“Our pleasant holiday is coming to an end! Like Sep, I seem to revive when out of my own country. Yet I would not change countries, if I could. Exchange climates? yes; but country? no, no, a hundred times no! I like to be able to kill myself, if I choose, by going across a road at my own will, instead of being taken care of by watchful police and soldiers at every turn. It is dreadful for a country to be over-governed, and that is the case with all the German towns I have seen, so far. We got here last night late; the Crown Prince and Princess were in our carriage (Frank and I started with Sara Bernhardt on her wedding-night!). At every point there are soldiers. The whole place bristles with the detestable military spirit; horrible war-pictures are on the walls of the galleries, and military trophies are everywhere.... I fear Prussia will have to pay—like France—largely for her ‘glory.’” But a volume might be made from her letters in her frequent journeys at home and abroad. She knew her native land well, but wrote less about it. A few extracts may be given, especially of a visit to Charlotte Brontë’s home, during our stay at Ben Rhydding. Miss Buss had a very keen love of colour, and to her the total absence of everything but dull drab in Haworth was specially depressing. Houses, stone walls instead of hedges, flat tombstones so thick that no blade of grass could grow between them, all of this same lifeless drab, give an effect of singular desolation. The Parsonage, with its unbroken walls, in which were set flat windows, and with its roof of slate, closely adjoins the dreary churchyard. The only outlet for those passionate young lives must have been in the blue of the sky and in the changing tints of the expanse of moorland stretching into the far distance. But it is of the church that Miss Buss has most to say in her notes of the day— “August 18, 1879. “A party of seven started at eleven, in a waggonette, for Haworth, a drive of eighteen miles through several villages and the town of Keighley. Haworth (pronounced _Horth_) consists of one long, straggling street, frightfully steep, so that one can neither drive up nor down, but must walk.