  THIS beautiful and wonderful river, the cause of much contention and many songs, was less than one half-hour’s ride. Who has not talked and lectured with stereopticon views on the Rhine the past winter? Every woman’s club has at least from two to five to give guide-book descriptions, and expects their fair listeners to believe that in the few hours passing down this stream in a “schnell Dampfschiffahrt” they are able to tell all its history. We were near enough to this noble stream to enjoy it many times, but there was one of our trips more notable than others. We had taken rate tickets to Coblenz to see its grand monument and other points of interest. Those who are able to travel up-stream, as it was our good fortune many times to do, perhaps had a better opportunity to enjoy the varied and romantic scenery which comes into view at every turn in the river. We had gone to Coblenz for the day, but the trip was perverted and twisted to mean anything by a busybody who could not lay aside her gossip long enough to enjoy the few hours she was fortunate enough to be on this noble stream. In after years what a loss to her when she misplaces her guide-book, and her little mind fails to remember one thing she saw! Rhenish castles lost their charm as she devoured two people who happened to be on the same boat because they had a right to be there, and could afford to enjoy this privilege. But the Rhine! We have all seen pictures of it and read its legends. You know that the Rhenish province is the richest in Germany, and it is to Germany what the Nile was to the Egyptians—a real delight and a theme of song and story. They say over there, “Our Rhine is like your Hudson.” Don’t think so. I am living near the banks of the latter and have gone its length many times, but it reminded me often of the canyons of Colorado in this way: it winds among the craggy hills of splendid form, turning so abruptly as to leave you often shut in, with no visible outlet from the wall of rock and vineyards. The castles were gazed upon, with their ruins, some with feudal towers and battlements still perfect, and hanging on the crags, or standing sharp against the sky, or nestling by the stream. The most beautiful one to me is Burg Rheinstein. I don’t know whether it is admired because of its claim that CÆsar crossed here or a couple of miles upstream, or that it was the birthplace of some feudal baron; it is probably better known for the fine brand of wine made there. Whether its vine-clad hills resemble a crazy-quilt or not, with its many shades of green fastened together with stone-wall terraces one way, and joined together with sticks like bean-poles another way, it is satisfying, and you’ve seen the Rhine, and you can lord it over some by saying, “When we were on the Rhine.” In some respects it resembles our own New York. The mercenary wretches you encounter at every point sort of make one forget about its legendary reputation. Like all Continental Europe a mercenary atmosphere is omnipresent. You have to buy all your views. The national monument at RhÜdesheim-on-the-Rhine is one of its most interesting spots, just opposite Bingen-on-the-Rhine. This grand monument commands a view of about ninety miles on a clear day in this part of Germany. There is an inclined railway to it from the village below; but we took a carriage, driving up its steep hillside, with the vineyards stretching away in rows for miles on either side. The little houses clinging to the hillsides are quaint and queer. As we wended our way through the little village, they seemed jammed into the crevices between the steep hills. The streets are all cobble-stoned, and, as we clattered up them, above the clatter of the horses’ feet we could hear the bells ring loudly for matins, the sound reverberating in the narrow way, and following us with its benediction when we were far up the hillside. A splendid forest of trees covered the hilltop, not trimmed and cut into allÉes of arches, as we too frequently see on this side of the Atlantic. Sometimes one feels that the castles come so thick that our appreciation would have been greater if they had been fewer. A shifting panorama of vine-clad hills or mountains, with here and there an old feudal tower. About the only variation is in the English people you are meeting at every turn. The variety seems almost infinite, but they all impress you as a people with no nonsense and very strong individuality, and whatever information they give you you can rely upon it, “don cher know!” The American impatience is manifested everywhere—first on boats and trains and first off. You can bet on them every time. The New York “step lively” gait. What shall we do? This was the question as we sat in a most delicious place in “Kur” Garden in one of those cozy nooks overlooking extensive grounds under grand old trees (no mosquitoes), listening to the band playing in its gilded bower, and surrounded by the choicest art, which for the time being paled the moon which was rising in the same regal splendor that characterizes her on the western hemisphere. Shall we continue our daily walks through winding ways up terraced hills, flanked by splendid masonry and hidden in trees, and palaces as a rich faÇade for a background? Here the field sports were being indulged in by great numbers. Shall we sit here and dream in floods of golden sunlight, or shall we proceed to Munich by way of NÜrnberg? |
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