Here there was little castle and much view. Really a magnificent prospect, but so fierce and chilling a wind that we could with difficulty remain long enough on the old turrets to fix the landscape in our memory, and we were glad to seek shelter in the little house, where a man and his wife live all the year round; and frightfully cold and lonely must it be there in winter, when even in May our teeth were chattering gayly.
The visitors' book there was rather amusing.
One American girl writes, with her name and the date,—
“No moon to-night, which is of course
The driver's fault, not ours.”
“Mr. H. C.”—Black, we will call him—“walked up from Baden the 10th of August, 1875”; and half the people who go to Yburg walk. As we had walked and never dreamed of being elated by our prowess, Mr. Black's manner of chronicling his feat seemed comical.
You look down from the mountain into the Affenthaler Valley, where the wine of that name “grows.” It is a good, light wine, and healthful, but a young person—we decided she must be a countrywoman, because she expresses her opinion so freely—writes in regard to it,—
“Affenthaler. The drink sold under that honorable name at this restaurant is the beastliest and most poisonous of drinks, not absolutely undrinkable or immediately destructive of life. Traveller, take care. Avoid the abominable stuff. Beware!”
Immediately following, in German, with the gentleman's name and address, is,—
“I have drunk of the Affenthaler which this unknown English person condemns, and pronounce it a good and excellent wine.”
That Yburg by moonlight might be conducive to softness can easily be imagined. Here is a sweet couplet:—