A funny story is told of an old lady at Winterich (which we are now passing). The old lady had been the superior of a convent which was suppressed by the French. Much grieved at this, the old lady was seized with fits of melancholy, and when in these fits was in the habit of knocking her head against the table. These knocks being often repeated, and with considerable force, the part thus ill used became hard and horny, until at length a regular ram’s horn, with three branches, protruded from the much-knocked head. The old lady cut them down; but they only grew larger and harder, entirely covering one of her eyes. A surgeon being called in, operated on the old dame, who, although now eighty-eight years old, got well through the operation, and lived for two years after, dying in 1836.
The hill called Brauneberg is now passed; the vineyards on it produce a fine wine, called by its name.
At Muhlheim we must leave our river for a time, and explore the charming valley of Veldenz, with its ruined castle placed on the summit of a richly-wooded hill. The walk there is through miles of vineyards edged with fruit-trees, and the valley below the castle is emerald with well-watered grass.
The hills are a mass of forest, and the variously-shaped houses, which are dropped at uncertain intervals along the bubbling stream, form a pleasant picture of rural beauty.
Veldenz was a little principality in itself; formerly it was governed by the Counts of the same name, but afterwards it was given to the church of Verdun, and was then governed by fourteen magistrates, elected by the different villages, and presided over by a prévôt, probably appointed by the Bishop of Verdun.
LEGEND OF VELDENZ.
Irmina wept for her knightly lover, who had departed to fight the Saracens. Her mother bade her dry her tears, for there was no lack of lovers for a pretty girl like her; but Irmina replied with sobs, that the ring which her knight had given her, and which she always wore, united her to him for ever, and seemed to whisper words of love and caress her hand.
Then the mother, fearing for her daughter’s health, advised her to throw off the ring, for her lover was surely dead, and it would be wiser to take a live husband than mope for a dead lover.
Persuaded at length, Irmina cast her ring into the well, and seemed to get the better of her melancholy; but one day the ring was drawn up in the well-bucket, and the maid brought it in to her young mistress: then her love likewise returned.