On starting for Heming, the next post, we were much pleased by the sight of a rich, verdant valley, fertilized by a meandering rivulet.  The village of Richeval had particular attractions; and the sight of alternate woods and meadows seemed to mitigate the severity of the heat of the day.  At Heming we changed horses, opposite a large fountain where cattle were coming to drink.  The effect was very picturesque; but there was no time for the pencil of Mr. Lewis to be exercised.  In less than five minutes we were off for Sarrebourg.  Evening came on as we approached it.  Here I saw hops growing, for the first time; and here, for the first time, I heard the German language spoken—­and observed much of the German character in the countenances of the inhabitants.  The postilion was a German, and could not speak one word of French.  However, he knew the art of driving—­for we seemed to fly like the wind towards Hommarting—­which we reached in half an hour.  It was just two leagues from Sarrebourg.  We stopped to change horses close to what seemed to be a farm house; and as the animals were being “yoked to the car,” for another German Phaeton, I walked into a very large room, which appeared to be a kitchen.  Two long tables were covered with supper; at each of which sat—­as closely wedged as well could be—­a great number of work-people of both sexes, and of all ages.  Huge dogs were moving backwards and forwards, in the hope of receiving some charitable morsel;, and before the fire, on a littered hearth, lay stretched out two tremendous mastiffs.  I walked with fear and trembling.  The cooks were carrying the evening meal; and the whole place afforded such an interior—­as Jan Steen would have viewed with rapture, and Wilkie have been delighted to copy.  Meanwhile the postilion’s whip was sounded:  the fresh horses were neighing:  and I was told that every thing was ready.  I mounted with alacrity.  It was getting dark; and I requested the good people of the house to tell the postilion that I did not wish him to sleep upon the road.

The hint was sufficient.  This second German postilion seemed to have taken a leaf out of the book of his predecessor:  for we exchanged a sharp trot for a full swing canter—­terminating in a gallop; and found ourselves unexpectedly before the gates of Phalsbourg.  Did you ever, my dear friend, approach a fortified town by the doubtful light of a clouded moon, towards eleven of the clock?  A mysterious gloom envelopes every thing.  The drawbridge is up.  The solitary centinel gives the pass-word upon the ramparts; and every footstep, however slight, has its particular echo.  Judge then of the noise made by our heavy-hoofed coursers, as we neared the drawbridge.  “What want you there?” said a thundering voice, in the French language, from within.  “A night’s lodging,” replied I.  “We are English travellers, bound for Strasbourg.”  “You must wait till I speak with the sub-mayor.”