Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend.  One feels everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come back upon the mind with irresistible force.  I sat upon the deck the whole afternoon, as mountains, towns and castles passed by on either side, watching them with a feeling of the most enthusiastic enjoyment.  Every place was familiar to me in memory, and they seemed like friends I had long communed with in spirit and now met face to face.  The English tourists, with whom the deck was covered, seemed interested too, but in a different manner.  With Murray’s Handbook open in their hands, they sat and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely lifting their eyes to the real scenes, except now and then, to observe that it was “very nice.”

As we passed Boppart, I sought out the Inn of the “Star,” mentioned in “Hyperion”; there was a maiden sitting on the steps who might have been Paul Flemming’s fair boat-woman.  The clouds which had here gathered among the hills, now came over the river, and the rain cleared the deck of its crowd of admiring tourists.  As we were approaching Lurlei Berg, I did not go below, and so enjoyed some of the finest scenery on the Rhine alone.  The mountains approach each other at this point, and the Lurlei Rock rises up for six hundred feet from the water.  This is the haunt of the water nymph, Lurlei, whose song charmed the ear of the boatman while his barque was dashed to pieces on the rocks below.  It is also celebrated for its remarkable echo.  As we passed between the rocks, a guard, who has a little house built on the road-side, blew a flourish on his bugle, which was instantly answered by a blast from the rocky battlements of Lurlei.  The German students have a witty trick with this echo:  they call out, “Who is the Burgomaster of Oberwesel?” a town just above.  The echo answers with the last syllable “Esel!” which is the German for ass.

The sun came out of the cloud as we passed Oberwesel, with its tall round tower, and the light shining through the ruined arches of Schonberg castle, made broad bars of light and shade in the still misty air.  A rainbow sprang up out of the Rhine, and lay brightly on the mountain side, coloring vineyard and crag, in the most singular beauty, while its second reflection faintly arched like a glory above the high summits.  In the bed of the river were the seven countesses of Schonberg, turned into seven rocks for their cruelty and hard-heartedness towards the knights whom their beauty had made captive.  In front, at a little distance was the castle of Pfalz, in the middle of the river, and from the heights above Caub frowned the crumbling citadel of Gutenfels.  Imagine all this, and tell me if it is not a picture whose memory should last a life-time!

We came at last to Bingen, the southern gate of the Highlands.  Here, on an island in the middle of the stream, is the old Mouse tower where Bishop Hatto of Mayence was eaten up by the rats for his wicked deeds.  Passing Rudesheim and Geissenheim, celebrated for their wines, at sunset, we watched the varied shore in the growing darkness, till like a line of stars across the water, we saw before us the bridge of Mayence.