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ratlier than cannon—the portcullis immoveable with rust —the embrasures choked and wattled over with ivy a hundredyears old—the royal nuptial-chambers without a roof—the solle, a rnanger of the Princess of England with treessprouting frorn the floor—the gorgeous Rittersaals (Knights'halls) without Windows or floor—and Restauration» ("et debonne bi&re" adds M. Baedeker,) and boarding-houses (with"good table d'höte at 1," says Mr. Murray) dispensing thehospitalities of the Castle instead; and, indeed, the fortressthat was intended, with its ball-proof bastions, batteries, andramparts, to resist the cannon and shells of the enemy,crumbling slowly away before the silent attacks of the windand the rain — and the "triumphal arches," that were raisedto perpetuate some great glory of yore, now telling only ofmisfortune and human vanity.

Let us mount the hill. There are two roads from thetown to the Castle—the one from Karlsplatz, a mere foot-path, leading by terraces and garden-slopes up the Castle-hill side to the part of the ruin facing the Neckar; and theother a steep carriage-way, extending from the Klinge Itlwr,and bringing the stranger to the back of the building.

Pursuing the latter route we enter the Castle-gardens,that are still laid out with broad walks, and exquisitely shadyand cool with their long arcades of interlacing boughs above—the sun-beams trickling, as it were, in large gouttes throughthe leafy lattice; and the veiled light as it descends stained apale green, as if it had permeated some painted window.

Here, before reaching the gate that leads to the cpiadrangleof the Castle itself, we turn into the allie to the left, and thuscome to the " Elizabethen Pforte" (Elizabeth Gate)—a hand-some triumphal arch, in red sandstone, with wreaths of oak-leaves sculptured up the pillars, and the gate itself halfcurtained with ivy,—the graceful lines of the architecture

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