town, the Unterberg is the most conspicuous. Rough, craggy, and wooded, it seems to frown upon the city and vale below; and by its shaggy mass, and dark sullen appearance, forcibly attracts the attention. Popular tradition, which seldom fails to select appropriate scenery for its wayward tales, has converted the Unterberg into a place of confinement for certain perturbed spirits, or rather made it the haunt of a club of infernal sportsmen. Confined to the bowels of the mountain during the day, and perhaps doomed there to undergo certain unknown chastisements, these hapless spirits are said to fill the cavern with groans and shrieks, and yells so loud, as to pierce the surface of the earth, and not unfrequently to reach the ear of the lonely woodman. But at night the dungeon is opened, the imprisoned spirits are at liberty, and the woods, that overhang the steep brows of the mountain, echo with the sound of an infernal trumpet, the barking of hellish dogs, and shouts too deep and loud to proceed from mortal organs. Tradition does not say, that the sportsmen have ever condescended to shew themselves to any human being; but it is reported, that at midnight, flames of a blueish tint and various sizes have been seen traversing the forests of the Unterberg with the velocity of lightning; and these flames the people have turned into hounds and horses, huntsmen and beast, all of fire. Some conjecture, that the chief of these restless sportsmen is one of the former bishops, who, like many of his German brethren, in ages not very remote, was accustomed to pass in the chace the hours and days which he ought to have devoted to the duties of his station. Others pretend, that it was a Count, or, what was nearly the same thing in certain periods of German history, a robber, who had built a castle amid the fastnesses of the Unterberg, and used to employ his days in pursuing and arresting travellers, ravaging the fields and vallies below,

and compelling all the country round to pay him tribute. It would be difficult to decide the question, as the bishop and the Count seem both to have a fair claim to the manorial honours of the Unterberg: we shall therefore wave the discussion of this knotty point; and the more readily, as the invisible horn has now ceased to sound, the infernal pack no longer disturb the silence of the Unterberg, and the spirits of the chace have either fulfilled the days of their punishment, or are sent to sport in solitudes less liable to observation. The Unterberg, however, is not the only mountain in Germany supposed to be the haunt of infernal hunters.

The salt mines at Halleim, about four miles from Saltzburg, are deservedly celebrated. The entrance is near the summit of a mountain, and the ascent, though over a good road, long and tedious. Near the summit is a village with a handsome church. Seeing a crowd assembled round the door of a public house, we were informed, that they were celebrating a jubilee, on the fiftieth anniversary of the marriage of an old couple, and, at the same time, the wedding of a grandson. As soon as we were observed, we were immediately invited in, and treated with cake, wine, and beer. The dance was going on merrily, and some of our party joined in it, con spirito; a circumstance which seemed to give much satisfaction. The persons of the younger damsels were not uncomely, nor were their countenances without expression but their dress was such as would have disfigured far more perfect forms, and turned beauty itself into deformity. To enliven the dance, they now and then clapped their hands, and uttered a shriek very grating to ears unaccustomed to the tones of Alpine merriment. We departed, pleased with the novelty of the scene, and still more with the hospitality of the good people.

5

At length we reached the summit, and entered the mines by a long subterranean gallery, which terminated in the mouth of the first descent. We there accoutred ourselves in miners' dresses, and slid down five hundred feet, in a manner perfectly safe and commodious. It is managed thus. The shaft may be about four feet broad, and about five high, worked above into the form of an arch. The line may diverge about thirty feet in the hundred from the perpendicular. The space in the middle is hollowed and worked into steps. On each side of these steps at about a foot distance, runs a pole like the side of a ladder. On these poles a miner reclines with his feet extended, so that the poles pass under his knees and under his arms. A traveller places himself behind him in the same posture, but so close, as to rest the inside of his knees on the miner's shoulders. The others follow the example, and form a line, in such a manner, that the one above always rests gently on the shoulders of the one below. Another miner generally goes in the middle, and a third closes, the rear. The first miner regulates the motion, and if he finds it necessary to check or stop it entirely, he needs only to put his foot backward, and touch one of the steps behind. The miners carry torches made of the fir tree. When the line is formed, upon a signal given, the miner undermost lets the ropes loose, (for two ropes run parallel with the poles, and nearly touch them), and glides down with great rapidity. We suddenly found ourselves in an immense hall, lighted up with a prodigious number of candles. This hall was very long and broad, but extremely low, and as the cieling was flat, unsupported either by pillars or props, and apparently of very crumbling materials, it was natural to feel some apprehension of its giving way. The miners, however, tranquillized us, by assuring us that such accidents never happened, however probable they

might appear. The sides were adorned here and there with basso relievos of different bishops, rudely worked in the earth or rock. The lights, as I said above, were numerous; but instead of being reflected from a great variety of spars and shining minerals, which a traveller might naturally expect to find in a salt mine, the blaze falls sullen and dead from the walls, and serves only to shew the thickness of the surrounding gloom. From this hall we passed into a gallery, and thence descended, in the same manner as before, into a second, a third, and a fourth, of nearly the same form and dimensions. These halls are used for the following purpose: the salt is worked from the sides and cieling; then water is let in, and kept confined for some time, after which it is drained away and the salt remains deposited on the floor.

We quitted the mine with as much facility as we entered. We were placed astride a long bench; one miner moved before to guide, two others were placed behind to push this bench down a gently inclined plane. After some minutes of rapid motion, we perceived the appearance of a star, which gradually increased upon us, till we were launched once more into full day. The exit is as picturesque as the entrance is gloomy. It opens under a cliff, clad with brambles growing out of its crevices, and overhung with pines and firs, clinging to the sides, and bending from the brows of the precipice. On one side, a torrent bursting from the cragg, tumbles from steep to steep, till it engulphs itself in a deep shaded dell; and on the other, far below, stretches the town of Halleim, with its white houses and spire. On our exit, the miners presented each of us with a little box, containing specimens of salt. They were very beautiful in colour and shape, but are not easily preserved, as they crumble into dust

by the motion of the carriage, and are dissolved by the least humidity. On the whole, our visit to the mines of Halleim was a very pleasant, and not unimproving excursion.

Our stay at Saltzburg was much enlivened by the hospitality of Prince J. Schwartzenburgh, a canon of the cathedral, to whom the Princess of Schwartzenburgh had obligingly recommended us. This young nobleman entertained us with great splendour, pointed out to us the most interesting objects, introduced us to the best company at his dinners, concerts, and suppers, and rendered the place so agreeable, that we fixed the day of our departure with no small reluctance. We must ever retain a grateful recollection of his attention and kindness.

February the 10th. About nine in the morning we set off from Saltzburg. A thick fog hung over the surrounding scenery. We could only perceive that the road ran over a plain, naked in general, but occasionally ornamented with villages, whose graceful spires at intervals attracted our attention. After having crossed the plain, we reached the skirts of a vast mountain, presenting at first, a black indistinct mass, which cast a dark shade on the fog that enveloped it, and then just displayed its fir-clad summit so far above the mist, that it appeared to hang in the air, and to belong to some other region.

Reichenhall is a well-built little town, or rather village, remarkable for its salt works, and in a prosperous condition. We were now at the very foot of the Alps, and entered their defiles at a place called Unkin, about one mile from Reichenhall. The road first sweeps along the base of a noble eminence covered with firs; a church spire rises on the side of a hill ; and on the summit of the same hill stands a castle in ruins. Proceeding onwards we come to the foot of the precipice, which