From Georgenborn, descending a little, we crossed a piece of table or level land, on which there stood a rock of a very striking appearance. Where it had come from, Heaven (from whence apparently it had fallen) probably only knows. As if from the force with which it had been dropped upon its site, it had split into two pieces, separated by a yawning crevice, yet small trees or bushes had grown upon each summit, while the same beech foliage appeared in the forest which surrounded them.
Passing close beneath this rock, I continued trotting towards the east for about a league, when gradually descending into a milder climate, I was hailed by the vineyards which luxuriously surround the sequestered little village of Frauenstein.
Upon a rock overhanging the hamlet there stood solemnly before me the remains of the old castle of Frauenstein or Frankenstein, supposed to have been built in the thirteenth century. In the year 1300 it was sold to the Archbishop Gerhardt, of Mainz, but soon afterwards, being ruined by the Emperor Albrecht I., in a tithe war which he waged against the prelate, it was restored to its original possessors.
But what more than its castle attracted my attention in the village of Frauenstein, was an immense plane-tree, the limbs of which had originally been trained almost horizontally, until, unable to support their own weight, they were now maintained by a scaffolding of stout props. Under the parental shadow of this venerable tree, the children of the village were sitting in every sort of group and attitude; one or two of their mothers, in loose, easy dishabille, were spinning, many people were leaning against the upright scaffolding, and a couple of asses were enjoying the cool shade of the beautiful foliage, while their drivers were getting hot and tipsy in a wine-shop, the usual sign of which is in Germany the branch of a tree affixed to the door-post.
As I had often heard of the celebrated tree of Frauenstein, before which I now stood, I resolved not to quit it until I had informed myself of its history, for which I well knew I had only to apply to the proper authorities: for in Germany, in every little village, there exists a huge volume either deposited in the church, or in charge of an officer called the Schuldheisz, in which the history of every castle, town, or object of importance is carefully preserved. The young peasant reads it with enthusiastic delight, the old man reflects upon it with silent pride, and to any traveller, searching for antiquarian lore, its venerable pages are most liberally opened, and the simple information they contain generously and gratuitously bestowed.