ravels magnanimous Belleisle in twenty vehicles, a
man loaded with weighty matters, in these deep Winter months; suffering
dreadfully from rheumatic neuralgic ailments, a Doctor one of his
needfulest equipments; and has the hardest problem yet ahead of him.

"Prince Wilhelm's consultations are happily lost altogether; buried from
sight forever, to the last hint,--all except as to what road to Berlin
would be the best from Cassel. By Leipzig, through low-lying country, is
the great Highway, advisable in winter; but it runs a hundred and thirty
miles to right, before ever starting northward; such a roundabout. Not
to say that the Saxons are allies of Austria,--if there be anything in
that. Enemies, they, to the Most Christian King: though surely, again,
we are on Kaiser's business, nay we are titular 'Prince of the Reich,'
for that matter, such the Kaiser's grace to us? Well; it is better
perhaps to AVOID the Saxon Territory. And, of course, the Hanoverian
much more; through which lies the other Great Road! 'Go by the Harz,'
advises Landgraf Wilhelm: 'a rugged Hill Country; but it is your
hypotenuse towards Berlin; passes at once, or nearly so, from Cassel
Territory into Prussian: a rugged road, but a shorter and safer.' That
is the road Belleisle resolves upon. Twenty carriages; his Brother the
Chevalier and himself occupy one; and always the courier rides before,
ordering forty post-horses to be ready harnessed.

"SUNDAY, 20th DECEMBER, 1744. In this way they have climbed the eastern
shin of the Harz Range, where the Harz is capable of wheel-carriages;
and hope now to descend, this night, to Halberstadt; and thence rapidly
by level roads to Berlin. It is sinking towards dark; the courier is
forward to Elbingerode, ordering forty horses to be out. Roughish
uphill road; winter in the sky and earth, winter vapors and tumbling
wind-gusts: westward, in torn storm-cloak, the Bracken, with its
witch-dances; highland Goslar, and ghost of Henry the Fowler, on the
other side of it. A multifarious wizard Country, much overhung by goblin
reminiscences, witch-dances, sorcerers'-sabbaths and the like,--if a
rheumatic gentleman cared to look on it, in the cold twilight. Brrh!
Waste chasmy uplands, snow-choked torrents; wild people, gloomy firs!
Here at last, by one's watch 5 P.M., is Elbingerode, uncomfortable
little Town; and it is to be hoped the forty post-horses are ready.

"Behold, while the forty post-horses are getting ready,