That portion of our river which lies between TrÈves and Coblence is the most beautiful, and the part usually visited by the few who allow themselves the enjoyment of seeing scenery yet unspoiled by Art. The Moselle at this present time is much what the Rhine was half a century ago. No great roads line the banks, cutting off the quaint houses of the old towns and villages from the river-side; and the towns and villages themselves are, with some few exceptions, far more picturesque than those on the Rhine. Their old water-towers and walls still lave their bases in the stream, as those of St. Goarshausen-on-Rhine did until a few years back, when the new road drove them inland.

In places where the rocks approach closely to the river, the usual arrangement of the houses is in one long street, with behind it ruined towers perched at intervals upon the ascending walls, which straggle through the vineyards, till the rise becomes too sudden for them to climb or intruders to pass over. Where the space is larger, the houses are clustered among walnut-trees, which grow to an immense size. Perhaps the greatest charm of all in descending our river is the absence of those swarms of mere sight-seers who infest the Rhine,—the trifling discomforts of a more unfrequented route being sufficient to deter these garrulous butterflies from “doing” the Moselle; and as yet Murray has not given in detail the number of turrets to each castle on this river, for eager watchers to “tell off” as the steamer breasts the stream. Still it is remarkable how few of all those that pass the mouth of the Moselle at Coblence ascend its waters.

We now invite those who cannot in person see “the blue Moselle” to embark their minds in our skiff, and as we glide along we will tell them tales of the old time, when the ruined towers above our heads clanged with the tramp of armed men, and echoed to songs of love and wine.

TrÈves and its bridge are shut out by the trees, and the river nymphs surround us with garlands and with song.

The little incidents seen on the banks of the river as we move along are eminently picturesque, and give life and reality to what we should otherwise almost imagine to be a dream of beauty, rather than real actual scenes, where toil and labour are at work. Such foregrounds, too, for artists! Here is a woman mowing: further down, one impels a heavy boat along by means of a pole: there red cows stand, half in the water, half on a grassy slope, with the reflected green of which their red contrasts. Again, as we approach a village, some of the maidens are seen drawing water; while others, in groups and attitudes that present endless studies, wash their gay clothing, or bleach long strips of brownish linen.