and quaint buildings, and the summit of the Hradschin crowned with the stately Cathedral, the Imperial Palace, and the various lines of fortifications, when seen in the rich glow of sunset, is a spectacle never to be forgotten.

We met, while looking at this view, an hussar officer, a former acquaintance of my friend's, who stopped for a long chat with him. Poor fellow! [87 Austrian Recruits.] he looked so bright, cheerful, and soldierlike in his spotless white jean coat and close-fitting cap – but in another six weeks his young life was over, for he died a soldier's death on the field of Münchengrätz.

Prague certainly did not seem at all encumbered with soldiers. They were by no means so numerous as in 1864, when so many troops were returning from the Schleswig-Holstein war, which was just over. Though every one now talked of war, there seemed no immediate preparations for it, except that the yard of the railway-station was filled with artillery-waggons and ammunition, ready to be transported to the frontier when wanted.

We left Prague at nine in the evening, and had a very tedious journey, without any amusing incident, to Bodenbach. We brought from Prague to Theresienstadt some war ammunition, in the shape of several carriages of recruits. There were some sad and tearful leave-takings on start- [88 Theresienstadt.] ing, but they got very merry and cheerful before the lights of the capital had faded in the distance, and, when they were marched off, seemed to have cast all care away.

I remember, the last time I passed Theresienstadt, I was very much horrified at two old ladies, who were in the same carriage with me, returning from a visit to the refreshment-counter with a hot roast chicken, which they divided with a clasp-knife, and picked in their fingers. After my sausage adventure, however, I felt we were very much on a par. It was half-past two in the morning before we reached our longed-for haven, the Zum Bad Hotel at Bodenbach. We were too happy to feel tired, but nevertheless slept soundly.

The first news that greeted us next morning was that war was imminent from Italy, and that already the bridge at Peschiera, which we had crossed such a short time before, had been broken down. However, as Italy was a long way off, the news did not disturb the enjoyment of our [89 Bodenbach.] first day's return to Bodenbach. We found a regiment of white-coated soldiers billeted here and in Tetschen, and we much feared they would destroy the quiet and retirement of this lovely spot; but they were kept so hard at drill, that they had no inclination for quiet walks, and we never experienced the slightest annoyance from the large body of men quartered around.

And now I must try to do justice to our beloved Bodenbach, by a description of its varied beauties. I have no misgivings that my picture will be over-coloured. I only wish I could so delineate the place that you could thoroughly appreciate it. Towns are situated on both shores of the river – that on the left bank is Bodenbach, while Tetschen occupies the right. I cannot pretend that there is any poetry about the Elbe. Instead of being clear as silver or beautifully blue, it is generally dark and muddy, and after rains, gravel-coloured, but it is swift and strong, and generally covered with rafts of wood or barges of merchan- [90 Castle of Count Thun.] dise. Notwithstanding the railway which runs along its banks, the river is still much used for the conveyance of heavy goods. The barges and rafts go very pleasantly down the current, but it is hard work for the two or four horses which they employ to drag them up against the stream. A light-looking suspension-bridge crosses the river, and unites the two small towns. It was erected by Count Thun not many years ago, and is not only very ornamental, but also convenient – how convenient we found later in the summer, when we had only a ferry-boat to go over in, the Prussians, after the invasion, having caused part of the bridge to be demolished.

The cliffs are very beautiful at Bodenbach – far finer than those on the other side of the river, where one steep rock stands, on which is situated the Castle of Count Thun – a very large building, without any pretensions to architectural beauty. All the country round, for miles and miles, belongs to Count Thun, who, with his family, is [91 Count Thun.] greatly loved and respected by all the inhabitants for his kindness and charity. This castle contains a chapel, a theatre, and an armoury. As in the feudal days in England, everything belongs to the Count. Just below the castle is a mill and a liquor-factory, which are his property; the game and the fish, also, are his; and, in fact, he is lord of all he surveys.

There are some very fine trees in the Castle garden, and the grounds, which are naturally very beautiful, are well laid out and kept. Oh! if it had but English turf, and English roses, it would be perfect; but there is only the usual rank thick grass, and the roses are much smaller than in England – perhaps from the intense cold of their winters. The Count has a beautiful collection of orchidaceous plants, to which several houses are devoted. He has a large staff of gardeners. The principal one, who has been to England, and speaks English, duly appreciates the climate of our island for gardening.

[92 Tetschen.] The crowing glory of Tetschen is its castle. It has also a church, a large market-place, and a town-hall. It had a second large church, a very handsome-looking building, but when finished, the government decided that the town did not require it, and had it turned into a warehouse, with a large crane projecting from the porch.

There are several cotton factories outside the town, on the banks of a large clear stream, called the Polzen, which runs into the Elbe just above the castle. But it is on the Bodenbach side of the river that the great beauty of the scene lies. There you have such beautiful rocks, cliffs, and mountains, all piled and tumbled about, leaving room between them only for a narrow mountain stream, or a winding roadway. The houses that are dotted about are very picturesque, and like Swiss cottages, with overhanging eaves and supports of black timber beams. The extensive pine-woods have judiciously-planned walks winding through them for miles and miles. [93 The Erzgebirge.] These were formed under Count Thun's directions, to employ the poor people when labour was scarce. The inhabitants can now carry their loads of hay or wood, or their baskets of wares, for miles, from one village to another, with great comfort. In the hot summer one can walk for miles without tiring under the delicious shade all the way, enjoying the strong, fresh smell of the pine woods.

All the rocks, hills, and cliffs around are covered with dark fir-trees, some of them of magnificent dimensions. Occasionally one comes on a clearing, where the trees have been felled, and slid down the hill-side into the river to be converted into rafts. Far into the distance stretches the range of mountains called the Erzgebirge, which bound Bohemia on the north. The people who dwell on these mountains are most industrious, and exceedingly skilful with their fingers, making beautiful lace and delicate embroidery on muslins or silks. But the Erzgebirge [94 Management of Cattle.] are some distance off, and the walks round Bodenbach tempt one from straying very far. We were very fond of one beautiful path up to a lonely trout pool, filled by a little spring, which we used to follow up to the source whence it rose, vigorous and bright, from the rocky basin on the shaded hill-side.

From the rocky nature of the country there is very little cultivated land, except small patches in the valley of the Elbe. There are but few pastures, and these are very small. Most of the fields during my first visit were yellow with blossoms of the rape seed. There are two or three hop gardens in the neighbourhood. The people take great care of their cattle. They never allow the cows to be out in the fields till the autumn, and then they are all tethered by the horns in one long string, held by some courageous woman or little boy. The animals look very awkward in these lines, as of course they are placed irrespective of size, a mammoth of a cow coming side by side with [95 A Cow Upstairs.] a year old calf. This plan, however, is delightfully safe. They never allow cows or cattle to wander about the roads or feed by the hedges, and when they have to move them they are always carefully led by a strong rope. They are much used, too, in drawing carts and drays, and are kept so closely at work, that they have no time or energy for being vicious. Hence abroad we never hear of those horrible deaths and injuries by cattle which we constantly read of in English papers, and have often met with in our own neighbourhood.

The first story that greeted me this autumn, on going to see my sister at her home in the New Forest, was one of a remarkably pretty white heifer which had strayed from the park into the house during the servants' dinner-hour, had made its way along the passage, up a winding stone staircase into the housekeeper's bed-room, and had sportively lain down on her bed. I believe the poor woman's first thought was that it would eat her [96 Wandering Czechs.] best cap, which hung on the looking-glass. A nice task they must have had to get it downstairs again. In Bohemia our comfort is never disturbed by the intrusion of cows into our bedrooms, or by fear of their attack during our walks.

We had a visit one day from a party of fourteen bears of all sizes. They were led by a party of Slovaks or Sclaves, such a ragged set of vagabonds, with some small ponies, on which the children were seated amidst a mass of tin pots and pans. They were all brown alike, but of different shades of that colour, and would have made a life-like drawing in Sepia – Sclaves, bears, children, and ponies.

We often met the wandering Czechs, who are the principal tinkers of the place. Their dress is ragged and brown, but always adorned with some bright steel ornaments set in the belts and gaiters, strangely contrasting with their otherwise untidy appearance. They are fearful beggars, but generally carry a bun- [97 The Peasantry.] dle of tin skewers, a few saucepans, or a basket of the utterly worthless refuse glass of Bohemian manufacture, for which they ask an enormous price. For a wine-glass or tumbler, so crooked that it will hardly stand, they will demand four times the sum they eventually take.

In winter, I fancy, the country must be almost impassable, as the snow is very deep here, and the Elbe frequently or always frozen over. It is both a much warmer climate in summer than ours, and very much colder in winter. The peasantry are quiet, contented, and industrious, but sadly poor, and must frequently endure great privations. What with cholera, war, and bad crops, I cannot think what they will do this winter. The women work fearfully hard at field-work, and also assist masons, not only mixing mortar for them, but also carrying very heavy loads of bricks, sand, and water. They are extremely sober. Amongst the lower orders, I don't think I ever saw one drunken man, and, certainly, not a drunken woman. They [98 A Grateful Beggar.] have fascinating manners, and charm us at once by the pleasant, cordial way in which they greet us, kissing our hands. This custom, which is much followed here, is not only a mark of respect, but an expression of gratitude either for some trifle received, or for some kind word. The children almost invariably kissed our hands when they met us.

I used every morning to take my work before breakfast, and sit in the wood, close to the side-door of the hotel; and many a cordial greeting I there received. One old beggar man especially, on whom, when in a liberal mood, I sometimes bestowed a half-farthing, always expressed great gratitude. Towards the end of the week, however, his kiss on the hand made me almost regret my liberality, his beard, which by that time had had the benefit of some days' growth, had such an irritating, file-like effect!

Of course, the first thing that every one began talking about when we arrived was the threat- [99 Austrian Soldiers.] ened war, which all looked on as very imminent. There was, as I said before, a regiment, or part of a regiment, of Austrian soldiers billeted in Bodenbach and Tetschen. They were called Graf Hangwitz's regiment, and were mostly Italian soldiers. They wore a white tunic, with geranium-coloured facings, of cloth in the uniforms of the soldiers, and of velvet in those of the officers. The men looked, without exception, very miserable. I cannot pretend to say why, though it might be because they did not like their officers. They did not appear to be looked on with great confidence, as they were marched off to Austrian Silesia before hostilities commenced. There was an extremely gentlemanly captain of this regiment quartered in our hotel, with his servant; and at the other hotel lodged a General Brandenstein, whose aide-de-camp this captain had been at Solferino. The General, with whom we sometimes conversed, was very pleasant, and spoke English extremely well. He had at one [100 Dwarf English Fowls.] time been in command in Carinthia, and fully joined in our admiration of it, strongly advising a visit there at some future time. He described the people as very civil and primitive, and, though the accommodation provided for strangers travelling in the country was rough, yet the beauty of the scenery quite made up for the discomfort. Poor General Brandenstein had a command given him, the week after I left, in the army of the North, and got shot through both feet in a very early part of the war.

I was making inquiries at this time for a particular sort of fowls that I wanted – oddly enough called "Dwarf English fowls," though I have never seen any of them in England. They are not large, but are very peculiar in appearance, having small wings attached to their feet. They would be invaluable in gardens, in which these wings would prevent their scratching.

We took a walk one afternoon to the Agricultural College, in the hope of hearing of some [101 Model Farm.] in that direction. Amongst our party was the General, who told us that during the Italian war he always had several of these hens, which travelled with the troops, and on the march used to perch on the baggage-waggons, being great pets of the soldiers. Since my last visit this sort of fowl had quite disappeared. I heard of some at a railway official's near, but as the train had just destroyed a number of them, he was not willing to part with any, and my search for more was in vain.

The agricultural model farm is a very useful institution, for the education and training of the sons of gentlemen of all classes and nations, and an idle, careless set of young scamps the students are! Their sole object seemed to be singing, dancing, and getting into mischief all over the place. Some of them played the piano beautifully, and others had a great taste for theatricals, with which they enliven Tetschen in the winter. But smoking is their unfailing resource. The value of the cigars consumed on the [102 Fair in Tetschen.] model farm must amount to a considerable sum.

There was a fair in Tetschen on the 7th of May. Half the market place was filled with earthenware of the coarsest description; and the other half was devoted to booths, where wandering merchants sold bright calicoes, coarse lace from the Erzgebirge, and very common embroidery. There was one small stand for Bohemian garnets, but none for glass, which I was surprised at, as some of the best manufactories of Bohemian glass are within an easy distance of Tetschen; and some of the slightly-damaged or imperfectly-coloured specimens, I should have thought, might have been brought here for sale. As the Bohemians do not wear a national dress, the scene did not present any special interest; and except for the presence of some of the soldiers, we might have imagined ourselves to be enjoying the pleasures of a country fair in an English village.

There was a much more amusing fair in August, 1864, which took place in a large field near [103 Popular Exhibitions.] Tetschen, called the "Bird's Meadow." There were a great many booths, full of toys, cakes, and sweets. Some were devoted to pistol-shooting; and one contained a collection of wax figures, representing a scene out of the New Testament, in which the figures were made to move their arms and hands, and roll their eyes, while the exhibitors recited verses. Another booth contained a collection of snakes and stuffed animals; and in one cage was a little boy, clothed with a skin, and with chains on, who was described as an orangoutang. He seemed much to enjoy showing off his antics to an admiring crowd of children, who, no doubt, thought him a wonderful specimen of the strange creatures brought from distant lands. The worthy proprietor also exhibited a piece of the real Noah's Ark, some of the bread that was brought to Elijah by the ravens, and other marvels, which took much amongst the credulous. A bull of unusual magnitude proved highly attractive to the rural community. Feats of horse- [104 Striking Scene.] manship were preformed in a spacious tent, with some rather nice horses. We went down in the evening to see the performance. Amongst the equestrians was a very small child of about ten, who danced and rode, and was much applauded, but seemed nervous and delicate. After it was over, I went to a booth near, and bought some sweets and cakes for her. I found my way to the canvas enclosure beyond the tent, and, on asking for admittance, a rough-looking man, half-groom and half-performer, lifted a corner of the covering to admit me, while he called the little girl. It was such a striking scene, I wished more than ever that I could sketch animals. I must describe it. The enclosure was lighted by a very full moon, shining brightly down. Several of the horses were standing about, and the large bull was tethered to a tree in the centre. The poor little girl, who was in her coarse common clothes, had folded up the bright-coloured, shining dress in which she had danced, and was placing it in a [105 The Little Equestrian.] large trunk open before her, beside which kneeled a still smaller child, who was holding a dim-looking candle to light her sister. It would have made such a nice picture. The poor thing was delighted with her fairings! Her first impulse was to put up her face to kiss me. I hope it was not unkind, but even in the moonlight the little visage looked so dirty with its paint, that I did not respond very readily. She instantly seemed to understand, and seizing both my hands, covered them with kisses, and marched back to her trunk with her prize. The lot of children in such a position, there is too much reason to fear, is far from desirable. This fair in the market-place was one of very inferior attraction, and only lasted two days.

We heard next day that the Italian regiment (Graf van Hangwitz's) was to leave directly, and be replaced by three thousand Croats. The day following we should know for certain whether it was to be peace or war. If [106 The Croats.] the latter was declared, the Croats would march the following week to Dresden! All this was very exciting news.

The arrival of the Croats was not looked forward to with any particular enthusiasm, for they are more disliked and dreaded by the population than even the Prussians! And no wonder – for they are as lawless and turbulent a body of men as can well be met with. They are of powerful build, and the most arrant thieves in the world Even in the shops a party of them will enter, and while one or two keep the owners engaged in talk, the rest will help themselves to what they fancy. They have also the character of being very violent and quarrelsome. The Austrian Government showed during the war that they understood the disposition of their troops by keeping the Croats in Vienna, and the large towns, where the police are numerous and vigilant; while the regiments which were not thoroughly to be depended on, were sent out of the way of the fighting to guard [107 Disposal of Austrian Troops.] some distant frontier, where the enemy were not expected in such strength as on the borders of Bohemia.

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Chapter VI.

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CHAPTER VI.

ON the 9th I left Bodenbach. I was very sorry to go, though I was cheered by the hope of a speedy return with the friend whom I was now going to stay with in Dresden. The railway is beautiful all the way through Saxon Switzerland – well-known and always admired. J—, who met me at the station, tried in vain to persuade me that there was no cause to anticipate war; but at the same time agreed to call with me on an English family who were very intimate at the Court of Saxony, and who would be sure to know all the news. Their account, however, only confirmed my reports – that things looked very dark and gloomy, and that, though at [112 Dresden.] present everything was undecided, war appeared inevitable.

Though J— had been all the winter at Dresden, and, perhaps, had got used to hearing the events of the day discussed, [s]he did not appear to have heard half as much about the war as we had in Bodenbach. The weather was very cold, quite as cold as an English May, and one day we had the discomfort of seeing a little snow.

The shop-keepers all talked very gloomily, and if they had not the goods one wanted, they frankly confessed they were not disposed to send for them, as the less they had in their shops now the better. Some of the large establishments were daily dismissing hands, and the court jeweller had only reserved the people in his shop, all his workmen being dismissed. Of course distress was abounding, and the future was looked forward to with dread.

The country people round were getting in [113 The Streets.] their hay harvest as fast as they could long before it was ready; and to add to the troubles of the times, a severe frost one night blackened and destroyed all the young shoots of the vines, completely blighting every hope of a good vintage year. It was melancholy to see all the tender branches of the less hardy shrubs in the public gardens and environs of Dresden, hanging scorched and shriveled as if a fire had passed over them.

The streets abounded in Saxon soldiers and forage carts, and artillery were passing and repassing every hour of the day. Near the principal bridge a pontoon bridge was lying, moored just below the artillery barracks. Things altogether looked very warlike.

The Crown Prince had his summer residence just beyond where we were living, and mounted orderlies and expresses were trotting past all day long. The state of uncertainty lasted the whole of this month. One day the public opinion was [114 Rumours.] that there would not be war, the next day that things looked very dark and gloomy. The day following peace was certain, and on the next news had arrived that all hopes of peace were over, and that war was to begin at once. Then came a bright ray of hope. A Congress of Russia, France, and England had been accepted, and for a few days everything seemed cheerful. A regular panic then ensued, and all the salt shops were besieged by crowds of customers, as, directly hostilities were commenced with Prussia, the salt supplies would be cut off.

On Whit Monday, the 21st of May, we dined on the Brïcheschen Terrace with my cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Eden. Mr. Eden was attaché at the English Embassy, and had been all along very sanguine in his hopes of peace; but to-day, for the first time, he talked of what must be done if war was declared; and on his wife asking him, "Do you really, then, think that things look very bad?" he replied, very gravely,

[115 State of Dresden.] "We must always be prepared for the worst."

J— and I considered that we ought also to be prepared for the same, and resolved to hurry our return to Bodenbach, though many of our English friends in Dresden tried to persuade us to remain, saying that the entry of the Prussian troops would be most interesting – that there would be no inconvenience or annoyance – that there would be no fighting – and that it would only be a friendly visit; a pleasant prospect at the time, though they must since have discovered that it was purely imaginary.

At the opera-house at this time there was scarcely a person of the higher classes. The pit, gallery, &c., were crowded by the lower orders, but none of the society of Dresden had heart or inclination for amusement. The English families were daily discovering what a charming spot Switzerland was for a summer excursion, and each Sunday, as we gathered at the Protestant [116 Saxon Feeling.] English church, the congregation became smaller, till at last three pews would have held us all. In short, the place became most dreary, and we felt convinced that we had better follow the example of the Saxon army, which every day was gathering in Dresden, and on the borders of Austria, and, like them, decide on a safe retreat.

It did not strike me that the Saxon people of Dresden dreaded or disliked the Prussian occupation, which was even then talked of. They appeared to treat the matter in a very phlegmatic way, and, except for the disastrous consequences of war to trade, they did not seem to take any interest as to whether King John or King William was to be their master. I should think there were no people in Germany less demonstrative, and certainly towards Leipsic they were more than favourably disposed towards the Prussians. At last some plain-spoken friend informed us that, in case the [117 Determine to Leave Dresden.] Prussians met the Austrians on the other side of Dresden, and fighting began, the side of the square in which we lived would be extremely in the way of the firing, and consequently would most likely have to come down, in order to give the cannon full room to play into the city. We therefore made up our minds to retire to Bodenbach, where everyone assured us we should be perfectly safe.

On Sunday, the 27th of May, we felt thoroughly glad that we had made up our minds to leave, printed papers having been left on this day at all the houses, asking how many soldiers could be accommodated in each. As the rooms (six in number) that J— occupied all opened one into another, like the domestic arrangements of an ant-hill or rabbit-warren, it would not have been pleasant to have such guests. Though we did consider ourselves very foreign in our manners and customs, yet we could not afford to lose the last coating of rigid propriety on which the British [118 A Useful Book.] female prides herself, and which our soldier inmates might have considered irksome.

There flashed across my mind the thought of a small book at home, over which in by-gone years I and my sister had often had a hearty laugh. Certainly a copy of this work to each of our expected guests would have been most advisable; and I must try to remember a few of the rules in these "Hints on Etiquette," which I am sure would have proved very useful.

"It is not permitted but to the chief in quality, or to him who hath charge of the fire, to stir it up with the fire-fork, to kindle it, or take it away, or put fuel on."

"Set not in order at every instant thy beard (if thou hast one) or thy stockings."

"It is uncivil to stretch out thine arms at length, and writhe them thither or hither."

"In yawning, howl not; and thou shouldst abstain as much as thou canst from yawning, especially when thou speakest."

[119 Hints on Etiquette.] "When thou blowest thy nose, make not thy nose sound like a trumpet."

"Do not pick your teeth much at table, as however satisfactory a practice to yourself, to witness it is not at all pleasant."

"At a strange table, say 'If you please,' and 'Thank you;' it may be said in a manner which will not encourage familiarity."

"If you are so unfortunate as to have contracted the low habit of smoking, be careful to practise it under certain restrictions. What man of delicacy would presume to address a lady with his breath smelling of onions? Yet tobacco is equally odious."

"Spit not far off thee, nor behind thee, but aside, a little distant, and not upon thy friend."

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Chapter VII.

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CHAPTER VII.

HOW glad we were when the setting sun shone brightly on us, as we were sitting happily at supper next evening on the terrace of the Hotel Zum Bad at dear, pretty Bodenbach, in the perfect quiet of that lovely valley of the Elbe – away from the perpetual clatter of the streets of Dresden, made ten times worse lately by the constant passing of forage carts, ammunition-waggons, and artillery at every hour of the day, from early in the morning until quite late at night.

Our pleasure was lessened, however, by finding in Austria how bad everything looked for war. Every one talked of it, but still, while things here remained so quiet, it was earnestly [124 Feld Jägers.] hoped it was not inevitable. The day after we arrived we noticed one very bad sign (though good for us), namely, the enormous exchange we received on a circular note – for twenty pounds we got five pounds extra.

The weather was most enjoyable, not too hot, and the immense pine-woods were cool and fragrant with the fresh spring smell of the young fir shoots, and perfectly carpeted with the tender green of the whortleberry plant, which is of such a brilliant green in spring, and here covers every hill and rock.

The melancholy-looking infantry regiment (Graf Hangwitz's) that was here in April, had been sent into Austrian Silesia, and was replaced by the 26th battalion of Feld Jägers; and though the grey loose dresses of the latter did not look pleasing after the smart white uniforms and geranium-coloured facings of the former, yet we soon got used to them, and found constant amusement in watching these light- [125 Gentlemanly Soldiers.] hearted, merry little riflemen. They were, like the former regiment, principally Italians; but the officers and non-commissioned officers were mostly, or all, Germans. There were a good many Bohemians amongst the men, which was fortunate for them, as most of the soldiers could not speak a word of German; and where several were billeted on a house, they generally had one amongst them who could act as spokesman for the party. Every cottage and house around had its Jäger inmates, and they seemed immense favourites with the Bohemian people. It really was touching to see their gentle, kind ways, like those of very gentlemanly schoolboys. You never saw them mustering for parade, but that each solider had one or two of the peasant children running by his side; and it was especially pleasant at the hour when the children came from school – (for here, as in all parts of Germany, it is imperative that the children be sent to school, from the age of six to fourteen) – to see them running to meet their [126 Their Hard Drill.] friends the Jägers, relieving them of muskets, knapsacks, and other accoutrements; while those children who could not find anything to carry, each seized a hand and conducted their tired guests home.

The soldiers had an extra allowance, to enable them to pay for their billets; but even the poorest of the villagers would not hear of taking any payment, and cheerfully shared their humble fare with the merry Jägers. They seemed to have a great deal of hard drill work, perhaps from so many being fresh recruits. They were up nearly at dawn, and home again about nine. Some had a very long walk to join the muster. Then they were out again at twelve, and once more about four or five – but this last seemed a very short affair, and never in full dress.

The weather, part of the time, in June, was fearfully thundery and hot; but hot or cold, fine or showery, it seemed all the same to them. They would come back through drenching thunder [127 Decoration of their Forage Caps.] showers, singing their merry Italian songs, and laughing and joking the same as they did on fine sunny days. They were not under very strict discipline, I should think; at least not like that of our soldiers. In their forage caps they wore what feathers they chose, and it was most amusing to see the variety that love or money had procured for them. The feathers of Guinea fowls, peacocks, ostriches, parrots, and wild birds' wings were very common, but the favourite decoration seemed to be the tail feathers of the black cock or capercailzie, the same as those their officers wore in their forage caps. The men generally, on leaving their quarters, had some bright summer roses given them. Every morning, and even on parade in full dress, these roses were fixed amongst the black plumes of their round hats.

We had one day a goose for dinner, and I was much amused on noticing afterwards one of its large white wings decorating the forage-cap of a Jäger billeted in our hotel. Poor fellow! I was [128 Exchange of Greetings.] so sorry for him. He was one of the very few who were not merry or bright, and I had noticed his unhappy face on my arrival. But evidently the Jägers had been strictly ordered to keep out of our way. They occupied rooms on the floor below ours, and if we were going down or upstairs when any of them were in the way, directly they heard the rustle of a dress, they would retreat as if their presence was an intrusion. However, after a few days they forgot their orders, and we used to meet and exchange such greetings as "Felice notte," or "Buon giorno, Signora," with remarks on the weather. The corporal in command always met us with the Bohemian greeting, "kiss your hand." One day I had a long talk with the unhappy-looking soldier, who told me all his sorrow. His father and mother had a small farm near Mantua, and he was the youngest of four sons. His brothers had all been drawn for the army. Two had been killed in Schleswig-Holstein, and the other wounded. Three months ago, he had been car- [129 Italian Conscript.] ried off, and "there was no one left with his old parents." His eyes were full of tears when he told me this. He hated the army, the war, and the Austrians. His whole heart and soul seemed bound up in his little home circle, about whom he appeared delighted to talk, for he told me all about them. He had two sisters, who were married, and one had a young daughter aged six.

"Oh! quite a little thing!" I said.

"Oh! no," he answered, quickly, "not at all a little thing, she is very tall for her age, and comes up to here," touching his pouch-belt.

Poor lad! I often wonder if he will ever go back to the old people and little farm at Mantua, or whether he has been struck down by that horrible needle-gun, and left amongst the heaps of slain on those red Bohemian fields of battle.

The dress of the Jägers seemed very useful, and far more rational for soldier's work than any smarter or stiffer-looking uniform. When they went [130 Night Alarms.] on long marches, on the very hot days in June, the tunic was rolled up in their knapsack, and only the very loose great-coat worn, which they all said was very cool; but they seemed to me, to carry an immense heap of things above and below the knapsack, including a small tin saucepan.

We had one or two night alarms to test the activity of the men. After the bugle had sounded, in three minutes they were up, their toilette completed, everything they possessed at Bodenbach packed up, and on their backs, and they had sallied forth. Very quick work. But we would gladly have dispensed with these night alarms and early drills, for after the merry bugler had come from the village above, and passed our hotel, making all the rocks echo with his réveillé as he went along, he would seat himself on a pile of logs on the bank of the Elbe, just below, and while the soldiers were waiting for those of their comrades who had to come from more distant houses, the bugle would be [131 Italian Soldiers.] laughingly passed from one to another, and, amidst peals of laughter and volleys of wit, trumpet calls, Italian airs, and merry dance tunes, would be alternately tried upon it. Undoubtedly one great weakness of the Austrian army is its want of brotherhood. I noticed that none of the Bohemian or German soldiers ever joined the band of laughing Jägers, who, fair weather or foul, used to muster on the piles of timber. The want of a common language could not account for this, for the little village children always gathered thickly round the Italians, sometimes teaching them German words, and sometimes begging two or three pinches of gunpowder, or a few percussion caps. At the twelve o'clock muster, when the women from the large sydrolith factory of Herr Schiller came out for their dinner hour, many a group of Italians was interspersed with the pink-aproned Bohemian women, in their many-coloured headkerchiefs, who were trying to talk Italian, and be amused [132 Austrian Officers.] with the lavish compliments of their swarthy admirers. But, however entertaining might be the joke, or whatever was the point of interest, the Bohemian soldier always coldly passed by his Italian comrade, and the Italians never tried to fraternize with their German brothers-in-arms. I may here venture to confirm the opinion expressed by a much abler pen than mine, that in the Austrian army, as it was this summer, "the great bond of brotherhood, the stimulus of patriotism, was wanting."

The officers of these regiments are keenly alive to the fact, and it must make them feel very nervous about their men in battle. Several times the orders which came down were read in Italian to the men at their musters. They all began and ended in the same style, threatening that the first who ran away in battle should be shot, and assuring them that the Prussians were the general enemies of mankind.

The officers of Graf Hangwitz's regiment [133 Great Mistake.] told us that, doubting their Italian soldiers, they took every opportunity of assuring them that it was the Prussians who had conquered Italy, and had already been defeated at Solferino and Magenta. I dare say they believed it all – poor, simple fellows!

A great mistake which, I fancy, the Austrian army, or, at least, our Jäger regiment, was led into, was to rely upon the bayonet. Surely, when they remembered that only two years ago they had fought side by side with the Prussians, and had seen the terrible effects of the needle-gun, it was madness to tell the Jägers that they were to close in fight with them, and rely upon their bayonets. These bayonets were terrible-looking weapons, no doubt – more than half the length of their rifles, and very broad; but what chance had they of using them against the needle-gun?

Amongst the many wounded whom I saw afterwards on our journey home, there was only [134 Good Material Badly Used.] one who had been injured by a bayonet thrust, which had done its deadly work on him, for the poor fellow was not expected to live a week. One cannot but regret that such excellent material was so badly used, for these Jägers were wonderfully good marksmen, and were out practising rifle-shooting every day. A gentleman, who had watched them, told me t