as just completed a long letter, and now lays
down the pen to feast his eyes a moment on the forest clad heights,
which, rise behind the trim little city. The time is twilight of a warm
summer evening; the air, as usual after the crimson light of sunset has
faded, is full of tremulous, translucent brightness; a silver grey sky
which merges into white, and relieves the eyes by forming a background
to the masses of tree tops and the mountain ridges upon whose crest is
uplifted the lofty tower of the old church, like a black silhouette
against a sheet of silver paper. In the foreground a few faint local
colors and hundreds of individual details fill out the picture. The
railway station only separated from the hotel by the wide street,
swarms with people; but it is Sunday and as if in deference to the day
there is no noisy bustle, no goods loaded and unloaded, and only
persons traveling for pleasure seem to be waiting for the next train,
which is to leave in an hour.

Meantime it rapidly grew dark. Edwin is compelled to move nearer the
window, in order to read, and we, as old friends, may be permitted to
look over his shoulder and see what he has written to his Leah.

"My Beloved Wife:

"_I have been here just two hours, during which time I have slept as
soundly as I ever did at midnight. It was a foolish whim of mine, the
desire to reach this place to-day; for to do so I was compelled to walk
in the heat of the noonday sun. I might have known Mohr would not tear
himself away from his home one instant before the term began, and of
course I have not found him here and may be obliged to wait several
days. However, his dilatoriness has procured me the pleasure of
strolling through this mountain region by moonlight, which I have done
for the last four stages of my journey. Dearest, it was unspeakably
delightful, to leave at moon-rise the hot rooms where I had spent the
day and then walk through the silent woods, which grew cooler and
cooler, until when the moon was about to set I reached some cosy nest
which was ready to receive me. To be sure he who wants to write a
hand-book of travel, must manage differently; the moon is the poet that
transfigures all things, but it is after the style of Eichendorff, who
with his rustling tree tops, flashing streams, and distant baying of
dogs always conjures up the same dreamy mood; so that at last it makes
no difference where we wander, whether in Italy or the Thuringian
forest. For m