are nearly yielding under the weight of a roof that threatens to sink in.
The barn, the rows of casks piled up in a corner, the cellar door at the
left, a pigeon-cote forming the point of the gable end; then, again,
beneath the galleries, other darkened windows in the same style, where
you can see swillers and topers in three-cornered hats, distinguished by
noses red, purple, or crimson; little women of Hundsruck, in velvet caps
with long fluttering ribbons, some grave, some laughing, others queer and
grotesque-looking; the hay-loft high up under the roof; stables,
pigsties, cowsheds, all in picturesque confusion attract and confound
your attention. It is a strange sight!

For fifty years not a hammer has been lifted against this venerable ruin.
You would think it was left for the special accommodation of rats! And
when the glowing autumn sun, red as fire, showers golden rain upon the
decaying walls and timbers; when, as daylight fades into evening, the
angular projections stand out more boldly, and the shadows deepen; when
all the tavern rings with songs, and shouts, and roars of laughter; when
fat Sebaldus, in leathern apron, runs to and from the cellar with the big
jug in his hand; when his wife Gredel throws up the kitchen window, and
with her long knife, well hacked along the edge, cleans the fish, or cuts
the necks of hens, ducks, or geese which struggle and gurgle in their own
blood; when pretty Fridoline, with her rosy little mouth and her long
fair hair, leans out of her window to tend the honeysuckle, and over her
head the neighbour's tabby cat is gently swaying her tail and watching,
with her cunning green eyes, the swallow circling in the deepening
purple--I do assure you that a man must be utterly devoid of taste for
the picturesque not to stop and contemplate in ecstasy and listen to the
murmuring sounds, or the louder din, or the falling whispers, and observe
with an artist's eye the trembling lights, the flying shadows, and
whisper to himself, "Is not this beautiful?"

But you should see Maitre Sebaldus's tavern on a great occasion, when all
the jovial folks of Bergzabern crowd into the immense public room--some
day when a cock-fight is going on, or a dog-fight, or a magic-lantern.

Last autumn, on a Saturday--and it was Michaelmas Day--we were all
sitting round the oaken table, between one and two o'clock in the
afternoon; old Doctor Melchior, Eisenloffel the blacksmith, and his old
wife, old Berbel R