within, or on their return taking off these now no longer indispensable articles of female gear. Formerly the postillion, proud and happy, gave signal on his horn, unmusically musical, of the arrival of some aspiring merchant, and the post-master was in despair, where he should find quadrupeds to forward the impatient bipeds thronging to the fair. At other times, one solitary Eilwagen dragged its slow weight along, not always with the legal complement of passengers, now a long train of twenty or thirty bei-wagers enlivened the dull villages. But this locomotive noise and bustle is no more, or rather, the postillion's horn has been exchanged for the shrill and ear-piercing whistle of the steam-engine, which brings its thousands, tens of thousands, and doubtless soon, its hundreds of thousands to the fair.

Students now leave Leipzig, there is no room for them, their lodgings are wanted, every nook and cranny, in which a human being can be thrust, becomes a source of profit. Before the stately buildings of the University and the Post, booths rise against booths, thousands disfigure the fine Augustus-platz; what of that, the Leipziger has no leisure for æsthetics or architectural proportions, it is the time of the fair. The Leipzigers are kind and hospitable, but woe to the unlucky wight who presents an empty letter of recommendation in the counting-house at this ungenial season. Let him wait till the fair is over, there is amusement enough in the streets, it is as good as a play. The Rossplatz too boasts of its booths, but these are devoted to pleasure.

The preparations are completed, let us pause awhile, before we can contemplate the busy scene. First come the grave and reverend signiors, the patricians of the fair, the great wholesale dealers, men of wealth and substance, doubtless; a few days' hard working, and if fortune smiles, their stock of goods has vanished, and they return, light of heart, and heavy in pocket. During their short residence, the habits of the town are changed; the lights in the rooms, which usually cease to illumine this early world at ten or eleven o'clock, burn steadily till one or two in the morning. The rising sun, it is not long after the vernal equinox, finds the busy trader at his desk, he has at least the consolation, it is to be hoped, of casting his eye over the list of profits to keep himself awake, but how the clerks contrive to get through this period of mortal misery, so different from their usual hours of moderate labour, is to us a mystery. That this reverse of Medea's caldron does not turn their heads grey during the fair, is to us incomprehensible. The first great week concluded, the fair, in legal time computed, begins. All nations send their representatives, English, French, Americans, Italians, Spaniards, for aught we know, Polish Jews in crowds, Russians, Greeks, Turks, Armenians, wander about the streets in lordly pomp, for they know they are welcome. It has been computed that more people pass through one of the principal streets of Leipzig in a busy day

VOL. III.

2 D

of the Leipzig fair than through the most crowded thoroughfare of London, a fact, to which we, as Englishmen, with becoming national modesty, are bound to give an indignant denial. The people don't know how to walk the streets, and as until very lately, there was no foot pavement, the thinnest lath of a man in his curved meanderings requires more space than would have sufficed for Daniel Lambert to have wound his way through Cheapside. As the fair advances, the town assumes a more motley appearance. From all parts of Germany, far and near, citizens with their wives and daughters flock to the fair, displaying every variety of fashion and costume, and uttering their native tongue in every variety of its strange dialects. The healthy complexion of the village maiden, contrasts with the pale colour of the inhabitants of the cities of north Germany, the stalwart form of the mountaineer towers besides the somewhat pigmy stature of the mixed Slavonic and Saxon blood. The handsome Tyrolese, with his trim dress, coquets with his nationality, for he knows it is admired, his costume is becoming, and he thinks himself handsome, which he really is, and calls ever body du, by which means he sells his gloves and rugs some twenty per cent. dearer than the regular trader. The Tyrolese women, with their large forms and ugly men's hats, are much less to our taste. Troops of harp-girls, and bands of minstrels, pour into the town, but their profits have been wofully diminished since they have been forbidden to play in the principal streets of the city, the increase of traffic requiring the thoroughfares to be kept more strictly open than formerly. The Hungarian or Slovack or gipsey, with his swarthy face, mischief dawning eyes, and his picturesque hat and ragged cloak, offers in unintelligible idiom his rat-traps for sale, while the Italian, in his everlasting velveteen dress, balances his board of images on his head. In process of time, the press of business slackens, and there is more time for leisure. Every public garden in the neighbourhood, invites with melodious tones, the passers-by to repose, and enjoy coffee, cigars, and music, the booths on the Ross-platz tempt the gaping lasses and urchins to enjoy the giddy pleasure of the carousals, which, to keep pace with the spirit of the times, ape the locomotive, and tempt their youthful customers with their shrill whistle. But evening approaches, the places of public amusement are crowded, the heat is tropical, and from the open windows we hear the sound of trumpets (if not of drums) from the noisy band. The wine and beer-houses are likewise thronged, and, from amidst the cloudy atmosphere, we hear the thin voice of some tired harpgirl, with whom, between the pauses, some dapper clerk, released from drudgery, carries on an awkward courtship. Loud and furious are the invitations from the possessors of the rival booths of pleasure, the wax-work, and the tall man and the little woman, the counterpart of Miss Biffin, the owners of menageries and automatons, and cosmoramas, and a vast list of etceteras outbawl each other, while

THE MARINER SAVED.

103 a gaping throng, we fear, defrauds them of their just hopes, and finds most entertainment by remaining outside passengers. Occasionally in the motley medley, rises the more aristocratical booth of Boscoe, the far-famed king of the conjurors, or the more ample dimensions of the Cirque Olympique, which occasionally rivals Astley's of old, or Batty, of modern celebrity, in its wonderful performances. Add to these the ballad singers, the blind fiddlers, and a host of nondescripts, and, gentle reader, you have a faint idea of the Leipzig fair. At midnight, on Saturday, the fair ceases; at ten o'clock you may still see some of the retail dealers, displaying their wares in their booths, by the light of a weak rushlight. That night there is little hope of sleep, rumbling carts roll without interruption through the streets; the rapidity with which this vast wooden world is removed is truly astonishing, on Sunday morning the town has resumed its usual appearance, and the stranger may again contemplate, without obstruction, the Town-house and Market-place of Leipzig.

THE MARINER SAVED.

We have never beheld a ship leave on a distant voyage, without a variety of conflicting emotions. With her, a little world quit their native shores, bent on works of profit, pleasure, or of love. The signal of departure has been given. How different the expression of the countenances of those who now take a last look of their acquaintances, their former comrades, their friends, perhaps for ever. The merchant has been reiterating his orders, the father has shaken by the hand his hopeful son, the weeping mother in one anxious last embrace has wound her daughter in her arms, and her tender help-mate can with difficulty recall her from the painful scene. The collected group now stand in silence on the shore; the captain gives one short but searching glance around; the sails are unfurled, the wind is favourable, the last rope is cast off, and the graceful vessel veers obedient to the swelling breeze. Without a scene, still and noiseless, the deep die is cast. At first, all eyes are turned towards the shore, and each among the friendly group point out to the other the features of dear friends. By degrees they become less and less discernible, until at last the waving of the distant handkerchief is but dimly seen. The first day on board is usually but a melancholy one, each is wrapped in his own thoughts, the recent parting has cast a depression on the spirits of all.