ASSOCIATIONS OF THE RHINE.

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XXII.

THE CASTELLATED RHINE.

“THE RHINE! THE RHINE!" which has been the shout of glad armies, as its silver sheen flashed on their eyes as they came over the surrounding heights, is interesting more from its association than its scenery. The changes that have come over the world are illustrated more strikingly here than even in Rome. The old convent where the jolly friar revelled, is converted into a manufactory-the steamboat is rushing past the nodding castles of feudal chiefs-the modern town straggling through the ruins of once lordly cities, and all the motion and excitement of the nineteenth century, over the unburied corpses of the first fourteen centuries. There is probably no river on our globe more rich in associations than the Rhine. Navigable for over six hundred miles, through the very heart of Europe, its dominion has been battled for for nineteen centuries. From the time the Roman legions trod its shores, and shouted victory in good classic Latin, or retired before the fierce charge of barbaric warriors; to the middle ages, when feudal chiefs reared their castles here, and performed deeds of daring and chivalry that dimly live in old traditions; it has been the field of great exploits, and witnessed the most important event of European history. It has been no less the The French Revolu

scene of stirring events in modern times. tion, after it had reduced France to chaos, rolled heavily towards the Rhine. On its banks was the first great struggle between the young and strong Democracy, and the haughty, but no longer vigorous Feudalism. Here kingship first trembled for its crown and throne, and Europe gathered in haste to save its tottering monarchies. On its shores France stood and shouted to the

nations beyond, sending over the startled waters the cry, "All men are born free and equal," till the murmur of the people answered it. The Rhine has seen the armies of the Cæsars along its banks--the castles of feudal chiefs flinging their shadows over its placid bosom-the printing press rise in its majesty beside it, and the stern Luther tread along its margin muttering words that shook the world. It has also borne Bonaparte and his strong legions on, yet amid it all-amid crumbling empires, and through the smoke of battle-undisturbed by the violence and change that have ploughed up its banks, lined them with kingdoms, and strewed them with their ruins-it has ever rolled, the same quiet current, to the sea. Its scenery is also beautiful, but not so much when viewed from its surface as when seen from the different points of prospect furnished by the heights around. From the old castles on the shores and the ridges beyond, the landscape has almost endless variations, yet is always beautiful.

Byron has combined all the striking features of the Rhine in a single verse, yet coloured some of them a little too highly.

"The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom,
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen,
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between,
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been
In mockery of man's art; and these withal
A race of faces happy as the scene,
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all,

Still springing o'er thy banks, though empires near them fall."

Almost every castle has, with its real history, some wild tradi tion connected; which, though it may or may not be true, adds great interest to the mysterious ruin. In looking over the guide book I was struck with the number of "outline sketches" for magazine tales-thrilling novels, &c., furnished on almost every page. In a few sentences will be told the fate of some old feudal lord, or his beautiful daughter, of whose private history one would gladly know more. Thus at Braesemberg are the ruins of two castles, of one of which, the Bromserhof, we are told that "tradition says, that one of these knights, Bonser of Rudesheim, on

TRADITION OF BRAESEMBERG.

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repairing to Palestine, signalized himself by destroying a dragon, which was the terror of the Christian army. No sooner had he accomplished it, than he was taken prisoner by the Saracens; and while languishing in captivity, he made a vow, that if ever he returned to his castle of Rudesheim, he would devote his only daughter, Gisela, to the church. He arrived at length, a pilgrim, at his castle, and was met by his daughter, now grown into a lovely woman. Gisela loved, and was beloved by a young knight from a neighbouring castle, and she heard with consternation her father's vow. Her tears and entreaties could not change his purpose. He threatened her with his curse if she did not obey; and in the midst of a violent storm, she precipitated herself from the tower of the castle into the Rhine below. The fishermen found her corpse the next day in the river, by the tower of Hatto, and the boatmen and vintagers at this day fancy they sometimes see the pale form of Gisela hovering about the ruined tower, and hear her voice mingling its lamentations with the mournful whistlings of the wind." I leave to some one else the filling up this outline. There is the scene of the first interview of this selfish old Jephtha with his daughter-the wild meetings of the two lovers the pleadings with the father-the rash purposes, and the final leap from the castle tower, of the beautiful Gisela-all fair property for the weaver of romances-a sort of schedule already made out for him.

This tower of Hatto, at the base of which was found the form of Gisela, is some distance farther down the river. In descending to it one passes the vineyards of the famed Rudesheim wine, and the white castle of St. Roch. The Bishop of Hatto has been immortalized by Southey, in his " Traditions of Bishop Hatto," commencing with the imaginative line

"The summer and autumn had been so wet."

Here begins the "Rhine gorge," which furnishes the most beautiful scenery on the river. The banks of the stream become more precipitous and rocky, affording secure frontiers for the feudal chiefs that fortified themselves upon them. Ruined castles-gaping towers dilapidated fortresses, begin to crowd with almost startling rapidity on the beholder. As the boat flies along on the swift

current of the stream he has scarcely time to read the history and traditions of one, before another claims his attention. Placed in every variety of position, and presenting memorials of almost every century, they keep the imagination in constant activity. The castles of Falkenburg perched on its rocky eminence; Reichenstein and Rheinstein, a little lower down, are grouped together in one coup d'œil, while the falling turrets of Sonneck rush to meet you from below, and the castle of Heimberg frowns over the village at its feet. Next comes old Furstenberg with its round tower and crumbling walls, and then Nottingen, and after it the massive fragments of Stahleck castle, looking gloomily down from the heights of Bacharach. While I was thus casting my eyes, first on one side, and then the other, of the river, as these, to me new and strange objects, came and went on my vision, suddenly from out the centre of the river rose the castle of Pfalz. We had scarcely passed it before the batt ements of Gutenfels appeared, and soon after the rock-founded castle of Schaenberg. Tradition says that it received the name of Beautiful Hill from seven beautiful daughters of one of the old chieftains. Though beloved and sought for by all the young knights far and near, they turned a deaf ear to every suitor, and finally, for their hardheartedness, were turned into seven rocks, which still remain, a solemn warning to all beautiful and heartless coquets to remotest time. At length, just above St. Goar, the black and naked precipice of Lurleiberg rose out of the water on the left, frowning in savage silence over the river. Just before we came opposite this perpendicular rock, the boat entered a rapid, formed by the immense rocks in the bed of the stream, and began to shoot downward like an arrow to an immense whirlpool in front of the Lurleiberg. The river here striking the rocks, and dashing back towards the opposite side, forms a whirlpool, called by the inhabitants the Gewirr; into the furious eddy of which our little steamboat dashed without fear. She careened a little one side as she passed along the slope of the Wirbel, probably tipped over by the beautiful, though evil-minded, water nymph-the Circe of the Rhine-who used to beguile poor ignorant boatmen by her ravishing voice into the boiling eddies, where she deliberately drowned them. Unable to charm the steam-engine, which goes snorting in the most unpo

etical and daring manner through all the meshes she weaves with her whirlpool, she revenges herself by putting her ivory shoulder against the keel of the boat as it passes, and exerting all her strength gives it a slight tip over, just to show that she still occupies her realm.

I was struck here with one of those exhibitions of the love of the picturesque and beautiful which meets the traveller at almost every step on the Continent. There is a grotto under the Lurleiberg where the echo of a bugle blast or pistol shot is said to be repeated fifteen times. As we approached it, I heard first the explosion of a gun, and then the strains of a bugle. I did not know at first what it meant, and was much amused when I was told, on inquiring, that a man was kept stationed there, whose sole business was to fire guns and blow his bugle for the benefit of travellers. This making a business of getting up echoes looks odd to an American. A man thus stationed on the Hudson to rouse echoes for every boat that passed, would have a great many jokes cracked at his expense. I should have been better pleased with this arrangement, however, had I derived any benefit from it. Between the crushing sound of the water, as it swept in swift circles around the boat, and the churning of the steam-engine, I did not get even a single echo. I heard only the explosion of the gun, and the fitful, uncertain strains of the bugle—the echoes the steamboat and whirlpool had all to themselves.

We had scarcely passed the base of this precipice before the ruins of the fortress of Rheinfels emerged into view. This is the largest ruin on the river, and witnessed bloody work in olden times, as its stern lord levied duties on every traveller up the Rhine. It was the impregnable character of this fortification which helped bring about the Hanseatic League. It was blown up by the revolutionary army of France, and has remained a ruin ever since. Next comes the Thurmberg, or castle of the mouse, a ruin in a more perfect state of preservation than any other on the Rhine. It wants only the wood-work to render it entire. A little lower down rises the old convent of Bornhofen, and the twin castles of Sternberg and Liebenstein, presenting a most singular, yet charming, feature in the landscape. Still farther down, and lo, the noble castle of Marksburg, perched on