After an hour’s labour, we gained an open space, when the eye has an opportunity of ranging over a sea of peaks and mountains to the South and East, all clothed in the dark green livery of the pine to their utmost summits. To the North and West the prospect was nearly as unlimited as from the Alte-Schloss, from Radstad and the Rhine up the valley of the Mourg to Guernsbach, which seemed like a white speck on the river at a prodigious depth below us. Down to this little town we cautiously slid, with drags on the wheels, winding in serpentine courses, often along the brinks of dangerous ravines, but every little vale or valley cultivated till the forest forbad the plough, the spade, and the scythe. The little town of Guernsbach, built on both sides of the Mourg, with a good bridge across, contains nearly two thousand inhabitants—almost all of whom live _by_ the produce of the mountains, and a good number of the poorer classes _in_ the woods themselves. Here the raftlets and rafts are seen descending to the Rhine, afterwards to aggregate into flotillas carrying hundreds of rowers, steerers, and navigators,—and conveying the Black Forest into the flats of Holland. But a little farther on, I shall take more notice of this immense traffic and source of wealth. The Castle of Eberstein and the church crown the heights over the town. Here Dr. Granville, instead of crossing the bridge, turned up along the banks of the Mourg, and had to go all the way to Stuttgardt, on his way to Wildbad. From Guernsbach we ascended another lofty mountain to the romantic village of Laffenau. The prospect of the valley of the Mourg, with Guernsbach on its banks, and a sea of pine-clad heights in every direction, is most beautiful. Near Laffenau we have the “TEUFELS MUHLE,” or Devil’s Mill, with its legendary tale—briefly as follows:—