The approach to the city was between an avenue of floating mills, of nearly half a mile in length, producing an extraordinary effect to an unaccustomed eye; and, as the day was falling before we reached it, the myriad lights of the streets were reflected like lines of stars in the river-ripple. The situation of Pesth is beautiful; and the town itself well-built, cleanly, and cheerful. The Opera House is a handsome pile, and the _artistes_ are far from contemptible; the Hotels are spacious and comfortable; the Palace of the Palatinate is finely seated on an eminence, and in extremely good taste; and there is a _business look_ about the inhabitants as they hurry to and fro, which gives an air of animation to the scene essentially European. A bridge of boats, four hundred yards in length, links the more modern city of Pesth to the ancient Hungarian capital of Buda on the opposite shore, and now called Offen. The hill of Blocksburg on this bank of the Danube is crowned by an observatory; and the gently undulating heights which hem in the town, on the south and east sides, are covered with vineyards, and celebrated for the superior quality of their produce. We left Pesth in the afternoon, two hours later than we had intended, owing to the difficulties started with regard to our luggage, but these were ultimately overcome by the potent argument with which English travellers generally contrive to carry a point. When we issued from the gate of the _Jägerhorn_ in our heavy and lumbering carriage, we were infinitely amused by the appearance of the postillion; a youth of about eighteen, who wore a sort of hussar jacket, with a small bugle hung about his neck; jack boots, and a formidable cocked-hat and feather. We travelled, however, at a tolerable pace; and, as we bade adieu to the Hungarian Capital, and saw the laughing vineyards spreading away into the distance, we congratulated ourselves on our emancipation from the damps and delays of the river-voyage; even purchased as it was by the fatigue of six-and-thirty hours of German posting. A few words may now close the Volume. I had believed that I should rejoice when my task was ended; but it is not so. I cannot part from the reader who has lingered with me in strange lands without a feeling of regret; and, as I look back upon the pages that I have written, and the scenes that I have sketched; a heaviness of heart comes over me, as though I were looking upon the face of a dead friend. As I traced the one and the other, the images of the past rose up before me; and, even although the vividity of each was lost, enough yet remained to me; for there was still a tie, though every hour weakened it. May I be permitted to pursue the melancholy fancy that I have conjured up? I have been as one who watched a death-couch; clinging to the fast-failing remnant of that which once was bright, and was soon to pass away.