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26, 1861.] hurries past the half-sunken rocks, which partially intercept the stream. It is curious to observe the skill with which the rafts are navigated in their rapid transit down the river. In the few minutes from the time when we were first attracted by the red flags of this floating island, the serpent-like form had passed through the arch of the bridge, and was fast disappearing in its winding course to Manheim.

The murmuring noise of the river rises pleasantly to the ear, not unlike that of the flowing tide on the shingly beach; and with something of the Germanic facility for evolving improbabilities out of mere self-consciousness, even a practical Englishman might picture to himself the dark blue ocean at a league or so from Heidelberg. In some states of the atmosphere, the Rhine plain looks marvellously like the sea, and the Haardt and Taunus mountains appear as distant headlands. But illusion, on this occasion, was snapt asunder by the loud and booming report of cannon: “Are the French come?” was our first ejaculation. On the contrary, this salute is to celebrate the anniversary of their defeat and departure. On this day forty-seven years ago, took place the battle of Leipzig, or, as the Germans characteristically name it, the “Völkerschlacht,” “Battle of the Nations.” May collective Germany again join together in unity, and rise in her strength, should foreign foe assail. Old feelings have been stirred, old recollections roused, which have made this year’s anniversary conspicuous above those of foretime. Last night there were bonfires on the Heiligenberg, and on the Königstuhl, which, with friendly blaze, called forth many answering fires along the topmost ridges of the Odenwald and the Schwartzwald.

Leipzig, on the 18th of October, 1813, is a significant memory just now; and the echoes from the hill-sides are sharp, ready, and far reaching as the spirit that would rise at the faintest sound of aggression. Never again may those vine-clad hills be desecrated by the foot of the enemy.

It is the time of vintage, and between the long intervals of the booming of cannon—there comes the reiterated sound of musketry—but these sharpshooters have no deadly purpose. It is an act of rejoicing, for it is the custom here to fire off guns and to shout, when the task of gathering in each little vineyard is ended. Boats filled with baskets of grapes are floating down the river. This year the fruit is plentiful, but sour. There will be a considerable amount of sugar needed to make the wine marketable. This plan of adding sugar and water has been rather recently introduced. There is a prejudice against the practice, but, overtly or otherwise, it is very generally adopted. Every working man here drinks his bottle or so of wine a-day, which costs him six or eight kreutzers a bottle, viz. two or therethree [sic] pence English. This beverage bears a great likeness to our cider. There are considerable quantities of “apple cider” and “pear cider” made in this locality. The better sorts of cheap wine, drank by the higher classes, are the Ortenburger and Markgräfler: these cost about sixpence or eightpence a bottle; but the more expensive, Affenthaler and Deidesheimer, are mostly patronised by foreigners. We were rather astonished to observe in the “Wein Karte,” presented to us