WHAT a flood of anticipations came trooping through the mind at the mere thought of a sail “Down the Rhine.” Down that famous old river, every mile the scene of a legend; the river in whose praise poets have sung for ages; whose every turn reveals a castle or fortress that has figured for centuries in story and song! What visions of wooded banks, vine-clad hills, and ivy-covered ruins! What pure, unalloyed pleasure a trip “Down the Rhine” must be!

And it is. Poets may have written what seemed to be over-wrought praises of its marvelous beauty; writers may have gone into ecstacies over its beauty, its grandeur and its sublimity, but they have none of them exaggerated. It is all that has been said of it, and more.

We were whirled into the fortified city of Mayence, a place that has long been an important strategical point, early in the afternoon of a lovely day in August. The sun was shining brightly, the river was clear and limpid, and everything was propitious. Favorable, indeed, began our trip down the Rhine.

Sailing down the river, past the grim fortifications on both sides, we pass between two islands, and soon reach the pretty little town of Biebrich, where, in A.D. 840, Louis the Pious, son and successor of Charlemagne, died.

The river at this point begins to assume a bolder and more picturesque appearance than it did near Mayence, and as we approach Eltville we get the first glimpse of a ruined castle, built in 1330, by Baldwin, Archbishop of Treves, who was then Governor of Mayence. It stands high up the bank, and is almost hidden from view by the trees that surround it. Just beyond, back of a low-lying island, is the town of Erbach, near which are some old abbey’s ruins.

From here the river is dotted with little islands whose irregular shape and diversified surface adds a new charm to the scene; while over on the right bank, in a commanding position, surrounded by fruitful vineyards, is the celebrated Schloss Johannisberg, built in 1716 on the site of an old Benedictine monastery founded in 1106. Around this old castle, which is in good repair, are the vineyards from which come the famous Johannisberger wines, the favorite of all Rhine wines. From this point all along the river to the “Siebengeberger” or “Seven Mountains,” the vineyards that clothe the banks of the river are famous for their exquisite wines.

A few minutes further on and on the same bank RÜdesheim comes into sight, flanked by the massive BrÖmserburg, a massive castle, with ivy-grown walls, that towers high above the little town below it. This is another famous wine-producing district, its fame having been handed down from as far back as the twelfth century. The castle, a three-storied rectangular building, was erected in the twelfth century, and has but recently been restored.

With a graceful sweep that reveals new beauties every minute, we came in sight of Bingen, “fair Bingen on the Rhine,” just where the River Nahe empties into the noble stream. High above it, on a thickly wooded eminence, on the site of an ancient Roman fortress, is the Castle Klopp, with its frowning battlements and forbidding towers.

No one can see what there is about Bingen to make it famous. It never would have been famous but for the Hon. Mrs. Norton, an English poetess, who found the name to be properly accented, and of the right number of syllables for use in a poem, which she wrote. It will be known so long as the platform is infested with readers and there are school exhibitions.

That’s the way it commences, and the burden to each stanza is:—

It is a most absurd poem. There must necessarily be a lack of woman’s tears around a shot soldier in a foreign land, for no government on earth could afford its soldiers any such luxury. How, possibly, could a government send out a complement of wives, sisters, cousins and aunts to nurse and weep over each wounded individual? And then this soldier, mortally wounded, instead of dying properly, goes on through nearly two hundred lines to send messages to everybody he ever knew in Bingen, ending each message with:

And so, as the boat approached Bingen, all the excursionists, especially the sweet girls from the seminaries, who were on their Summer vacation, murmured softly:

And one young divinity student, with long hair, and a high forehead, and long, narrow white hands, deliberately recited the whole poem with what he firmly believed to be “expression,” which consisted in ending each sentence with the upward inflection. The ineffable nuisance had spent the night in committing the drivel to memory, and he spared us never a line.

The school-girls all said, “How nice!” Tibbitts went below and amused himself with a bottle of wine, and the majority of the other passengers walked forward where they could smoke.

And then the real worry of life began. The dozen or more young men with high foreheads, who did hear the “reader” through, sought you out, and collared you, and said: “Did you hear Mr. —— read Bingen? He thinks he can read, but he can’t. Now this is the proper way to read that poem.”

And he went right on, and read it to you as he thought it should be done. There were thirteen of them.

Scarcely has this view faded from sight before we pass the ruined towers of a castle erected in 1210, and destroyed by the French in 1689. Just opposite this ruin is the famous Mouse Tower, a small, circular tower, built of massive stone. It takes its name from the legend of Hatto, Archbishop of Mayence. The legend runs that during a great famine in the land thereabouts, the poor people were sorely distressed for corn, and vainly besought Archbishop Hatto, who had graneries full of the previous year’s crop, to aid them in their time of want. At length he promised that to all who should be at his barn on a certain morning he would give corn. Of course the poor people flocked thither, and when the barn was full he locked the doors, and, despite their piteous cries for mercy, set the barn on fire, and laughed at their cries, comparing them to mice that had come to carry away his corn.

That night he had troubled dreams, as was proper, and in the morning his servants told him to fly, for his grounds were being filled with rats who had eaten all the corn he had saved. He hastily quitted his castle and sought refuge in the castle on the island, thinking that the steep rocks and swift water would prevent the rats from finding him there. But they swarmed over the island by millions and the cruel Archbishop died a terrible lingering death.

This is a good solid legend, with meat in it. There is a great moral lesson inculcated, and every legend should inculcate a moral. It contains, I thought, a solemn warning to American grain operators.

But Tibbitts found a great many flaws in it, and said he did not consider it a good legend at all. It was full of improbabilities. Hatto made a corner on corn. Very good. He had some purpose in it. Very good. That purpose could have been nothing but a speculative desire to run up the price of his corn and sell out at an advance. Very good. To whom could he sell the corn at a profit? Only to the starving people. Now what an ass he must have been to corner the corn and then go and burn up his customers, the people to whom he could have sold the corn at any price! Mr. Tibbitts insisted, that that wouldn’t wash.

He doubted the rat story also. He knew all about grain operators. He knew many of them in Chicago who frequently saw rats, and snakes, and all that sort of thing. Probably Archbishop Hatto had been drinking, and fancied these things. But it was well enough. One must have legends and it wouldn’t do to go any more closely into particulars about legends, than it does to be too critical as to the character of candidates for Congress. He should accept Hatto, corn, rats and all. It was a very pretty story—for children. It would teach them not to burn people.

At this point the Rhine makes a sudden bend and the channel becomes very narrow. Formerly the passage was very dangerous, and in the olden times it was a favorite spot for the robber knights who had their strongholds on the banks thereabouts, to stop trading vessels on their way up and down the river to request the payment of tolls.

The merchants always paid the tolls. Sir Hugo, or Sir Bruno, or Sir whoever he might be, did not need a Custom House to collect his imposts. He merely had a score or more of cut-throats, fellows who would kill a man for sixpence, or its equivalent in the money of the day, and in default of the sixpence would do it for the sheer love of the thing, and the trader found it much better to give what was asked than to go to the bottom of the Rhine with a slit in his windpipe. But I have no idea that he lost anything. He counted this in his expense account, the same as the merchant of to-day does his insurance and bad debts, and he took it out of his customers, and they in turn took it out of the people. All of these things come out of the ground at the end. It is the tiller of the soil who finally pays for the soldier, the robber, the judge and jury, the gin-mill and the faro bank. And Tibbitts referred at once to a remark he had previously made, that it was vice, not virtue, that cost the world, that to wipe out the gin-mills was to do away with the police, the courts, and with the hangman, and everything else connected with what is called justice, that is so expensive. Armies are supported to sustain kings and courts, liquor makes police and justices’ courts necessary, and while everybody seems to pay a tax, none of them do it but the tiller of the soil, for they all charge up these expenses on what they do till it gets down to him. What he would do would be to do away with vice. Virtue is very cheap—so cheap that he wondered more people did not encourage it.

The banks now assume a more rugged appearance, and on each eminence is a castle or a ruin. We pass by in rapid succession a number of very picturesque views, in each one of which these ancient fortresses play an important part. Those old robbers knew well where to build, and they built exceeding well.

After passing Lorch we came to the pretty stream of the Wisper, which empties into the Rhine at this point. On the left bank of the stream is a rugged cliff, towering high in the air, called the “Devil’s Ladder,” which, of course, has its legend.

Near Lorch there lived a knight who, after losing his wife, became sullen and morose, and would have nothing to do with any one but his daughter, a lovely girl, just budding into womanhood. He refused to grant hospitality to any one who asked it. One stormy night a knight in distress applied for shelter and rest and was gruffly refused. The next morning when old Sibo, the knight, inquired for his daughter, he was told that she had been seen early in the morning with two sprites going up the impassable crag across the river. The distracted father hastened after and could see his daughter on the very summit of the crag. Almost crazed with grief he in vain besought the sprites to return her to him. But they only laughed and jeered at him. Finally, after a long time had passed, a young knight who had long loved the maid returned from the wars, and hearing the rather awkward situation his early love was in, hastily repaired to the foot of the crag determined to rescue her. But it was in vain. There was no way of making the ascent. He was about giving up in despair when a little figure suddenly appeared before him, and asked him why he was so despondent. On learning his love for the girl she told him to come again at the same time the following evening. The young knight returned promptly, as young men in love always do, and was surprised to find a ladder reaching from the foot to the top of the crag. He hastily mounted to the summit, and there in an enchanted garden he found the object of his search, and soon restored her to her father, who henceforth was most lavish with his hospitality. The maiden and the brave young knight were united in marriage and lived a long and happy life. The ladder remained on the rock for many years, and was called the Devil’s Ladder. It fell away in the course of time, but the name has ever since been applied to the great rugged cliff.

It is a thousand pities that some of these ladders and things don’t remain, simply to give us faith in the legends. If there was just one round of the ladder left, if one could only be shown the holes in the rock in which he was fastened, it would be something, but there is nothing of the kind. You have to take it all on faith, and that is sometimes wrenching.

All the way along the river, from here to beyond Coblenz, the Rhine is a succession of constantly changing views as the boat winds its way around the tortuous channel, every one more beautiful and picturesque than its predecessor. There are castles on high hills on the right bank, some close to the river, others further inland, just discernable through the trees. On the left bank are pretty villas and more castles, and occasionally an island is passed that has on it a ruined watch tower built hundreds of years ago, when might was right in this romantic country.

Just before approaching the pretty village of St. Goar, on the left hand of the Rhine, the imposing rocks of the Lurlie rise over four hundred feet above the river. Here the current is very swift, and many are the tales told of bold adventurous knights who have lost their lives under the shadow of this famous rock.

Of course the Lurlieberg, as the rock is called, has its legend, as has every well regulated rock on the river. A rock without an appropriate legend would be no rock at all. The knights and ladies, and witches and devils, of the olden time, existed, apparently, solely in the interest of the booksellers of Mayence, and the other cities of to-day. The legend of the Lurlie runs something like this:

The rock known as the Lurlie was the resort of a water-nymph, who was about as capricious as other nymphs. She was a young lady who could live under water as well as above it; in fact, her permanent residence was under the Rhine. Her regular recreation was to come out of the wet, and sit on a rock, and comb her long, yellow hair (she was a natural blonde, as all entrancers are), and sing, accompanying herself on a golden lute.

Of course all the young men in the vicinity fell desperately in love with her, and they went for her. But while the nymph would sing and pose for them so as to set them crazy, their boats were all dashed to pieces upon the rock, whereat the nymph would laugh, and comb her hair, and sing, and entice other young fellows to their doom. She was kindly only to fishermen, and the one item to her credit is that she never did them harm, but always good. That was probably because they were old men, and unimpressible.

The son of a count in the vicinity, fell in love with her, and despite the warnings he had received, determined to conquer her. He ordered his boat, and commanded the men to steer for the fatal rock. There was no nymph on it at first, but after a minute or two she appeared more radiantly beautiful than ever. The foolish young man attempted to climb the rock, but he fell into the seething waves and was never more seen.

Then his father swore vengeance and sent valiant men to seize her and burn her as a witch. The result might have been anticipated. The nymph sang a song to the waves and plunged into them, laughing, the same waves upsetting the boat which held the soldiers, and she descended to her cave under the water, while her pursuers thought themselves lucky to escape with their lives.

At another time a maiden loved a young man who was to go to Palestine to fight the Saracens. During his absence she was so persecuted by the other young men that she retired to a convent near the Lurlie, and waited for her lover. At last she saw a boat approaching filled with men, and among them, gorgeously attired, was her young man. Unfortunately to get to where she was the boat had to come very near the rock, the water-demons raised the whirlpool, the beautiful nymph presiding with a mocking smile, and they seized the doomed craft and hurled it against the rock, and down it went, and all on board were lost. The hapless maid plunged into the seething waves after her lover, and as she went under the flood, the nymph of the Lurlie appeared on the surface, beautiful as ever, but with the laugh that was frightfully harsh and discordant. She could not bear to see earthly young maids happy.

That same night she was on the rock as usual, combing her hair, and other young men got into her toils, till there was a scarcity of eligible suitors in the neighborhood.

She was a dangerous person, this young nymph of Lurlie.

Passing Coblenz, a beautiful city, picturesquely situated at the confluence of the Mosel and the Rhine, we soon came to the Siebengebergen, “Seven Mountains,” the rugged banks gradually tone down, and between Bonn and Cologne the scenery is not so interesting, because of the grandeur of that which has preceded it. Still it is not altogether devoid of interest, though it is of a quieter and less imposing kind. After a five hours’ ride through such magnificence, one is quite willing to take it in a little milder form, and we were thoroughly content when we landed in Cologne, the great cathedral city.

Was there ever a steamboat, or stage, or rail car, or any other place where people are thrown together in such a way that they can not escape, that that unmitigated nuisance, that nuisance without any compensating features, the knowing young man, the young man who knows everything that a young man should be ashamed to have it known that he does know, is not present? There is a tremendous crop of these weeds every year: Lightning strikes innocent cows and beautiful houses, but it never hits one of these fellows, which argues a great waste of electricity. Good men and beautiful women die of fevers and such complaints, but these insects never have anything of the kind. A row of shanties never burns, but stately buildings go down or up in smoke daily.

They are an exasperating set. They do not seem to know that it is rather discreditable than otherwise for a man not in the trade to actually know all about wines and liquors, and things of that nature. But when a young fellow is weak enough to profess this disreputable knowledge when he has it not, he ought to be immediately taken out and killed. To see the old wine tasters and the ancient beer drinkers, who do actually know all about these things, smile and wink at the vaporings of these young simpletons, is a piteous sight. But, heaven help them, they go on just the same. Panoplied in egotism, they do not know they are asses, and therefore enjoy themselves. It is a delightful thing to be an egotist. An egotist pities the people who do not enjoy him.

We had him on our steamer down the Rhine. He was six feet high, with a moustache, and a billy-cock hat, and pointed shoes, and short coat, and all that, and he talked to everybody.

“Know Ned Stokes? Should say so! Knew him before he killed Jim Fisk. Used to meet him at Harry Felter’s, and many a hot old time I’ve had with him. Last time I met Ned was in Chicago, and we were both so blind drunk we didn’t know whether we were in Illinois or Louisiana.”

He rattled on about wines, and salads, and so on, and then a bottle of wine that he had ordered came up. He took a little of it in his mouth, and rinsed it, and passed the bottle under his nose, backward and forward, and sniffed critically, and then remarked sagely that it would do, but that it was not quite up to the mark, and that it was difficult to get good wine even in the Rhine country.

From this he glided off to beer, criticising the various varieties, with the air of a man who had lived a long life in sampling beverages and doing everything else of that kind, and he branched out in cheerful conversation about celebrities in the various walks of life.

“D’ye ever meet Ned Sothern? Poor Ned! There was Ned and Billy Florence, and we used to have high old times before poor Ned went under. I remember—”

Tibbitts moved uneasily in his chair, which portended something.

“Then there was Uncle John Brougham, and Lester Wallack”—and he went glibly through all the noted actors and actresses as though he had been a boon companion and bosom friend of all of them for years.

Then he took a short excursion into the realm of sport. He knew every pugilist who had ever fought, every rower, every pedestrian, and all the crack shots and base ball players, and he had the dates of their various performances down to a dot. He reeled off this interesting matter, toying the while with corks from champagne bottles, pausing a moment in his narrations, to give the history of each one.

He not only knew all these people, but he never by any means used family names. He did not say, “Mr. Fechter,” it was “Charley,” “Old Charley,” and when he spoke of women it was not “Miss Rose Eytinge,” it was “Rosy.” And he kept on talking of clubs, and horses, and yachts, and fishing, and gunning, and cards, and women, and racing, and “events” of that sort, till Tibbitts pounced down upon him as a cat does upon a mouse.

“May I ask what part of the Great Republic you are from?” asked Tibbitts.

“I hail from Kokomo, Indiana, but I spend most of my time East.”

“Your business?”

“Business, ah, I am in hardware.”

“I see—you have a branch house in New York. Do you know Billy Vanderbilt? No? You ought to know him. Take Billy Vanderbilt and Russ Sage, and Cy Field, and little Gouldy, and you just more than have an everlasting team. And there’s Chet Arthur; who’d ever spose that Chet would ever have got to be President? Some men have all the luck. And there’s Jack Sherman, of Ohio, why Jack and I—but never mind. I don’t let on all I know. But I tell you, when Jack and his brother Cump—he’s the general of the armies now, and his other brother Charley, is a judge. Poor Scotty, of Philadelphia, the president of the Pennsylvania Road, he’s gone. He couldn’t stand the racket, and he went under. But Hughy Jewett, of the Erie, he’s another kind of a rooster, he is. He is in with Gus Belmont, and they two, with Jim Keene and Dave Mills, of San Francisco—well you ought to just see them punish wine after they have taken the boys in and done for ’em. They are up to everything, they are. I remember one night—”

“Where are you from?” asked the knowing young man, gasping in astonishment at this array of names and the familiarity with which they were used.

“Me! Oh, I’m from Oshkosh; but I have a branch house in New York too. I go down just once a year to sell live stock, and I pick up more names in the week I stay there than an ordinary man can remember, and I remember all their given names, and I can reel them off just as fast as any Indiana young man I ever met, and I know them just as well. Only I prefer financiers and statesmen to horse men, actors and prize fighters. I am very select. Next year I shall not know anybody under a senator. You may just as well know big men, really great men, as merely notorious ones. Now there’s ‘Lyss Grant and Bob Schenck, and Rufe Ingalls, and Black Jack Logan, you ought to just sit down with them at a game of poker! That’s where you have sport, and as for fishing, Bill Wheeler, till he got spoiled by being Vice-President, he could everlastingly handle a rod, and the way he’d yank ’em out was a caution. He was no slouch. Many a time I’ve—”

The wise young man from Kokomo, Indiana, Who Knew Everybody, could not endure the reminiscences of the Oshkosh young man, and he beat a precipitate retreat and we saw him no more. Tibbitts drew a sigh of relief and remarked that he had never strained his imagination so frightfully in all his life.