THE NATIONAL MAGAZINE. AUGUST, 1852. SCENES ON THE RHINE. N the history of the Rhine, says some one, "we have a history of Europe." But we have more; the banks of no river in the world are more noted for beautiful landscapes, antique ruins, and local scenes of poetry and romance. Scarcely any section, however small, of this celebrated stream is destitute of such delightful associations. Our plates represent a short reach of the river; but it would take pages to describe all the beauties and historical and legendary memories which are comprised within this brief space. Passing the charming little village of Lorchausen, which nestles at the entrance of a gorge, and is protected in the rear by mountain heights, and watched over by a solitary tower, the voyageur soon beholds the round tower and decaying walls of Furstenburgh which overlook Rheindiebach. This stronghold was dismantled by the French in 1689, and has ever since been gradually yielding to the ravages of time, until it now stands hoary in its ruins. The traveler then passes the romantic VOL. I, No. 2.-H and antique town of Lorch, which quietly reposes in the opening of the valley of the Wisperthal. Near by rises the steep and lofty mountain of Kedrich. The guidebook will remind him that "its steepness was no proof against the steps of the Evil One, who rode up its side on horseback one night, and left behind him some marks still pointed out as the Devil's Ladder. The same feat was afterward performed by a young knight, Sir Hilchen von Lorch, who, with the help of a few kind fairy friends, scaled the height to rescue his ladye-love, held in duresse upon the summit by some spiteful gnomes.' At Lorch begins the Rheingau, and castles and ruins become increasingly numerous. First appears Fursteneck; then follow, in rapid succession, Heimburgh, Sonneck, Falkenburgh, and the LORCHAUSEN. massive walls and towers of Rheinstein. The latter stands grandly out on the side of the mountain; it has been quite thoroughly restored, and is provided, in good taste, with the antique furniture which was in use in the Middle Ages. The trav RHEINDIEBACH. RHEINSTEIN. eler is welcomed at its gates by the Schlossvoght, and very courteously allowed to inspect the venerable edifice and its curious contents. The view of both transports him, in imagination, to those old days when the pomp and romance of chivalry prevailed all along this glorious river. Next appears the village of Assmanshausen," a birthplace of Rhine wine." It stands, as our plate shows, at the base of grand hills which swell away with magnificent amplitude; the curvatures of the stream here give a peculiar beauty and solitude to the scenery. Not far beyond Assmanshausen is seen Ehrenfels, an antique castle of the Archbishops of Mayencefor in the chivalric ages prelates were militant in more than one sense, and had their strongholds and knightly followers as well as their trains of chanting priests. The marvelous mixture of military, ecclesiastic, and civic traits which made up the life of the Feudal Ages is in fact more fully illustrated along the Rhine than anywhere else. Bishops and archbishops were among the most redoubtable warriors and desperate oppressors of those extraordinary times; and their castles present odd combinations of civic, chivalric, and religious symbols. Mouse Tower, on an islet strip in the midst of the stream, is the locale of some notable old legends. Southey has versified the famous one of Bishop Hatto and the rats. We give it not only for the amusement of our readers, but as a narrative of the legend, and a good specimen of the old ballad style: The summer and autumn had been so wet, Every day the starving poor At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day He bade them to his great barn repair, And they should have food for the winter there. MOUSE TOWER. Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away, He laid him down, and closed his eyes; On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. He listen'd and look'd: it was only the cat; Down on his knees the bishop fell, The saw of their teeth without he could hear. And in at the windows, and in at the door, And through the walls by thousands they pour, And down through the ceiling, and up through the floor, From the right and the left, from behind and before, From within and without, from above and below; And all at once to the bishop they go. They have whetted their teeth against the stones, And now they pick the bishop's bones; church of St. Rock, the resort of thousands of pilgrims on the day of the saint. Goethe visited it once on that day, and has left a description of the scene. He gave to the chapel, in memory of his visit, an altarpiece which still adorns it. The name of this lovely village has been rendered familiar to English and American readers by Mrs. Norton's poetic bal lad of "Bingen on the Rhine." A soldier of the Legion, Lay dying at Algiers; There was lack of woman's nursing, The dying soldier falter'd As he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I never more shall see My own, my native land; Take a message and a token To some distant friends of mine; For I was born at Bingen, Fair Bingen, on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, When they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, In the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, And when the day was done, And 'midst the dead and dying, Shall comfort her old age; That thought his home a cage: Of struggles fierce and wild; To divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they But kept my father's sword; At Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, But look upon them proudly, And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, To listen to him kindly, Without regret or shame, And hang the old sword in its place, (My father's sword and mine,) For the honor of old Bingen, Dear Bingen on the Rhine. "There's another, not a sisterIn the happy days gone by BINGEN. You'd have known her by the merriment Too fond for idle scorning- Makes sometimes heaviest mourning! I dream'd I stood with her, And saw the yellow sunlight shine "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; Through the evening calm and still; But we'll meet no more at Bingen, He sigh'd and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, But the spark of life had fledThe soldier of the Legion In a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, And calmly she look'd down On the red sand of the battle field, With bloody corses strewnYea, calmly on that dreadful scene, Her pale light seem'd to shine As it shone on distant Bingen, Fair Bingen on the Rhine! we But we linger too long among these charming scenes and associations; close the view here, to return to it again, however, amidst even lovelier landscapes. LIKE flakes of snow that fall unperceived upon the earth, the seemingly unimportant events of life succeed one another. As the snow gathers together, so are our habits formed. No single flake that is added to the pile produces a sensible change; no single action creates, however it may exhibit, a man's character; but as the tempest hurls the avalanche down the mountain, and overwhelms the inhabitant and his habitation, so passion, acting upon the elements of mischief, which pernicious habits have brought together by imperceptible accumulation, may overthrow the edifice of truth and virtue |