THE RHINE
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.
[Illustration]
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?