I do not much wonder that the “Old Man” should have become enamoured of Schlangenbad, considering the disposition which he evinced for solitude, contemplation, and reflection. The locality is well adapted for all these. Society is so concentrated in this little valetudinarium, and so quiet withal, that human nature may be studied with a kind of “microscopic eye,” and all its modifications, peculiarities, and eccentricities noted without distraction or bustle. On the mountain’s romantic brow, under the shade of the sombre pine, and in the stillness and serenity of the forest, the mind has ample time to meditate on, and inwardly digest the observations made in the little miniature world below. As one o’clock approached, the solitude of Schlangenbad began to exhibit some symptoms of change. From various points of the compass isolated individuals, bearing the marks of illness, were seen carefully picking out the softest—or, at all events, the _smoothest_ stones of the pavé, over which to wend their way, towards what an Irishman would call “three centres” of attraction. Soon afterwards, we heard three or four bells simultaneously sounding, when immediately the solitary videttes were succeeded by whole columns marching to their appointed rendezvous. Never did veteran Roman phalanx advance with more steady pace—more death-like silence—or more inflexible resolution, to the assault of barbarian foe, than does a German corps—men, women, and children—to the work of demolition at a mittag table-d’hôte.