g the crafty thrift of Bryce Snailsfoot with the stern religious heroism of Cameron; the blue-eyed, fairhaired German from the towered hills which overlook the Rhine,—slow, heavy, and unpromising in his exterior, yet of the same mould and mettle of the men who rallied for fatherland at the Tyrtean call of Korner and beat back the chivalry of France from the banks of the Katzback,—the countrymen of Richter, and Goethe, and our own Follen.
Here, too, are pedlers from Hamburg, and Bavaria, and Poland, with their sharp Jewish faces, and black, keen eyes.
At this moment, beneath my window are two sturdy, sunbrowned Swiss maidens grinding music for a livelihood, rehearsing in a strange Yankee land the simple songs of their old mountain home, reminding me, by their foreign garb and language, of
Lauterbrunnen's peasant girl. Poor wanderers!
I cannot say that I love their music; but now, as the notes die away, and, to use the words of Dr. Holmes, silence comes like a poultice to heal th