moments, these first self-presentations; but
Herr Herzlich is a true-hearted old Saxon,
who raises his black velvet skullcap with one
hand, as I announce myself, while with the
other he lowers his silver spectacles from his
forehead on to his nose. Then, with all sort
of comforting words, as to my future
prospects in Leipsic, he sends me forth rejoicing.

Once more in the open street, we pass up
the crowded way into the market-place. A
succession of wooden booths lines the road;
and many of the houses have an overhanging
floor resting on sturdy posts, which makes
the footpath a rude colonnade. Here are
piled rolls and bales of cloth, while the
booths are crammed with a heterogeneous
collection of articles of use and ornament
diversified beyond description. A strange
knot of gentlemen arrests our attention for a
moment. They are clad in long gowns of
black serge, and wear highly-polished boots
reaching to the knee. Some have low-
crowned hats, others a kind of semi-furred
turban, but they all have jet black hair
arranged in innumerable wiry ringlets, even
to their beards. They are Polish Jews, and
trade chiefly in pearls, garnets, turquoise, and
a peculiar sort of ill-cut and discoloured rose-
diamonds.

The market-place is scarcely passable for
the crowd, and the wooden booths are so
thickly-studded over its whole space, as to
allow of only a narrow footway between
them. Here, we see pipes and walking-
sticks, enough not only for the present, but
for generations unborn. Traversing the
ground by slow degrees, we bend towards
the Dresden gate, and come upon the country
people, all handkerchief and waistcoat, who
line the path with their little stores of toys,
of eggs, butter, and little pats of goats'-milk
cheese. Here, is a farmer who has straggled
all the way from Altenburg. He wears a
queer round-crowned hat, with the rim
turned up at the back; a jacket with large
pockets outside, a sort of trunk hose, and black
boots reaching to the knee. A little beyond
him, is a band of musicians with wind
instruments, in the full costume of the
Bergleute, or mountaineers of Freiberg. With
their jackets of black stuff, trimmed with
velvet of the same hue, and edged at the
bottom with little square lappets, their dark
leggings and brimless hats, they look like
a party of Grindoff the miller's men in
mourning.

As we approach the gates, the stalls and
wares dwindle into insignificance, until they
disappear altogether; and so we pass out of
the city to the picturesque promenades which
surround it. Afar off we hear the booming
and occasional squeal of the real fair. It is
not without its drollery, and, if not equal to
Old Bartelmy in noise and rude humour, has
a word to say for itself on the point of
decency. It is, however, but child's play
after all, and abounds with toys and games,
from a halfpenny whistle to an electric
machine. Leipsic is now in its waking hours;
but a short time hence her fitful three weeks'
fever will have passed away, and, weary with
excitement, or as some say, plethoric with
her gorge of profits, she will sink into a
soulless lethargy. Her streets will become
deserted, and echo to solitary footsteps; and
whole rows of houses, with their lately teeming
shops, will be black and tenantless, and
barred and locked in grim security. The
students will shine among the quiet
citizens; the pigeons will flap their wings in
idleness, and coo in melancholy tones as they
totter about the streets; and the last itinerant
player (on the flageolet, of course) will
have sounded his last farewell note to the
slumbering city.

GEORGE LEVISON; OR, THE
SCHOOLFELLOWS.

THE noisy sparrows in our clematis
Talk'd about rain; a quiet summer dusk
Shadowing the little lawn and garden-ground
Which part us from the village street below.
One pale pure star— one altar newly lit,
Amidst the carbuncle and beryl burn'd
Of twilight's vast cathedral; but the clouds
Were gravely gathering, and a fitful breeze
Flurried the foliage that till now had droop'd
A picture, steadfast on the fading sky,
And wafted, showering from their golden boss,
The petals of the white-rose overblown.

Our wall being low upon the inner side,
A great white-rosebush stoops across, to note,
Up to the churchyard-gate, down to the brook,
And lifted fields beyond with grove and hedge,
The doings of the village, all day long;
From when the labourers trudging to their toil
With sickle, scythe, or spade, hear outpost cocks
Whistle a quaint refrain from farm to farm,
Until the hour of shadow and repose,
When footsteps cease, and every taper's quench'd,
Children that pass to school, or home again,
One with an arm about another's neck,
Point to the fragrant treasure, clustering rich,
And for a dropping rosebud pay a smile.

The sun was down; the loyal garden-blooms
Shut all their dreaming colours; and a Flower
Was closing like the rest, a Flower of Flowers.
That herald star which look'd across the world
Found nothing prettier than our little child
Saying his evening prayer at mother's knee,
The white skirt folding on the naked feet,
Too tender for rough ways, his eyes at rest
On his mother's face, a window into heaven.
Kiss'd now, and settled in his cot, he's pleased
With murmuring song, until the large lids droop
And do not rise, and slumber's regular breath
Divides the soft round mouth. So Annie's boy
And mine was put asleep. I heard her foot
Stir overhead. There would be time to-night,
Before the rain, to loiter half-an-hour
As far as to the poplars down the road,
And hear the corncrakes through the meadowy vale,
And watch the childhood of the virgin moon
Over a ruddy sunset's marge of cloud
Sinking its crescent. Sweetheart of my life!