t seen. The house we dwell in, on the Markt Platz, is more than two
hundred years old; directly opposite is a great castellated building,
gloomy with the weight of six centuries, and a few steps to the left
brings me to the square of the Roemerberg, where the Emperors were
crowned, in a corner of which is a curiously ornamented house, formerly
the residence of Luther. There are legends innumerable connected with
all these buildings, and even yet discoveries are frequently made in old
houses, of secret chambers and staircases. When you add to all this, the
German love of ghost stories, and, indeed, their general belief in
spirits, the lover of romance could not desire a more agreeable
residence.

I often look out on the singular scene below my window. On both sides of
the street, leaving barely room to enter the houses, sit the market
women, with their baskets of vegetables and fruit. The middle of the
street is filled with women buying, and every cart or carriage that
comes along, has to force its way through the crowd, sometimes rolling
against and overturning the baskets on the side, when for a few minutes
there is a Babel of unintelligible sounds. The country women in their
jackets and short gowns go backwards and forwards with great loads on
their heads, sometimes nearly as high as themselves. It is a most
singular scene, and so varied that one never tires of looking upon it.
These women sit here from sunrise till sunset, day after day, for years.
They have little furnaces for cooking and for warmth in winter, and when
it rains they sit in large wooden boxes. One or two policemen are
generally on the ground in the morning to prevent disputing about their
places, which often gives rise to interesting scenes. Perhaps this kind
of life in the open air is conducive to longevity; for certainly there
is no country on earth that has as many old women. Many of them look
like walking machines made of leather; and to judge from what I see in
the streets here, I should think they work till they die.

On the 21st of October a most interesting fete took place. The
magnificent monument of Goethe, modelled by the sculptor Schwanthaler,
at Munich, and cast in bronze, was unveiled. It arrived a few days
before, and was received with much ceremony and erected in the destined
spot, an open square in the western part of the city, planted with
acacia trees. I went there at ten o'clock, and found the square already
full of people. Seats