-performed in this glorious old
cathedral, was beyond all that I had ever dreamt of. It seems to me
that I might think of it again in my dying hour with delight. I felt as
if it created a new soul in me. Such gushes of sweet sound, such joyful
fulness of melody, such tender breathings of hope, and love, and peace,
and then such floods of harmony filling all those sublime arches,
ascending to the far distant roof and running along through the dim
aisles--O, one must hear, to have an idea of the effect of such music
in such a place.

At Bonn we took the steamer; the day was perfect, and our pleasure was
full. You must see one of these fine old castles on the top of the
beautiful hills--you must yourself see the blue sky through its ruined
arches--you must see the vines covering every inch of the mountain that
is not solid rock, and witness the lovely effect of the gray rock
mingling with the tender green--you must hear the wild legend of the
owner of the castle in his day of power, and feel the passage of time
and civilization that has changed his fastness of strength and rapine
to a beautiful adornment of this scene of peace and plenty, its glories
all humbled, its terrors all passed away, and its great and only value
the part it plays in a picture, and the lesson it preaches, in its
decay, of the progress of justice and humanity.

From Coblentz to Bingen is the glory of the Rhine scenery; old castles
looking down over these lovely hills covered with vines and cornfields;
little villages nestled in between them; beautiful spires of the
prettiest churches you can imagine, looking as if they gathered the
houses of the villages under their protecting wings. Your soul, in
short, is full of unutterable delight. It was a sort of relief to laugh
at the legend as we passed the little island on which is the Mouse
Tower, so named from the history of Bishop Hatto, who it is said was
eaten up by rats because he refused corn in a time of scarcity to the
starving poor, when he had a plenty rotting in his storehouses.

When I was obliged at last to turn away from all these glories, the
words of Byron were in my heart:--

* * * * *

Adieu to thee again; a vain adieu;
There can be no farewell to scenes like thine.
The mind is colored by thy every hue,
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine,
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting