of hunger;' his voice trembled. My wife, my little children, all are dead; but,' here his voice rang out clear and sonorous again, like the sound of a trumpet, 'they each died free as they lived. Free have I lived, free will I die, worthy of the name which I have borne.' The Ritter ceased, and spurring his charger on, pushed him towards the verge of the cliff; the horse reared affrighted back, but the effort was ineffectual to save him, the weight of the cavalier forced him onward, and with a headlong plunge, knight and steed rolled from rock to rock into the foaming waves below. The waters closed round their bodies, and the assailants, amazed at such an act of desperation, would not even enter the walls of the schloss. The siege was broken up, for each man felt as if the avenging shade of the Ritter haunted that dark valley, and so there's the legend as I found it, and -ah, that's a better fish; but now I think I'll try lower down. I wish the peasants would not spread their seines across the river, frightening the fish." The Ahrthallers derive their chief support from the produce of their vines; the soil of their hills consists chiefly of particles of slate and stone, which absorb the heat during the day, and emit it at night, thus preserving an equable temperature. I believe, however, that the grapes of such a soil have not the generous flavour of those grown in richer earth. Having very few level plateaux, they are com pelled to cultivate the vine; hence a bad season plunges them into great distress. Their method of agriculture is simple. Their plough is almost identical with the old Roman one; it has two wheels and a moveable coulter. When a furrow is cut, the coulter is changed, and the plough doubles back in a parallel furrow very close to the former one, so as to cut out a very narrow ridge. This plough is drawn by oxen harnessed by chains to a board which fits across the forehead, and is padded inside to avoid undue pressure. A favourite resort at Altenahr, after tea is concluded, is the ruins of the old castle. I have never seen a more romantic view than that which lies beneath you, when you stand in the schloss. Mountain round mountain looming phantom-like and shadowy in the misty moonlight. The serpent Ahr flashing between the vine-wreathed valleys, and the faint sounds of the chapel bell ascending from the old town below. Hush! hearken to the chanson of those students; it is the song of the Rhine wine. How mellowly the accents roll in measured chorus. try a free version of it. RHEINWEIN-LIED. Where such a flame doth roar There tarry we for evermore Hurrah! hurrah! the Rhine! Wer't only for its wine, The Rhine; The Rhine shall German e'er remain ! I will e'en Now this verse booms forth in chorus : Raise the broadsword in the hand, Seize rifle and lift brand: As soon as foe for foreign land The Rhine shall German aye remain ! Right and left shore! left and right shore ! The Frenchman's mill-wheel strain! Hurrah! hurrah! the Rhine! The Rhine! The Rhine shall German e'er remain ! One can forgive a good deal of patriotism, and really our Prussian Studjer must be excused when he sings the praises of Vater Rhein. a pro aris et focis verse He sets thy price at little worth, Here is really His German wife, his German hearth, Fresh in combat line, The Rhine! The Rhine shall German e'er remain ! Then a burst of laughter, and a well-known Studjer-lied comes in the silence of the night. Dis is de erste verse De erste verse! Dis is de second verse Dis is de second verse "Kurz und gut ha! ha!" But the moon hides behind a cloud, the mountain peaks loom solemnly and still, the distant lights flicker in the window, and the hoot of the night-bird wafts upon the ear; we give the guardian of the schloss of the old cavaliers his guerdon, and descend through the old portals to our hostelry. CHAPTER XXXII. JASMIN. WILLY GRAY IS DYING! The summer light doth gently fall, The waters murmur at my feet, A voice within as sad replyingFor here I did my true love meet, And now that true love's dying! He told me of his loyal love, His struggle on for honour trying; We wander'd 'neath yon cliff aboveNow Willy Gray is dying! Each silken curl of long brown hair, His deep blue eye, and low voice sighing, My troth to him I plighted there, And now my Willy's dying! I thought my love no time could sever, For some bade me my vow to break— Oh, dark and drear the shadows lying; They said, “from him each token take ;” And so my Willy's dying! |