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THE " SETBN MOUNTAINS."

hosses of the hüls and forrows of the Valleys to be like acarved landscape upon some huge cameo-ring.

The lifo of the scene, however, renders it impossible toimage its beauty by comparing it with any mere unchangingtype; f'or the banks of the Rinne are now busy with the horsestowing the heavy barges up the stream—the air rings with theshouting of the crowd of oars-men labouring at either end ofsome long raft, that looks like a large moving floor upon thewater—the surface of the river is white and rumpled, as itwere, in places, with the wake of the passing steamers, theirpaddles seeming to chuekle as they dart by—the villages areprettily filmed with the white smoke of their morning firesrising above them, like a cloud of snow-dust flying before thewind — the plains are dusked in places with the movingshadows of the clouds that flit across them like so much breathdulling the surface of a mirror—the red woods at the mountain-tops are half veiled with the gauzy scarf of the rising mists—■the roadways are dotted over with tiny puppet-like figures ofpeasant-women and creeping market-carts,—and the hill-sidefields are alive with toy-like oxen-teams—while the air closebehind us rings again with the clink of the hundred hammersat work in the neighbouring quarries—and, rising from outthe ravines near at band, you can hear the shouting of voicesfrom the farm-houses that are nestled high up among thewarmer nooks of the mountains.

In fine, there is not, perhaps, amid all the rieh treasures ofcolour and form strewn throughout the globe, a more lovclyand inspiriting sight than that bright bit of the world seen—with the bloom of early morning upon it—from the summit ofthe Drachenfels. It is an exquisite treat to look down uponthe earth there with an almost eagle's eye, and to find that youhave the power, by your mere vision, of extending your con-sciousness to scenes that are miles away—to feel the half-