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 Cas