remained in a close carriage on deck, with the blinds drawn down, all day.
I believe I am nearly the first English person, who many years ago made a wild, venturous voyage, since called hacknied;—when in an open flat-bottomed sort of barge we were borne down the rapid stream, sleeping at night under the starry canopy, the boat tethered to a willow on the banks; and when we changed for a more commodious bark, how rude it was, and how ill-conducted, as it drifted, frequently turning round and round, and was carried down by the sheer force of the stream; and what uncouth animals were with us, forming a fearful contrast between their drunken brutalities and the scene of enchantment around. Two years ago I renewed my acquaintance with the Rhine, and emerging on it from the Moselle, it gained in dignity by contrast with the banks of a river only less beautiful. Then the diorama, as it were, of tower-crowned crag and vine-clad hills—of ruined castle, fallen abbey, and time-honoured battlements, sufficed to enchain the attention and satisfy the imagination; and now—was I really blasée, and did my fancy no longer warm as I looked around? No; but I wanted more: I had seen enough of the Rhine, as a picture, all that the steam-voyager sees;—I desired to penetrate the
