four hours’ walk to Halberstadt, by a most tiresome road over long ranges of hills, all ploughed and planted, and extending as far as the eye could reach, without a single fence or hedge.  It is pleasant to look over scenes where nature is so free and unshackled; but the people, alas! wear the fetters.  The setting sun, which lighted up the old Brocken and his snowy top, showed me also Halberstadt, the end of my Hartz journey; but its deceitful towers fled as I approached, and I was half dead with fatigue on arriving there.

The ghostly, dark and echoing castle of an inn (the Black Eagle) where I stopped, was enough to inspire a lonely traveller, like myself, with unpleasant fancies.  It looked heavy and massive enough to have been a stout baron’s stronghold in some former century; the taciturn landlord and his wife, who, with a solemn servant girl, were the only tenants, had grown into perfect keeping with its gloomy character.  When I groped my way under the heavy, arched portal into the guests’ room—­a large, lofty, cheerless hall—­all was dark, and I could barely perceive, by the little light which came through two deep-set windows, the inmates of the house, sitting on opposite sides of the room.  After some delay, the hostess brought a light.  I entreated her to bring me something instantly for supper, and in half an hour she placed a mixture on the table, the like of which I never wish to taste again.  She called it beer-soup!  I found, on examination, it was beer, boiled with meat, and seasoned strongly with pepper and salt!  My hunger disappeared, and pleading fatigue as an excuse for want of appetite, I left the table.  When I was ready to retire, the landlady, who had been sitting silently in a dark corner, called the solemn servant girl, who took up a dim lamp, and bade me follow her to the “sleeping chamber.”  Taking up my knapsack and staff, I stumbled down the steps into the arched gateway; before me was a long, damp, deserted court-yard, across which the girl took her way.  I followed her with some astonishment, imagining where the sleeping chamber could be, when she stopped at a small, one-story building, standing alone in the yard.  Opening the door with a rusty key, she led me into a bare room, a few feet square, opening into another, equally bare, with the exception of a rough bed.  “Certainly,” said I, “I am not to sleep here!” “Yes,” she answered, “this is the sleeping chamber,” at the same time setting down the light and disappearing.  I examined the place—­it smelt mouldy, and the walls were cold and damp; there had been a window at the head of the bed, but it was walled up, and that at the foot was also closed to within a few inches of the top.  The bed was course and dirty; and on turning down the ragged covers, I saw with horror, a dark brown stain near the pillow, like that of blood!  For a moment I hesitated whether to steal out of the inn, and seek another lodging, late as it was; at