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

The summer and autumn had been so wet,
That in winter the corn was growing yet;
"Twas a piteous sight to see all around,
The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last year's store;
And all the neighborhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay:

He bade them to his great barn repair,

And they should have food for the winter there.
Rejoiced at such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold

MOUSE TOWER.

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away,
And he cross'd the Rhine without delay,
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there.

He laid him down, and closed his eyes;
But soon a scream made him arise:
He started, and saw two eyes of flame

On his pillow, from whence the screaming

came.

He listen'd and look'd: it was only the cat;
But the bishop he grew more fearful for that,
For she sat screaming, mad with fear
At the army of rats that was drawing near.
For they have swam over the river so deep,
And they have climb'd the shores so steep,
And now by thousands up they crawl
To the holes and windows in the wall.

Down on his knees the bishop fell,
And faster and faster his beads did he tell,
As louder and louder drawing near,

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;
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb,
For they were sent to do judgment on him.

A soldier of the Legion,

Lay dying at Algiers;

There was lack of woman's nursing,
There was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood before him,
While his life-blood ebb'd away,
And bent with pitying glances
To hear what he might say.

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,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale
Beneath the setting sun;

And 'midst the dead and dying,
Were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gal-

Shall comfort her old age;
And I was still a truant bird,

That thought his home a cage:
For my father was a soldier,
And even as a child
My heart leap'd forth to hear
him tell

Of struggles fierce and wild;
And when he died and left us

To divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they
would,

But kept my father's sword;
And with boyish love I hung it
Where the bright light used to shine
On the cottage wall at Bingen,

At Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me,
And sob with drooping head
When the troops are marching home again,
With glad and gallant tread;

But look upon them proudly,
With a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier,
And not afraid to die.

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

You'd have known her by the merriment
That sparkled in her eye;
Too innocent for coquetry,

Too fond for idle scorning-
O! friend, I fear the lightest heart

Makes sometimes heaviest mourning!
Tell her the last night of my life-
For ere the morn be risen
My body will be out of pain,
My soul be out of prison-

I dream'd I stood with her,

And saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,
Fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along;
I heard or seem'd to hear
The German songs we used to sing,
In chorus sweet and clear,
And down the pleasant river,
And up the slanting hill
That echoing chorus sounded

Through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me,
As we pass'd with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore,
And well-remember'd walk;
And her little hand lay lightly,
Confidingly in mine-

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,
Loved Bingen on the Rhine."
His voice grew faint and hoarser,
His grasp was childish weak,
His eyes put on a dying look,

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