"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:--
"Let our eyes meet, and you will see
That I love you and you love me."
But best of all in its simplicity and strength was "Agnes Mary Taylor,
widow," written clearly in ink, and some wag had underscored in pencil
the last expressive word.
Does the lady go over the hill and dale signing her name always in this
way? On the Yburg mountain-top it had the effect of a great and
memorable saying, like "Veni, vidi, vici," or "Apres nous le deluge."
Agnes Mary Taylor, _widow_. Could anything be more terse, more
deliciously suggestive?