distinguished travellers for alms, while my friend timidly hid
himself in the ditch by the roadside. Luckily we decided to seek
shelter for the night in an inn, where we took counsel whether we
should spend the alms just received on a supper or a bed. We
decided for the supper, proposing to spend the night under the
open sky. While we were refreshing ourselves, a strange-looking
wayfarer entered. He wore a black velvet skull-cap, to which a
metal lyre was attached like a cockade, and on his back he bore a
harp. Very cheerfully he set down his instrument, made himself
comfortable, and called for a good meal. He intended to stay the
night, and to continue his way next day to Prague, where he
lived, and whither he was returning from Hanover.

My good spirits and courage were stimulated by the jovial manners
of this merry fellow, who constantly repeated his favourite
motto, 'non plus ultra.' We soon struck up an acquaintance, and
in return for my confidence, the strolling player's attitude to
me was one of almost touching sympathy. It was agreed that we
should continue our journey together next day on foot. He lent me
two twenty-kreutzer pieces (about ninepence), and allowed me to
write my Prague address in his pocket-book. I was highly
delighted at this personal success. My harpist grew extravagantly
merry; a good deal of Czernosek wine was drunk; he sang and
played on his harp like a madman, continually reiterating his
'non plus ultra' till at last, overcome with wine, he fell down
on the straw, which had been spread out on the floor for our
common bed. When the sun once more peeped in, we could not rouse
him, and we had to make up our minds to set off in the freshness
of the early morning without him, feeling convinced that the
sturdy fellow would overtake us during the day. But it was in