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560 high position, must have been even more difficult to reduce.

The castle was blown up in 1689, when Marshal Boufflers burnt the town. Boufflers had 15,000 men and powerful artillery, to act against a garrison of 1600. He made three vain attempts to storm, but being determined to compliment his blood-thirsty master, Louis XIV., he carried the place on St. Louis’ Day, with a loss of 2500 men. The population, as well as the inhabitants of Cond on the opposite side, were mostly put to the sword, and only a few straggled back after the Peace of Ryswick. It is said that old people, who remembered the horrors of that time from their childhood, long years after used to spring from their beds in the middle of the night, crying out “The French are come!”

By following the bank of the Moselle to about a mile and a half above Cochem, we arrive at a large house, which was formerly a conventual building. Its chapel is a specimen of the purest style of Early Gothic, but is now entirely dilapidated, and used as a barn: a path through the woods, above this, leads to a point at the top of the plateau, whence Cochem is seen in the distance, with Winneberg behind it, and a superb panorama of hill-tops, which seen edgeways look like vast pyramids. Further on, we pass through a rare forest of vast virgin oaks to a descent which leads to Ernst, and so back by the river to Cochem. The river-side rocks are very grand, and one has obtained the dignity of being called the Lurley of the Moselle.

A still finer walk is up the walnut-shaded valley of the Enderbach to the top of the height crowned by the Castle of Winneberg, the ascent commanding a grand view of gabled hills with purple rocks, interspersed with foliage. A patriarchal walnut-tree, as at Cochem, keeps the gate of the mighty ruin. In the fourteenth century, Cuno II., Lord of Winneberg, married Lysa, only daughter of Gerlach of Beilstein, and thus received the possessions of his family. The male line became extinct in 1639, and the castle passed to the family of Metternich as an imperial fief; and the members of it were thenceforward called Counts of Metternich, Winneberg, and Beilstein. Amongst other privileges, they possessed an excise on all the eggs which were brought to Cochem market. Winneberg shared the subsequent fates of Cochem.

By following the river down for about two miles, we come to the little town of Clotten, crowned with its ruined castle. This was one of the principal possessions of Queen Richenza. It is celebrated for a deed of arms in 1580, when the townsmen, having erected entrenchments, beat off a powerful freebooting band, commanded by one Olivier Temple, whose right hand, being struck off in the action, was long kept in the civic chest as a trophy. On entering the little church here at a venture, we are agreeably surprised to light on a most perfect specimen of Early Pointed architecture in which the arborescent, or, more specifically speaking, banyan-tree character of this style is seen to great perfection. The roof is supported by two elegant shafts destitute of capitals. The bronze vessel for holy water is of extreme antiquity, as are also the carved oak seats—each representing, at its termination, a different human face.

The venerable parish priest arrives in his canonicals, and gives us a hearty welcome, with which his hospitable nature is not satisfied without cementing it by a bottle of his best home-grown wine, in the arbour outside of his ancient parsonage. He is justly proud of his magnifificentmagnificent [sic] altar of stone carving, and pulpit decorated with apostolic and saintly figures, and supported by the effigy of St. Peter himself—in this case, a veritable Rock of the Church; and no less of a splendid Missal robe, which has descended to him from the fourteenth century, and is kept in the vestry with some rare relics of early saints.

Our visit to Cochem is concluded with a view of the total eclipse of the full moon, on the night of June 3rd, the diminishing image of the earth’s fading satellite being beautifully reflected in the Moselle. On the next morning we were off in the little steamer to Coblentz.

One of the most remarkable castles on this passage is that by Alken, where lives our hospitable clerical friend of last year. The country people call it by the unpleasant name of “Old Woman’s Mouth,” as suggesting broken teeth; but its right name is Thuron, or Thurn. In 1246, the Archbishops Arnold of Treves and Conrad of Cologne, finding its possessor, the Count Palatine Zorn, a public nuisance from his maraudings, besieged it for two years, during which time the besiegers consumed 300 puncheons of wine. It was finally ruined in the Thirty Years’ War.

As we approach Coblentz, we see that Turner’s beautiful view, with the Moselle bridge in it, has been spoiled by the railroad. Before the train starts up the Rhine, we have just time to see the gorgeous procession of Corpus Christi, being only able to carry away a confused impression of splendid banners, solemn music (which almost forces people to their knees), and pretty little maids, whom the nuns, by dint of white wreaths and frocks, tastefully arranged, manage to dress up into very creditable cherubim. 2em

, with his hoary head bent on his hand, Dream’d of the buried past and turned his sand; When Folly’s giddy troop, with laughs and jeers, Passed by the Ancient and reviled his years. Next Youth’s discordant train approached the sage; Youth is the time for mirth,” they cried, “not age.” The busy throng of life next fleeted by— Time marked and passed them for eternity. Evening o’er Mother Earth in silence fell, As a lone traveller approach’d Time’s cell: Tell me,” he said, “O Father Time, tell me, That which to know I counsel seek of thee; Earth’s choicest gifts on me are free bestowed, I tread on Pleasure’s and Life’s brightest road; Wealth is subservient to my least desire— Love too inflames me with his sacred fire; Fain would I know to what these pleasures tend, Some cloy already—what will be their end?” Time bowed his head, and answered, ’neath his breath, Youth, all these glories have their end in .” A. M. H.