LETTER XIII.

Ferry across the Rhine.—­Village of Rudesheim.—­The Hinter-hausen Wine,—­Drunkenness.—­Neapolitan curiosity respecting America.—­The Rhenish Wines enumerated.—­Ingelheim.—­Johannisberg.—­Conventual Wine.—­Unseasonable praise.—­House and Grounds of Johannisberg.—­State of Nassau.—­Palace at Biberich.—­The Gardens.—­Wiesbaden.—­Its public Promenade.—­Frankfort on the Maine.

Dear ——­,

Within an hour after we left the Ritterstein, we were crossing the bridge that leads into Bingen.  Like true flaneurs, we had not decided where to sleep, and, unlike flaneurs, we now began to look wistfully towards the other side of the Rhine into the duchy of Nassau.  There was no bridge, but then there might be a ferry.  Beckoning to the postmaster, who came to the side of the carriage, I put the question.  “Certainly, as good a ferry as there is in Germany.”—­“And can we cross with your horses?”—­“Ja—­ja—­we do it often.”  The affair was arranged in a minute.  The leaders were led back to the stable, and with two horses we drove down to the water-side.  A skiff was in readiness, and spreading a sprit-sail, we were in the middle of the stream before there was time for thought.  In ten minutes we landed in the celebrated Rheingau, and at the foot of a hill that was teeming with the vines of Rudesheim.  “Charlemagne observing, from the window of his palace at Ingelheim,” says an old legend, “that the snow disappeared from the bluff above Rudesheim earlier than from any of the neighbouring hills, caused the same to be planted with vines.”  What has become of Charlemagne and his descendants, no one knows; but here are the progeny of his vines to the present hour.

Francois followed us in a few minutes with the carriage and horses, and we were soon comfortably housed in an inn, in the village of Rudesheim.  Here, then, we were in the heart of the richest wine region in Europe, perhaps in the world.  I looked curiously at mine host, to see what effect this fact might have had on him, but he did nor appear to have abused the advantage.  He told me there had just been a sale, at which I should have been most welcome; complained that much sour liquor was palmed off on the incredulous as being the pure beverage; and said that others might prefer Johannisberger, but for his part, good hinter-hausen[30] was good enough for him.  “Would I try a bottle?” The proposition was not to be declined, and with my dinner I did try a bottle of his oldest and best; and henceforth I declare myself a convert to Rudesheimer hinter-hausen. One cannot drink a gallon of it with impunity, as is the case with some of the French wines; but I feel persuaded it is the very article for our market, to use the vernacular of a true Manhattanese.  It has body to bear the voyage, without being the fiery compound that we drink under the names of Madeira and Sherry.