by the Rhine, and whose outworks are pushed to all the neighbouring eminences.  The position of Coblentz, at the junction of the Rhine and the Moselle, the latter of which penetrates into the ancient electorate of Treves, now belonging to Prussia, may render it an important station to that power, but it does not strike me as military.  The enemy that can seize any one of its numerous outworks, or forts, must essentially command the place.  As at Genoa, it seems to me that too much has been attempted to succeed.

Last night we had a convent that was a parallelogram of six hundred feet by three hundred, all to ourselves; while this night we were crowded into a small and uncomfortable inn that was overflowing with people.  The house was noisy and echoish, and not inappropriately called the “Three Swiss.”

We crossed the river by the bridge of boats, and ascended the opposite hill to enjoy the view.  There was another island up the stream, with a ruined convent, but unhappily it was not an inn.  The Rhine is a frontier for much of its course, washing the shores of France, Darmstadt, Bavaria, Baden, Nassau, Prussia, &c., &c., for a long distance, and permanent bridges are avoided in most places.  The floating bridges, being constructed of platforms laid on boats, that are united by clamps, can be taken apart, and withdrawn, to either shore, in an hour or two.

We quitted Coblentz at ten, and now began in truth to enter the fine scenery of the Rhine.  The mountains, or rather hills, for they scarcely deserve the former name, close upon the river, a short distance below the town, and from that moment, with very immaterial exceptions, the road follows the windings of the stream, keeping generally within a few yards of the water.  The departures from this rule are not more than sufficient to break the monotony of a perfectly uniform scene.  I have nothing new to tell you of the ruined castles—­the villages and towns that crowd the narrow strand—­the even and well-kept roads—­the vine-covered hills—­and the beautiful sinuosities of this great artery of Europe.  To write any thing new or interesting of this well-beaten path, one must linger days among the ruins, explore the valleys, and dive into the local traditions.  We enjoyed the passage, as a matter of course, but it was little varied, until we drew near the frontier of Prussia, when a castle, that stood beetling on a crag, immediately above the road, caught my eye.  The building, unlike most of its sister edifices, appeared to be in good order; smoke actually arose from a beacon-grate that thrust itself out from an advanced tower, which was nearly in a perpendicular line above us, and the glazed windows and other appliances denoted a perfect and actual residence.  As usual, the postilion was questioned.  I understood him to say that the place was called the Ritterstein, but the name is of little moment.  It was a castle of the middle ages, a real hold of the Rhine, which had been purchased