appeared; but the little town of Witzenhausen, with its picturesque domes, pointed roofs, and long high bridge over the river Werra, has come in sight, and we are passing through pretty vineyards-yes, really pretty, for the dwarfish monotony of the vines is diversified by rows of fruit-trees, bowed gracefully downwards by their load of ripe apples and plums; and in some places, a sort of hedge is formed by the gourd plant, with its large light-green leaves, and bright yellow fruit. On the other side of the river, beautifully-coloured gardens extend up the slope from the water side, and are surmounted by a high perpendicular wall of dark purple rock.

We have changed horses opposite to a nice looking inn, called the Goldene Krone, at Witzenhausen, on the river Werra, and now we are driving between more of these pretty gardens. Here they have grotesque little summer-houses, perched like oriel windows at the corner o. the low wall which separates them from the road. I just see rising amid the vines a beautiful gothic spire of open tracery, something like Queen Eleanor's crosses in England.

On we drive through a winding valley; the gardens are gone, but the river Werra remains, now rushing impetuously over the dark rocks— now reflecting in calm clearness its mountain banks, with their rich garment of forest-trees, tinged by autumn's playful pencil with a thousand gorgeous hues. Now the valley widens, and the broad river flows between green meadows, enamelled with the lilac-crocus, and other wild flowers.

The witch-like peasants are again tossing hay, or placing it on little wooden frames raised from the ground, which give the hay-cocks here such a mushroom or umbrella-like appearance.

Another turn-the river, fields, and haymakers are gone! We have entered the forest: gnarled oaks and majestic beech-trees spread their gigantic branches across the road above our heads, and their roots twine like huge serpents among the soft green moss beneath.

Three jägers have appeared, attired in light green coats. A leathern belt encircles their

waist, on which is fixed a powder-flask. A hunting-horn is slung across their shoulders, and they are armed with long rifles; their beards are red and bushy. A pointed cap of the same sylvan hue as the dress, surmounted by a single feather, is stuck on one side of the head, and completes their picturesque costume. Their appearance is wild and fierce; yet they doffed their feathered caps with an air of respectful civility. Strange, delightful land! where even the wildest people, in the remotest forest, are more forward in testifying their good feeling towards a passing stranger, than are the sons of our soil to their own liege masters.

Another village appears. A group of peasants, carrying those large baskets, which in this part of the country are so often strapped to the shoulders. They are now not only filled, but piled up with some green plant, so high above their heads as to give them the appearance of walking trees. No wonder that the women's figures are so bad, their shoulders so narrow, and their backs so clumsy! What a pity they do not carry these things on their head. I have

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always observed a certain degree of grace, even in figures not well formed by nature, in places where the habit of carrying weights on the head is universal.

In this village most of the cottages have inscriptions. The few words I can catch as we drive through, are all of a religious turn. There is no setting forth of the virtues or honors of the possessor; no record of the skill of the builder; no name is mentioned but His, who will endure when these structures are levelled with the ground-when this place shall know them no more! To Him they look for protection, to His care they consign themselves and all their possessions.

CHAPTER VIII.

Arrival at Cassel-English formality-Visit to Wilhelmshohe-Pictures at Cassel-Peculiar importance of beauty to a painter's wife-Ruminations on various subjects.

Cassel. Friday, 23rd.-IN a long cold room, at the Konïg von Preussen, overlooking the round, regular, dull Konïg's platz. The rest of our drive yesterday was, I believe, as beautiful as the part I endeavoured to describe, but though I saw, I was too ill to feel its charm.

This morning we went out early. The Augarten is very pretty, but we were disappointed in the Frederic's Platz. Its broad expanse of bare earth looks like a miniature model of a sandy desert. There are, to be sure, a row of