There was nothing further that demanded a distinct registry; and so, making my bow, and shaking hands with the worthy Librarian very heartily, I quitted this congenial spot;—­not however before I had been introduced to a Professor of botany (whose name has now escaped me) who was busily engaged in making extracts in the reading room, with a short pipe by the side of him, and a small red tasselled cap upon his head.  He had an expressive countenance; understood our language so as to read Shakespeare with facility, and even with rapture:  and to a question of mine, whether he was not much gratified with Schlegel’s critical remarks upon that dramatist, he replied, that “he did not admire them so much, as, from the Edinburgh Review, the English appeared to do.”  To another question—­“which of Shakspeare’s plays pleased him most?” he replied, unhesitatingly, “Romeo and Juliet.”  I own, I should have thought that the mystical, or philosophy-loving, brain of a German would have preferred Hamlet.

On leaving the library, I surveyed the town with tolerably minute attention.  After Munich, it appeared sufficiently small.  Its population indeed scarcely exceeds 8000.  The day turned out very beautiful, and my first and principal attention was directed to St. Martin’s Church; of which the tower (as I think I before told you) is considered to be full 420 feet in height, and the loftiest in Bavaria.  But its height is its principal boast.  Both in detail, and as a whole, the architecture is miserably capricious and tasteless.  It is built of red brick.  Many of the monuments in the church-yard, but more particularly some mural ones, struck me as highly characteristic of the country.  Among these rude specimens of sculpture, the representation of Our Saviour’s Agony in the Garden—­the favourite subject in Bavaria—­was singularly curious to a fresh eye.  It may be between two and three hundred years old; but has suffered no injury.  They have, in the principal street, covered walks, for foot-passengers, in a piazza-fashion, a little resembling those at Chester:  but neither so old nor so picturesque.  The intermixture of rural objects, such as trees and grass plats—­in the high street of Landshut—­renders a stroll in the town exceedingly agreeable to the lover of picturesque scenery.  The booths and stalls were all getting ready for the fair—­which I learnt was to last nearly a fortnight:  and which I was too thankful to have escaped.

We left Landshut on a fine sun-shining afternoon, purposing to sleep at the second stage—­Neuemarkt—­(Angl.  “Newmarket”) in the route to Salzburg. Neuemarkt is little better than a small village, but we fared well in every respect at the principal, if not the only, inn in the place.  Our beds were even luxurious.  Neuemarkt will be quickly forgotten:  but the following stage—­or Altoeting—­will not be so easily banished from our recollection.  We reached it to a late breakfast—­after