“Which shall not be for some time to come,” said I to myself, as, slipping noiselessly from the room, I regained my “caleche,” and in ten minutes more was proceeding on my journey.  So much for correct information, thought I. One thing, however, is certain—­to the chance interchange of passports I owe my safety, with the additional satisfaction that my little German acquaintance is reaping a pleasant retribution for all his worry and annoyance of me in the coupe.

Only he who has toiled over the weary miles of a long journey —­exclusively occupied with one thought—­one overpowering feeling—­can adequately commiserate my impatient anxiety as the days rolled slowly over on the long tiresome road that leads from the Rhine to the south of Germany.

The morning was breaking on the fourth day of my journey as the tall spires of Munich rose to my view, amid the dull and arid desert of sand that city is placed in.  At last! was my exclamation as the postilion tapped at the window with his whip, and then pointed towards the city.  At last!  Oh! what would be the extacy of my feelings now could I exchange the torturing anxieties of suspense for the glorious certainty my heart throbs for; now my journey is nearing its end to see me claim as my own what I now barely aspire to in the sanguine hope of a heart that will not despair.  But cheer up, Harry.  It is a noble stake you play for; and it is ever the bold gambler that wins.  Scarcely was this reflection made half aloud, when a sudden shock threw me from my seat.  I fell towards the door, which, bursting open, launched me out upon the road, at the same moment that the broken axletree of the caleche had upset it on the opposite side, carrying one horse along with it, and leaving the other with the postillion on his back, kicking and plunging with all his might.  After assisting the frightened fellow to dismount, and having cut the traces of the restive animal, I then perceived that in the melee I had not escaped scatheless.  I could barely stand; and, on passing my hand upon my instep, perceived I had sprained my ancle in the fall.  The day was only breaking, no one was in sight, so that after a few minutes’ consideration, the best thing to do, appeared to get the other horse upon his legs, and despatching the postillion to Munich, then about three leagues distant, for a carriage, wait patiently on the road-side for his return.  No sooner was the resolve made than carried into execution; and in less than a quarter of an hour from the moment of the accident, I was seated upon the bank, watching the retiring figure of the postillion, as he disappeared down a hill, on his way to Munich.  When the momentary burst of impatience was over, I could not help congratulating myself, that I was so far fortunate in reaching the end of my journey ere the mischance befell me.  Had it occurred at Stuttgard I really think that it would have half driven me distracted.