revolution under Louis XIV., and other similar decapitations which no
one could behold without thanking God that he lay quietly in bed
drinking excellent coffee, and with his head comfortably adjusted upon
neck and shoulders.

After I had drunk my coffee, dressed myself, read the inscriptions upon
the window-panes, and settled my bill at the inn, I left Osterode.

This town contains a certain quantity of houses and a given number of
inhabitants, among whom are divers and sundry souls, as may be
ascertained in detail from Gottschalk's "Pocket Guide-Book for Harz
Travelers." Ere I struck into the highway, I ascended the ruins of the
very ancient Osteroder Burg. They consisted merely of the half of a
great, thick-walled tower, which appeared to be fairly honeycombed by
time. The road to Clausthal led me again uphill, and from one of the
first eminences I looked back once more into the dale where Osterode
with its red roofs peeps out from among the green fir-woods, like a
moss-rose from amid its leaves. The sun cast a pleasant, tender light
over the whole scene. From this spot the imposing rear of the remaining
portion of the tower may be seen to advantage.

There are many other ruined castles in this vicinity. That of
Hardenberg, near Nörten, is the most beautiful. Even when one has, as he
should, his heart on the left--that is, the liberal side--he cannot
banish all melancholy feeling on beholding the rocky nests of those
privileged birds of prey, who left to their effete descendants only
their fierce appetites. So it happened to me this morning. My heart
thawed gradually as I departed from Göttingen; I again became romantic,
and as I went on I made up this poem: