heterogeneous description. We recognised a rude
transcript of Millais's "Release," and "The
Huguenot." "A View of London," with St.
Paul's looking very big and the Thames very blue,
and "An Evening in Schotland," with a violent
tropical sunset. Passing to the more national
elements of high art, we noticed a few harmless
caricatures expressive of the German sense of
humour. Thero was a perfect absence of all
coarseness or indelicacy, though the patrons were
clearly of the humblest classes. The approbation
of the spectators was, however, mostly attracted
by the pictures of saints, miracles, and holy
families. The horrors of the day of judgment, of
purgatory, and even of the deeper abyss of Hades,
were depicted with an unsparing amount of brim
stone and diabolism. In contrast to all this, there
were representations of all the saints in the
calendar, beaming with supercilious beneficence
on mundane affairs. Al any of these holy families
and saints were familiar to us: we had seen them
hung as votive offerings in the pilgrimage and
wayside chapels in the neighbourhood of Salzburg
and Innsbruck. But in strange juxtaposition
with all this ultra-Romanism appeared portraits of
Luther, Melancthon, and Jerome of Prague. The
mélange was queer enough. Pio Nono formed a
pendant to Garibaldi. The men of the Reformation seemed attracted by the Empress of the
French, while they turned their backs upon Moses
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and the Prophets. Ignatius Loyola and Calvin were clearly destined to hang as a pair. In short, for three or four kreutzers you might take your choice of an episode in the Reformation or a Popish miracle. Passing by the pictures, which really amused us infinitely, we stopped before a stall which displayed plaster of Paris casts of some of the finest works of modern sculpture. The titular deities of Germany, Goethe and Schiller, were repeated in every size, and seemed to find pur chasers amongst the working men.
Arrived at the Dult Platz wo found it filled with booths, where were presented wares of inconceivable variety. The poet's axiom that "man wants but little here below," would not be verified at Heidelberg fair. There was hosiery for the million—vast woollen comforters, in which a man might lose his nose (no great misfortune in Germany), nether garments and overcoats that a Russian bear might envy, cutlery as harmless as the toys from Nuremberg, and spectacles to suit all sights. There was wicker-work, and baskets pretty enough, by the side of rude, coarse pottery worthy of the year One. We looked admiringly upon the dazzling whiteness of the tubs, bowls, and wooden implements made in the romantic depths of the Black Forest. Division of labour and railways will soon extinguish fairs altogether—even now they talk of their past glories. Progress is an excellent thing, but we are not sorry to have lived on the borders of the old
time.