A trifle of tobacco-smoke to be swallowed allowed for, the drive from Brunswick to Halberstadt was pleasant enough. The afternoon was glorious—the perfection of autumn weather— and the road offers some agreeable objects. Between Brunswick and Wolfenbuttel stands the Duke's country-house of Richmond, which is apparently as English in its Elizabethan style, and in the trimness of the rich garden round it, as in its name. Then the trees on either side of the way were hung with a profusion of apples, plums, and pears, glowing with every sunny colour of the season, and so appetizing as to make it positively disappointing that, at the first change of horses, no other refection was to be procured than a cup of coffee and a cigar. Every trench-bank and field enclosure, too, showed a roadside Flora of poppies, campanulas, and huge mulleins, gay enough to attract any eye that is sensitive to rich colour. Not long after Wolfenbuttel was left behind, the Brocken began to rise on the horizon; — and what is there in the world so engaging to the fancy as watching the gradual growth of a hill,—more especially if the hill have a name and a legend?

My companions in the schnellpost were cheerful and good-natured. While waiting under the vine which clothes the wall of the Brunswick post-house, we had become very sociable. As we jogged on, we discussed the Festival just over, and agreed that Mendelssohn was the musical hope of modern Germany.