flung the casement wide open. It was late evening-a dusk, drear evening in the latter end of autumn-such a one as betokens a fearful night to come. The storm howled among the hills behind her; and its awful voice was reverberated, multiplied a hundred-fold by echo, from the rocky dells which intersected them. The river raged furiously below, threatening every moment to wash away the firm foundation of the castle, and carrying along with it in its rushing course large fragments of its banks down to the Binger Loch, where it heaved and foamed like the broad ocean: above all was blackness and desolation, unlit; save by an occasional flash of the forked lightning darting into the abyss below, and adding horror upon horror to the prospect; while, ever and anon, the thunder growled awfully, in unison with the roar of the wind and the raging of the wild waters,—a fearful diapason. The scene was terrific, beyond the comprehension of those who have only traversed the sweet valley of the Rhine in periods of elemental peace-of sunshine, and of flowers. Gisella looked out on it with a vacant eye: she seemed as though she heard or saw nothing which passed before, around, or above her. In the middle of the spacious chamber stood her father, chafing like a hunted boar--grim and gristly-drawn up to his full height-his long gray beard and snow-white locks streaming to the sudden gust of wind which followed the opening of the casement.

"I will curse you," exclaimed the Crusader; "I will curse you with a father's curse. The ashes of your mother shall curse you too. You will carry our curse along with you wherever you

go, if

Gisella shrieked and started back, as though she had seen a spectre; but her father's aspect appalled her still more, and his anathema rung in her ears. One moment, and no more, she hesitated, or seemed to hesitate; the next, she sprang through the open casement; and the moment after, she was swallowed by the raging waters. A single splash was all the bereaved sire heard; no sight or sound beside denoted her destruction. Early next morning her body was found on the little rocky island where Hatto's Tower stands, like the spirit of the river.

In the still evenings of late autumn, when all in this paradise seems peace and rest, the spirit of Gisella Brömser is seen to flit

around the ruins of the old castle of Rudesheim; and belated travellers often hear her wailings-as soft, as sweet, and as melancholy, as the song of the love-lorn nightingale.

The old knight of Rudesheim sorrowed deeply for her death; and he bitterly repented his own asperity and ruthlessness. To appease the tortures of his agonized conscience, he vowed to build a church to her memory, that her soul might by that means find peace. But he forgot his vow in time; and her spirit was long left unpropitiated and unappeased, to endure the doom which his inexorable heart had contributed to inflict upon it. Once, however, at the midnight hour, a fearful dream or vision came over him. The horrid dragon which he had slain in Palestine stood beside his bed, and gaping wide its tremendous jaws, made as though it would swallow him at one gulp. But suddenly a pale, sad-looking female form, which he recognized in a moment as that of his daughter Gisella, flitted between him and the threatened danger; on which the monster immediately disappeared. The spirit looked sorrowfully on the altered old man ; and then, sighing deeply, in a moment was seen no more. At that instant, the chains which he had worn during his sojourn in slavery among the Saracens, fell from the wall where they had been hung since his return, in memory of that event; and he awoke at the loud crash, covered with a cold perspiration, his hair erect, and his whole frame convulsed with fear and trembling. The next morning one of his husbandmen came to him with an image of the Saviour, discovered under wondrous and mysterious circumstances. While ploughing up a neighbouring field, one of his oxen had disinterred it; and, miraculous to relate, it had cried out for help on its restoration to the light of day. Brömser at once made preparations for the fulfilment of his vow; and, on the spot where the image was discovered, he built a church and a cloister, which he named "The Need of God." The cloister still stands, in a rocky dingle not far from Rudesheim; and the church exists also. In it are shewn the chains already mentioned as having been worn by Sir Hans Brömser in slavery among the Saracens, together with the dragon's tongue, which, it is to be presumed, he had contrived to secure previous to his capture by the infidels.

In the castle, which is now the property of Prince Metternich, are many monuments of the olden time. In the great hall are pictures of all the former possessors, male and female; and a

table, with their names, eras, scutcheons, and mottos. The horns of the ox which uprooted the image, are shewn in the castle; and the image itself is still in the church of the village.* The state bed-room is painted on all sides with figures; and the bridal-bed curtains are wrought in ancient needle-work with similar ones— in both cases subjects from the Old Testament, emblematic of love and truth in wedded life. Close by the bed itself is a very ancient chest. In the other apartments various chairs, footstools, and similar articles of furniture, all rugged and ill-formed, but strong and durable beyond modern articles of the same description, are everywhere visible.

ST. NICHOLAS AND THE BOATMAN.

In addition to the preceding legend, the following may be offered here, as connected with Rudesheim. It has the merit of doing poetical justice, if it has no other; and, therefore, it must be admired by all honest men.

At Rudesheim, by Brömser's Burg,

There stands a cell of stone;

And in it is an image of

St. Nicholas alone.

A boatman low before it bends -
He bends, and prays him so-
"Oh, holy saint! my little bark
Through Bingerloch let go.

*The following passage from Goethe's "Reise am Rhein, Mayn und Neckar, in Jühren, 1814 and 1815," alludes to this famous image.

"In the parish church in the market-place (at Rudesheim,) is seen the miraculous image, which, in former times, attracted so many of the superstitious and credulous to The Need of God.' It is a kneeling Christ, about eight inches high, with the hands upraised in the attitude of prayer; and is probably the principal figure of an original group, representing the passion on the Mount of Olives. The drapery is of fine linen, pasted in some parts on the imperfect carving beneath it; in others flowing: the sleeves hang freely. It is entirely chalked and painted. The hands are too long for the body, but the joints of the fingers and nails are well expressed. Altogether, it is a striking specimen of art at a period which was very backward, but still not wholly incapable of sculpture."

"Let go my little bark but safe,
And once the peril past,
I vow to thee a taper tall-
Ay, tall as is her mast."

The friendly saint a willing ear
Lent to the lowly prayer:

The bark bounds onward merrily

'Tis now in water fair.

Then loud did laugh the boatman then,

And thus outspake he free:
"The fish will never take the bait

Until it offered be."

And thus outspake that boatman then

"May I be damned for aye,

Thou greedy saint, if ever I

My promise to thee pay.

"For now, that all is come and gone,

The peril was not great;
And I'll just light a little stump

Before thy stony seat."

As still he spake, the bark's keel crack'd,
And rose the raging waters-

She sank. That mariner in Heaven,
Hath neither friends nor fautors.

ST. ROCHE'S CHAPEL.

On the summit of a high hill, almost directly opposite to Rudesheim, and a little above Bingen, stands the white Chapel of St. Roche, a conspicuous object in the lovely landscape which stretches around, and seen at a great distance up and down the river. The great German poet, Goethe, gives a very graphic and animated description of the first celebration of the feastday of that saint, in the month of August 1814, after an intermission of a full quarter of a century, arising from the possession

of the Rhine by republican and imperial France from the period of the first revolution.*

It would occupy too much space in these pages, to offer a translation of it to the public; but those who can read it in the original, will be amply recompensed by the pleasure it will not fail to afford them.

KEMPTEN.

A little in advance of the hill on which the Chapel of St. Roche is situated, in the direction of Mainz, stands the ancient hamlet of Kempten, on the left bank of the Rhine.

THE COCKFIGHT.

Though now an insignificant spot, Kempten was once a place of note; for Charlemagne had a favourite residence there, to which he retired from the state and solemnity of Ingelheim whenever the pressure of business would permit him.

One day, in early summer, he rode thither from Ingelheim, together with his Empress Hildegard, and his three youthful sons, Pepin, Carl, and Ludwig. As he and his bride sat to dinner in a bower which bordered on the river, they conversed of many matters concerning the government of his extensive empire. Their sons, according to the custom of the age, stood behind, and waited on them, participating, in the meanwhile, in the conversation, and making remarks suited to their capacity.

"Mother," said Pepin, the eldest of the three, when a pause in the discourse of his parents occurred, so as to leave him opportunity for an observation; "Mother, when father is dead, shall not I then be emperor in his place?"

The emperor looked askant at the boy, and bethought him what a curse was ambition to mankind. The empress coloured

to the eyes, but said nothing in reply.

"No! no!" cried Carl, looking lovingly on the emperor; ❝it shall not be Pepin-it shall be me-shall it not, father?”

*Aus einer Reise am Rhein, Mayn und Neckar, in den Jähren, 1814 and 1815," §. i. "Sanct Rochus, Fest zu Bingen, am 16 August, 1814."