earth, of which they are composed, is of uniform texture, the impressions made by the stream upon the border, are also nearly uniform. Hence this border is almost universally a handsome arch with a margin entirely neat, and very commonly ornamented with a fine fringe of shrubs and trees. Nor is the surface of these grounds less pleasing. The terraced form and the undulations are both eminently handsome. In a country abounding in hills, plains moderate in their extent, like these, are always agreeable. Their universal fertility makes a cheerful impression on every eye. A great part of them is formed into meadows. Meadows are here more profitable, and everywhere more beautiful, than lands devoted to any other culture. Here they are extended from five to five hundred acres, and are everywhere covered with a verdure peculiarly rich and varied. The vast fields, also, which are not in meadow, exhibit all the productions of the climate, interspersed in parallelograms, divided only by mathematical lines, and mingled in a charming confusion. In many places, large and thrifty orchards, and everywhere forest trees standing singly, of great height and graceful figures, diversify the landscape.

The first object, however, in the whole landscape is undoubtedly the Connecticut itself. This stream may, perhaps, with as much propriety as any in the world be named the Beautiful River. From Stuart to the Sound, it uniformly sustains this character. The purity, salubrity and sweetness of its waters; the frequency and elegance of its meanders; its absolute freedom from all aquatic vegetables; the uncommon and universal beauty of its banks; here a smooth and winding beach; there covered with rich verdure; now fringed with bushes; now crowned with lofty trees; and now formed by the intruding hill, the rude bluff and

the shaggy mountain; are objects which no traveller can thoroughly describe and no reader adequately imagine. When to these are added the numerous towns, villages and hamlets, almost everywhere exhibiting marks of prosperity and improvement; the rare appearance of decline; the numerous churches lifting their spires in frequent succession; the neat schoolhouses, everywhere occupied; and the mills busied on such a multitude of streams; it may be safely asserted that a pleasanter journey will rarely be found than that which is made in the Connecticut Valley.

MOSEL

F. WARRE CORNISH

O we embarked under a bright evening sky, and the smooth stream took us swiftly down. It was a beautiful moment; the evening deepened over the green water and the red rocks, till dusk fell, and we ran the boat aground, hiding the oars in a willow-bed, and tramped with our luggage into Ruwer, the neighbouring village, having been assured that wherever we stopped we should find good lodging. And so it proved; not a village which failed to supply good food, decently cooked, excellent wine and golden beer, clean beds, moderate charges, and, best of all, willing and cheerful hospitality, such as one finds in Tyrol and the Bavarian highlands. There was not a dull reach from Trier to Coblenz. The scenery is not so impressive as that of the Danube or the famous windings of the Rhine.

But the hills of the Mosel Valley are beautiful in form and varied with rocks red as those of Devonshire, or grey slate in slabs and spires, or dark volcanic, like the Eifel. Everywhere there are beautiful woods, valleys guarded by ancient castles, and smiling upland meadows far away among the hills.

As we embarked on the Mosel, let us praise the water itself, to be in company with which was joy enough; in colour green, neither like emerald nor chrysoprase, nor like the crystal of the rushing Traun, or of the deep basin, the home of the soaring grayling, where the river leaps over

the Traun fall. Nor like the water that comes down at Locarno or Verallo; but a deeper, statelier colour, lighter than the Kyle between Mull and Argyll, darker than the Thames at Cookham when at its best after a dry July. In all the shallows wave long tresses of Undine's hair, and the surface of the water is broken by little ruffing eddies into the loveliest water-pattern. Perhaps other rivers are like this; I do not know them. It seemed to me a peculiar and native charm of this river, never sullen, never boisterous, the lady of German rivers. Smooth-sliding is the proper epithet. I wish my reed were vocal to praise her aright. She has her own poet-Ausonius; but his poem is rather a catalogue than a hymn of praise, and he takes her for a river, not a goddess, as she revealed herself to us.

Ruwer, the village where we were to spend the night, was shimmering between sunset and starlight, and had its own light besides, for the military were here, and all the windows ablaze, and Faust and Wagner and their loves had come out of Trier to take the air and drink, noisy but respectable.

The next morning was the 1st of September, a dawn of golden haze telling of hot tramps over stubbles and turnipfields. We were cool and contented, and did not lust after partridges. We find our boat in the dewy willow-bed and give ourselves to the stream. We have got used to the rustic oars, and it is no exertion to row with the swift current, which here and there breaks into a little rapid and makes the boat dance-on one occasion we shipped nearly half a pint of water. It is no good to describe what was enjoyed and is remembered; but here are the facts, though mere facts tell little. Red sandstone cliffs, alternating with grey slate; broad meadows of Alpine grass freckled with

pink crocus; walnut and apple orchards; sober villages with dark roofs and spires; here and there a ruined castle; high "faraways" of pasture and forest; cavalry and artillery flashing and rumbling as they march to the manœuvres along the riverside roads; slow wagons drawn by fox-coloured cows; on and on we slide, stopping where we like, bathing when we like, till at evening we see a lofty rock at a bend of the river; and a party of ladies in a punt. Boldly we call out to ask if there is a good lodging here, and gaily Fa freilich !" comes back the answer across the river, and we land and put up at a clean and friendly inn. The parents and two hard-featured and hospitable daughters welcome us; the whole family turn out of their rooms and turn us in, and we sup under the stars and the velvet sky in front of the wooded rock, which plunges straight into the river and gives its name, "Echo," to the inn. The stars were very grand that night, and the invocation of Echo unearthly as always; it was impossible not to believe here in Kublebjorn and wood-spirits.

The next morning (Sedan-day) we were taken down to the bank by father, mother and the two daughters, and find the little brother clearing out the boat. How much willingness and courtesy for so small a payment. We said good-bye to the friendly family, wishing them many guests and good weather for their wine, and dropped down to Mühtheim and Berncastle, famous for its "Doctor," the best wine on the Mosel, though much "Doctor" is sold which did not grow at Berncastle, as there are not vines enough at Zeltinger to furnish half the Zeltinger drunk in England. But the name matters little if the wine is good. At Berncastle or rather at Cues, on the opposite bank, there is a large modern hotel near an iron bridge; but