ninety-two thousand men. It must have been a terrific scene. Four days
raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly
conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. The
small rivers which flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the
vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead.

It is difficult to conceive of such slaughter while looking at the quiet
and tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages,
when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event
which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is to
be hoped that the world will never see such another.

There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon
with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by
forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left
standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage where every
afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee and enjoy a
few hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets. One can walk for
miles along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows or the
banks of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a
short distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house,
hangs the sign, "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic "literati" have
built a stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here
dwelt Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Everywhere through
Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he
lived they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit
who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime
poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits.

I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over