chapel and minister's house; then the houses are more scattered and less tasteful. The better kind are of bricks, with a wooden half-story under the sloping roof. Many, however, are of mud and canes, or made in a species of framework, with the large cross-beams conspicuous, as in most of the hamlets of Germany. Beneath the cottage, however humble, is a basement used for storing implements, which keeps the habitations very dry. No bars or bolts are visible, and the windows are often without glass.

Crossing Millersberg, we see the mountains around us cultivated to their summits, and ahead of us, perched like an eagle's eyrie, is Woolff's Nest, a well-known wayside inn. Away to the left the hills recede till lost in an outline of woods in the direction of Caffee-schneitz. Not far from thence it is proposed to establish an Irish colony, and Mr. MacGinity, concessionaire of the railway and other enterprises, intends to give settlers free land grants of 100 acres. The soil is excellent, and peculiarly favourable, it being so near the railway now in construction.

Ascending Fritzberg the road becomes little better than a dry river-bed. Wood-pigeons abound here. At last, after arduous toiling up hill, we

reach Woolff's Nest. What a lovely panorama ! In the foreground the Dos Irmaos and Sapocai, at our feet the peaceful valley of Baumschneitz, and on all sides a diversified picture of woods, plains, farm-houses, and undulating hills, till the blue line of the horizon is broken on the far right by the white buildings of Port Alegre, fifty miles distant as the crow flies.

Herr Woolff and his wife are hospitable people, and do a thriving business, their house being a general store of dry goods, groceries, &c., and on Sunday evenings the neighbours meet here to dance. The ball-room measures 40 by 36 feet, with a corner set apart for the orchestra. Everything about the place bespeaks neatness. The woods close it in on either side, while the mountain rises up precipitously behind. A steep ascent conducts us to the summit, where a cross-road occurs, and now we are on the top of a ridge commanding a delightful view, whichever way we turn. The road to the right leads into the Tea-forest. Before many

minutes we seem plunged in the heart of dense woods, which create a feeling of silence and solemnity, as if you were beneath the vaulted roof of some old Gothic cathedral. We journey on for nearly an hour in this manner, and suddenly come

upon a cavalcade of a dozen persons. It is the Grafin von Eberstein, a German baroness of sixty summers, who is at present making a tour of the world à la Ida Pfeiffer, and whose arrival last week at San Leopoldo caused some sensation. She is attended by an ugly maid-servant, a muscular courier, three or four of the colonists, a guide, the parson of Baumschneitz, and some others. She rides a strong cob, seated in a kind of armchair, and has made a difficult journey to and from the Waterfall, apparently without fatigue. We are again in the depths of the forest. What splendid ferns! What stately trees, all interlaced with creepers and parasites!

Emerging from the forest we saw the sun descending behind the woods of the Rosen Thal, when our road diverged to the right and left at a little chapel, near which there was no house for us to ask which way we should follow. Beside the chapel was a tasteful churchyard, or God's acre,' as the Germans call it, with sundry stone crosses and flower-beds. My guide resolved on taking the lower road, to the left, with some uncertainty as to whether we should have to pass the night in the woods. But before darkness set in we came to a turn in the mountain which disclosed a group

of

cottages. Passing a small cloth-mill and another chapel, we began to ascend another range of hills, for my guide now remembered the locality, and said we should have to pass the night at the shanty of Herr Rost, near the Waterfall. At times the path was so precipitous and full of loose stones that we had to alight and lead our horses. The full summer moon was sailing on her course as we reached Herr Rost's, where we found a frugal supper and clean beds of Indian corn straw, after a long day's ride of thirteen hours.

I

XII.

FROM THE WATERFALL TO THE DEVIL'S GLEN.

It was my purpose to see the first rays of the sun fall on the Caté cascade, and some time before sunrise we were making our way through Herr Rost's wood-clearing, where patches of beans and flax alternated with felled timber. The descent into the ravine is no longer so dangerous as formerly, but you must beware of the loose stones.

The first view of the waterfall disappoints you, the quantity of water being insignificant; its height by degrees impresses you, for it is 375 feet over a sheer precipice, the woods on either side. coming down to the brink, while the waterfall like a silver ribbon descends to the valley; there is no visible outlet for the water, which is caught in a pool that has never been sounded, and the neighbours have a tradition of a man who fell in and was never seen to rise, his body having been probably