Oberwesel, Castle Schonberg, and right acrost, like a faithful old pardner who has kep’ company for centuries, the towerin’ old walls of Gutenfels.
Right under my head-dress or nightcap the seen moves along. Anon I see the splendid old castle of Rheinstein way up above the river. Ehrenfel, vineyards, vineyards, with Lurlei hid amongst ’em, whether they believe it or not, and on the other, fur up, the Mouse Tower, where selfishness got its pay if it ever did.
Bingen we found, jest as Alice sed, a quiet little town, its marvellous beauty born in the homesick longin’ of the soldier who lay dyin’ in Algiers.
Johannesburg Castle would be dretful interestin’, standin’ up as it duz three or four hundred feet high, but the sights and sights of vineyards all round it made me feel bad, dretful. But I’ve had my say about that—sirens, etc., etc. What crazy acts would the wine make these surroundin’ folks do! That wuz a question I couldn’t answer, nor Josiah. I wish they wouldn’t make so much; I wish they would stop the mouth of Lurlei with good water, or cold tea, or sunthin’ or other—she’d act like another creeter if they did.
But truly I couldn’t make ’em stop by eppisodin’ or allegorin’.
On, on we went by islands, fortifications, palaces, villages.
I didn’t want to see Wiesbaden, I didn’t want to see card-playin’ and gamblin’ goin’ on—no, indeed.
But I did want to stop at Frankfort-on-the-Main, the birthplace of Goethe. And in thinkin’ on’t, I mekanically repeated over the words I’d heard Thomas J. rehearse a number of times—the homesick words of Mignon—
“Knowest thou the land where citron apples bloom,
And oranges like gold in leafy bloom?”