from whence he could overlook the city it was forbidden him to tread, or to enjoy pure air, which certainly he could not do in the densely close street beneath. Many of the brackets supporting a solitary balcony were of beautiful design, though the greater number were defaced and crumbling. We also passed several of the fan-shaped windows, so characteristic of the early German style, and here and there a quaint and fantastic _gurgoyle_; from the mouth of one depended a bunch of soiled but many colored ribbons. What a vision it seems to us now--that wonderful Jews' quarter of the bright and busy city of Frankfort!--a vision of some far-off Oriental Pompeii, repeopled in a dream! Never did we look upon faces so keen and withered, beards so black, or eyes so bright; once we saw a curly-headed child, half naked in its swarthy beauty, throned, like a baby-king, upon a pile of yellow cushions; and once again, as we drove slowly on, a tall young girl turned up a face of scornful beauty, as if she thought we pale-faced Christians had no business there,--and those two young creatures were all we clearly observed of youthful beauty within the "Quarter." The avenues in the outskirts of German towns contribute greatly to their interest,--they protect from both sun and wind. We drove leisurely along that which leads to the Cemetery of Frankfort, and turned up a narrower road, that we might enter the walled-off portion of ground appropriated as the Jews' burying-ground. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the view from the gate of entrance. The city is spread out in the valley like a panorama; the brightest sunshine illumined the scene; a girl was seated beneath the branches of a spreading tree in the distance; she was a garland-weaver, and there she spent her days weaving garlands, which the living bought from her to place on the graves of their departed friends. The gates were open. Mrs. Aguilar had told us that HER grave was near the wall of the Protestant burying-ground--and there we found it. The head stone which marks the spot, bears upon it a butterfly and five stars, and beneath is the inscription: "Give her of the fruits of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates."--PROV. Chap. xxxi., 31. Our pilgrimage was accomplished. It was, though in a foreign city, a pilgrimage to an English Shrine--for it was to the grave of an English woman--pure and good. On the 16th of September, 1847, at the early age of thirty-one, Grace Aguilar was laid in that cemetery, far from the England she loved so well--the bowl was broken, the silver cord was loosed!