e into old Augsburg, whose Confession is not so fresh
in our minds as it ought to be. Portions of the ancient wall remain, and
many of the towers; and there are archways, picturesquely opening from
street to street, under several of which we drive on our way to the
Three Moors, a stately hostelry and one of the oldest in Germany.

It stood here in the year 1500; and the room is still shown, unchanged
since then, in which the rich Count Fugger entertained Charles V. The
chambers are nearly all immense. That in which we are lodged is
large enough for Queen Victoria; indeed, I am glad to say that her
sleeping-room at St. Cloud was not half so spacious. One feels either
like a count, or very lonesome, to sit down in a lofty chamber, say
thirty-five feet square, with little furniture, and historical and
tragical life-size figures staring at one from the wall-paper. One
fears that they may come down in the deep night, and stand at the
bedside,--those narrow, canopied beds there in the distance, like the
marble couches in the cathedral. It must be a fearful thing to be a
royal person, and dwell in a palace, with resounding rooms and naked,
waxed, inlaid floors. At the Three Moors one sees a visitors' book,
begun in 1800, which contains the names of many noble and great people,
as well as poets and doctors and titled ladies, and much sentimental
writing in French. It is my impression, from an inspection of the book,
that we are the first untitled visitors.

The traveler cannot but like Augsburg at once, for its quaint houses,
colored so diversely and yet harmoniously. Remains of its former
brilliancy yet exist in the frescoes on the outside of the buildings,
some of which are still bright in color, though partially defaced. Those
on the House of Fugger have been restored, and are very brave pictures.
These frescoes give great animation and life to the appearance of a
street, and I am glad to see a taste for them reviving. Augsburg must
have been very gay with them two and three hundred years ago, when,
also, it was the home of beautiful women of the middle class, who
married princes. We went to see the house in which lived the beautiful
Agnes Bernauer, daughter of a barber, who married Duke Albert III. of
Bavaria. The house was nought, as old Samuel Pepys would say, only a
high stone building, in a block of such; but it is enough to make a
house attractive for centuries if a pretty woman once looks out of its
latticed windows,