Steamer, June 9,1863.
At nine, through much tribulation, and feeling like an
unprotected female in the streets of London, I reached Bingen, “sweetest flower
of the Rhine.” Amid a shower of gutturals, I found myself alone as the train
moved off, and could only respond with the sesame of “Hotel Victoria,” which,
after due German delay, brought me a broad-lipped porter, who took my bag and
shawl, and marched me off to the Victoria, dumb to all else. A supper, served
by a half-English waiter in a hall much like our White-Mountain-tavern-dining-room,
and a decent bed, kept me till 5 A. M., and then, with a cup of coffee, I
started to return on my winding way by boat — a wonderful cross of the Dutch
galliot, the river raft, and the steamer. I found Bingen to be the northern
extremity of the Rhine Highlands, as if you had stopped just above Newburgh
(Hudson), — the Rhine being the Hudson, a little variegated by robbers’
castles. Now I am as if below the Palisades (Hudson), in the flat country,
having fed on the picturesque mentally, and the Rhine wine and cutlets
physically, and being now at leisure from both appetites.
One or two of the sights I have seen would pay for the
journey, for they carry one back to the Middle Ages here, as Kenilworth or
Warwick do in England. At each bend of the river, and it bends constantly, you
find a robbers’ nest commanding it, and generally some valley leading down to
it. Some few of these are very beautiful: all are picturesque, whether in
ruins, as most of them are, or well preserved. The most beautiful is one on the
left or east bank, two hours by steamer below Bingen, — an old castle, well
preserved, nestled in a valley which protects it from the east and north, hills
rising above it and falling from the base of its towers to the river; hills too
steep for culture, so that the castle stands embowered, perched on the
hillside, with its round, minaret-looking towers and battlements. Its
architectural beauty seems to me exquisite, so bright and graceful; and its
surroundings set it off like a gem in the right place.
Then you come to little robber houses, covering less ground
than our house, that reminded one of Christie's tower in the “Black Dwarf,” a
tower and some sort of outhouse walled in. These are always in ruins; and you
have every variation from this, up to the grand castle of Ehrenbreitstein,
opposite Coblentz. The general style of these rascals was, however, to seize
some point commanding the river, and a side valley leading to it. They all mark
the bird of prey, just as the claws and sharp beak do; no ground near them for
food, no trees for shelter. Sometimes it takes my glass to make out the ruin.
Sometimes the rock goes up to such peaks that you need a glass to know there is
not a ruined castle there. Sometimes the castle is low down, right on the
river, with its battlemented walls cut through now by the railroad; more often,
perched half way up on the shoulder of a hill; almost always a threat, seldom a
place of home-like beauty and shelter. Rocks (limestone) often too steep for
aught but the bushes which, in living green, now cover them; but wherever there
is a chance to terrace, you find little nooks and vineyards.
When you come to Ehrenbreitstein, you have a noble castle,
still defensible. Now we are coming to hills less steep and generally
vine-covered, but still terraced. None picturesque, like the pine-clad hills of
the Adirondacks. Leave out the ruins, and we have many finer sights than the
Rhine; but with these, and a heart in tune, I can imagine the enthusiasm of
Byron and Bulwer. I have enjoyed it, partly as a rest in the midst of my life
of keen anxiety, and more for not expecting any pleasure beforehand. A couple
of Germans came on board who spoke no English or French, and who kindly tried,
in deep and frantic gutturals, to convey to me their appreciation of the Rhine
beauties. I had to shake my head in despair, and turn to my own fountains of
inspiration.
SOURCE: Sarah Forbes Hughes, Letters and
Recollections of John Murray Forbes, Volume 2, p. 28-30
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