Having had a good deal—perhaps too much—to do with books, I had some curiosity to see this great mart of BUCKHANDLUNGS—at once the cradle and the grave of literature! The first thing that strikes the stranger is the eternal “BUCKHANDLUNG” over every second door in the city. The next, is the paucity of carriages—a drowsky or a private vehicle being rarely visible. The third object is perpetually reminding us, not without sighs and groans, of the smooth trottoirs over which we were wont to glide in modern Babylon. Of all the towns through which I have limped and hobbled in my journey of life, Leipzig bears the palm for maiming and laming the unfortunate visitor, by means of its sharp stones and uneven pavée. I wonder that the seven-leagued and iron-shod boots of the students, together with the innumerable tomes of _heavy literature_ that are biennially carted through the streets of Leipzig, have not ground off the angles from the said stones. Yet they have not. As I was unwilling to do the penance of Peter Pindar’s pilgrim, I directed my steps to the observatory, and mounted its highest balcony, when Leipzig and its contiguous battle-field lay stretched beneath me. The astronomer kindly pointed out the topography of the city and its vicinity, with minute details of the great combat which he himself had witnessed. Leipzig is a curious compound of the modern and the antique—one side being new and the other old. But in every street, bustle and business went on, while on every countenance thought and reflection were so visibly painted that one would suppose the whole of the books that came to the two fairs were studied by the inhabitants. The demolition of the fortifications has secured the Leipzigers two things—the presence of healthful walks, and the absence of bloody sieges—blessings and curses which the Parisians seem neither to desire nor dread. Cities should never be converted into fortresses. The extent of the works and the number of the people are causes of weakness and not strength. A fortress should only contain soldiers, who can lay in provisions against long investment, and on whom, not on citizens, the horrors of war should fall. I have said that this city is the cradle of literature. No biblio-parturient author in Germany would think of being confined, and delivered of his bantling of the brain, without the aid of a Leipzig accoucheur. Whether his cerebro-gestation may have lasted nine months, or, as Horace directs—as many years— “Nonum prematur in annum,” Mr. Brockhaus, or some of his obstetrical brethren in Leipzig, must usher the “NOUVEAU NÉ” into light.