A LIBEL ON NIGHTINGALES.
The monks of Himmerode led dissolute lives, and Saint Bernard was sent to reprove them, and endeavour to bring them back to a sense of their duty.
In vain the Saint lectured—the monks were wicked as ever, and the Saint in despair sought his chamber; there, opening his window, he sat down to plan fresh arguments with which he might touch the wicked hearts of the monks.
The music of the sweet nightingales swelled up to his ears, and steeped his senses in bliss; but the Saint perceived, to his horror, that wicked desires then arose in his breast: so, closing the window, he hastened away. The thought then occurred to the Saint that, if the songs of the nightingales thus affected so holy a man as himself they must do infinite harm to the monks; he therefore (having the power) banished the birds, and shortly the monks were reformed.
The Abbess of Stuben, who gently ruled over a religious body of nuns, hearing the nightingales had been driven out, and were wandering in search of a home, invited them to settle in the meadows and groves that surrounded her cloister.
The birds gladly arrived, and their songs, which had harmed the wicked monks’ hearts, cheered and exalted the thoughts of the pure-hearted nuns.
Nuns and nightingales are now alike departed, as well as the droning old monks, whose notes we could better have spared.
Kloster Stuben.
There is a fine view from the cliffs behind the cloister, and the walk hence to Beilstein is very agreeable, as the banks are all richly wooded, and of a great height.
The river winds on past many a hamlet and burg; the forests and vines succeed to each other; islands are passed, and the scene constantly changes; spires rise among trees, old houses peep forth, cattle wade in the stream, and our little skiff glides along until Beilstein Castle appears, so beautifully placed, and so charmingly surrounded by forest, that we at once stay the course of our boat, and pull out our sketch-books. The townlet is nestled in walls, which are adorned with several turrets, and over it stands up the sharp-pointed spire of a church: the castle presides above all.
A great load of bark is slowly drifting down our river’s sparkling tide, and the boats are crossing and recrossing, filled with busy husbandmen.
Where our boat now stands, once a gentle peasant girl found her death and grave together, and with the latter peace, we trust.