This day was passed on board the steamer, going to Mayence. We embarked at ten in the morning. Years had elapsed since I had passed down this river, before steamers were in use—in an ungainly boat, managed in a still more ungainly manner. Memory had painted the Rhine as a scene of enchantment; and the reality came up to what I remembered. The inferior beauty of the banks of the Moselle enhanced still more the prouder and more romantic glories of the Rhine. The promontories stood in bolder relief—the ruined castles and their ramparts were more extensive and more majestic—the antique spires and Gothic abbeys spoke of a princely clergy—and the extent of mouldering walls marked cities belonging to a more powerful population. Each tower-crowned hill—each picturesque ruin—each shadowy ravine and beetling precipice—was passed, and gazed upon with eager curiosity and delight. The very names are the titles of volumes of romance: all the spirits of Old Germany haunt the place. Even the events of modern days have added an interesting tale:—When the German soldiers, led by Blucher, and driving the proud fallen victor before them, beheld the river honoured by them, so late occupied by the enemy they hated, now open and free, the name of “The Rhine!” burst from many
