hus released, rolled
over and over until he struck the road again some fifty feet below. There
he regained his feet and stood waiting for us. We re-entered the
carriage and descended with the single horse until we came to him. There,
with the help of some bits of string, our driver harnessed him again, and
we continued on our way. What impressed me was the evident
accustomedness of both driver and horses to this method of working down a
hill.

Evidently to them it appeared a short and convenient cut. I should not
have been surprised had the man suggested our strapping ourselves in, and
then rolling over and over, carriage and all, to the bottom.

Another peculiarity of the German coachman is that he never attempts to
pull in or to pull up. He regulates his rate of speed, not by the pace
of the horse, but by manipulation of the brake. For eight miles an hour
he puts it on slightly, so that it only scrapes the wheel, producing a
continuous sound as of the sharpening of a saw; for four miles an hour he
screws it down harder, and you travel to an accompaniment of groans and
shrieks, suggestive of a symphony of dying pigs. When he desires to come
to a full stop, he puts it on to its full. If his brake be a good one,
he calculates he can stop his carriage, unless the horse be an extra
powerful animal, in less than twice its own length. Neither the German
driver nor the German horse knows, apparently, that you can stop a
carriage by any other method. The German horse continues to pull with
his full strength until he finds it impossible to move the vehicle
another inch; then he rests. Horses of other countries are quite willing
to stop when the idea is suggested to them. I have known horses content
to go even quite slowly. But your German horse, seemingly, is built for
one particular speed, and is unable to depart from it. I am stating
nothing but the literal, unadorned truth, when I say I have seen a German
coachman, with the reins lying loose over the splash-board, working his
brake with both hands, in terror lest he would not be in time to avoid a
collision.

At Waldshut, one of those little sixteenth-century towns through which
the Rhine flows during its earlier course, we came across that
exceedingly common object of the Continent: the travelling Briton grieved
and surprised at the unacquaintance of the foreigner with the subtleties
of the English language. When we entered the station he was, in very
fai