most extravagant notions.  The next post town was Saverne; and our route thither was in every respect the most delightful and gratifying of any, and even of all the routes, collectively, which we had yet experienced.  As you approach it, you cross over a part of the famous chain of mountains which divide OLD FRANCE from Germany, and which we thought we had seen from the high ground on the other side of Nancy.  The country so divided, was, and is yet, called ALSACE:  and the mountains, just mentioned, are called the Vosges.  They run almost due north and south:  and form a commanding feature of the landscape in every point of view.  But for Saverne.  It lies, with its fine old castle, at the foot of the pass of these mountains; but the descent to it—­is glorious beyond all anticipation!

It has been comparatively only of late years that this road, or pass, has been completed.  In former times, it was almost impassable.  As the descent is rapid and very considerable, the danger attending it is obviated by the high road having been cut into a cork-screw-shape;[202] which presents, at every spiral turn (if I may so speak) something new, beautiful, and interesting.  You continue, descending, gazing on all sides.  To the right, suspended almost in the air—­over a beetling, perpendicular, rocky cliff—­ feathered half way up with nut and beech—­stands, or rather nods, an old castle in ruins.  It seems to shake with every breeze that blows:  but there it stands—­and has stood—­for some four centuries:  once the terror of the vassal, and now ... the admiration of the traveller!  The castle was, to my eye, of all castles which I had seen, the most elevated in its situation, and the most difficult of access.  The clouds of heaven seemed to be resting upon its battlements.  But what do I see yonder?  “Is it the top of the spire of Strasbourg Cathedral?” “It is, Sir,” replied the postilion.  I pulled off my travelling cap, by way of doing homage; and as I looked at my watch, to know the precise time, found it was just ten o’clock.  It was worth making a minute of.  Yet, owing to the hills before—­or rather to those beyond, on the other side of the Rhine, which are very much loftier—­the first impression gives no idea of the extraordinary height of the spire.  We continued to descend, slowly and cautiously, with Saverne before us in the bottom.  To the left, close to the road side, stands an obelisk:  on which is fixed, hi gilt letters, this emphatic inscription: 

ALSATIA.

Every thing, on reaching the level road, bespoke a distinct national character.  It was clear that we had forsaken French costume, as well as the French language, among the common people:  so obvious is it, as has been remarked to me by a Strasbourgeois, that “mountains, and not rivers, are the natural boundaries of countries.”  The women wore large, flat, straw hats, with a small rose at the bottom of a shallow crown; while their throats were