In the following spring, 1827, I repeated this journey from Dresden to Prague, but this time on foot, and accompanied by my friend Rudolf Bohme.  Our tour was full of adventure.  We got to within an hour of Teplitz the first night, and next day we had to get a lift in a wagon, as we had walked our feet sore; yet this only took us as far as Lowositz, as our funds had quite run out.  Under a scorching sun, hungry and half-fainting, we wandered along bypaths through absolutely unknown country, until at sundown we happened to reach the main road just as an elegant travelling coach came in sight.  I humbled my pride so far as to pretend I was a travelling journeyman, and begged the 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 vain that we looked out for him on the road and during our subsequent stay in Prague.  Indeed, it was not until several weeks later that the extraordinary fellow turned up at my mother’s, not so much to collect payment of his loan, as to inquire about the welfare of the young friend to whom that loan had been made.