You have seen the Rhine in pictures; you have read its legends. You
know, in imagination at least, how it winds among 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 forest; how the castles, some
in ruins so as to be as unsightly as any old pile of rubbish, others
with feudal towers and battlements, still perfect, hang on the crags, or
stand sharp against the sky, or nestle by the stream or on some lonely
island. You know that the Rhine has been to Germans what the Nile was
to the Egyptians,--a delight, and the theme of song and story. Here the
Roman eagles were planted; here were the camps of Drusus; here Caesar
bridged and crossed the Rhine; here, at every turn, a feudal baron, from
his high castle, levied toll on the passers; and here the French found a
momentary halt to their invasion of Germany at different times. You can
imagine how, in a misty morning, as you leave Bonn, the Seven Mountains
rise up in their veiled might, and how the Drachenfels stands in new and
changing beauty as you pass it and sail away. You have been told that
the Hudson is like the Rhine. Believe me, there is no resemblance; nor
would there be if the Hudson were lined with castles, and Julius Caesar
had crossed it every half mile. The Rhine satisfies you, and you do not
recall any other river. It only disappoints you as to its “vine-clad
hills.” You miss trees and a covering vegetation, and are not enamoured
of the patches of green vines on wall-supported terraces, looking from
the river like hills of beans or potatoes. And, if you try the Rhine
wine on the steamers, you will wholly lose your faith in the vintage. We
decided that the wine on our boat was manufactured in the boiler.
There is a mercenary atmosphere about hotels and steamers on the Rhine,
a watering-place, show sort of feeling, that detracts very much from
one's enjoyment. The old habit of the robber barons of levying toll on
all who sail up and down has not been lost. It is not that one actually
pays so much for sightseeing, but the charm of anything vanishes when it
is made merchandise. One is almost as reluctant to buy his “views” as he
is to sell his opinions. But one ought to be weeks on the Rhine before
attempting to say anything about it.
One morning, at Bingen,--I assure you it was not six o'clock,--we took
a big little rowboat, and dropped down the stream, past the Mouse Tower,
where the cruel Bishop Hatto was eaten up by rats, under the
shattered Castle of Ehrenfels, round the bend to the little village of
Assmannshausen, on the hills back of which is grown the famous red
wine of that name. On the bank walked in line a dozen peasants, men and
women, in picturesque dress, towing, by a line passed from shoulder to
shoulder, a boat filled with marketing for Rudesheim. We were bound
up the Niederwald, the mountain opposite Bingen, whose noble crown of
forest attracted us. At the landing, donkeys awaited us; and we began
the ascent, a stout, good-natured German girl acting as guide and
driver. Behind us, on the opposite shore, set round about with a wealth
of foliage, was the Castle of Rheinstein, a fortress more pleasing in
its proportions and situation than any other. Our way was through the
little town which is jammed into the gorge; and as we clattered up
the pavement, past the church, its heavy bell began to ring loudly for
matins, the sound reverberating in the narrow way, and following us
with its benediction when we were far up the hill, breathing the fresh,
inspiring morning air. The top of the Niederwald is a splendid forest of
trees, which no impious Frenchman has been allowed to trim, and cut into
allees of arches, taking one in thought across the water to the
free Adirondacks. We walked for a long time under the welcome shade,
approaching the brow of the hill now and then, where some tower or
hermitage is erected, for a view of the Rhine and the Nahe, the villages
below, and the hills around; and then crossed the mountain, down through
cherry orchards, and vine yards, walled up, with images of Christ on
the cross on the angles of the walls, down through a hot road where wild
flowers grew in great variety, to the quaint village of Rudesheim, with
its queer streets and ancient ruins. Is it possible that we can have too
many ruins? “Oh dear!” exclaimed the jung-frau as we sailed along the
last day, “if there is n't another castle!”