flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the
vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead. It is
difficult to conceive of such slaughter, while looking at the quiet and
tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages,
when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event
which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is
to be hoped that the world will never see such another.

There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon
with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by
forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left
standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage, where every
afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee enjoy a few
hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets, One can walk for miles
along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows, or the banks
of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a short
distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house, hangs
the sign: "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic literati have built a
stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here dwelt
Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Every where through
Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he
lived, they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit
who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime
poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits.

I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over
the plain to the city and passed in at the gate by which the Cossacks
entered, pursuing the flying French. Crossing the lower part, we came to
the little river Elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. The
stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the French, to cut off
pursuit. Napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till
the Poles had all passed over, as the river, though narrow, is quite
deep, and the banks are steep. Nevertheless, his officers did not wait,
and the Poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to
plunge into the stream to join the French army, which had begun the
retreat towards Frankfort. Poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way
through a garden near and escaped on horseback into the water. He became
entangled among the fug