Among the most interestin’ of the relicks wuz the skulls of the three Wise Men who came to worship the infant Christ. Here their old skulls wuz shown—they sed they wuz theirn. I d’no, nor Josiah don’t, whether they wuz the Wise Men or not, and of course it wuz eighteen hundred years too late to ask ’em. No, wise as they wuz, their bones wuz on a par with the bones of the ’leven thousand virgins that we see there in another meetin’-house.
I d’no as they wuz virgins or not, or wuz massacreed, as they sed. Martin sed it wuz a perfect fraud. But I d’no either way. Anyway, there the bones wuz, a real lot of ’em.
Wall, I guess the hull on us wuz glad to git onto the little steamer that wuz to take us up the beautiful Rhine. And we found that it wuz indeed beautiful, though after bein’ on sech intimate terms as I had been with the St. Lawrence and the Hudson, I wuzn’t a-goin’ to say I had never seen any river so grand—no, indeed!
CHAPTER XXIX.
SAMANTHA CLIMBS THE RIGHI.
Our noble St. Lawrence could have took the Rhine in if she had been in need and adopted her, and let her run along with her, a-murmurin’ and a-babblin’ as children will, and nobody would have been the wiser only the old Saint herself.
And the Hudson is jest as beautiful. No old castles on the Rhine tower up so grand as Nater’s old homesteads, the Palisades, where she has dwelt, with Majesty, and Strength, and Sublimity, and Beauty for hired help, for so many centuries, and is a-livin’ there still in the same old place with the same help. Them who have eyes to see, can see her there right along day by day, and night by night, with her help all round her. Sometimes the risin’ and settin’ sun a-gildin’ their calm brows. And sometimes the big, serene moon a-standin’ over ’em as if lovin’ to linger with ’em. Their serene forwards a-shinin’ with the love they have for him—or her (I d’no whether to call the moon a him or a her. It is so kinder changeable, my first thought wuz to call it a him).
But to resoom. Yes, we found the Rhine beautiful. It runs along in my memory now like a beautiful paneramy right when I’m round the house a-doin’ up my mornin’s work, or night-times when I wake up ever or anon or oftener that fair picter onfolds in front of me—the ripplin’ waters, the shores sometimes smooth and grassy, with orchards and vineyards; fields of grain, with wimmen a-workin’ in ’em, as well as men; high rocky shores, with grim old castles perched up on the cliffs, tree-embowered; anon a wayside shrine, with the image of the Virgin a-lookin’ calmly on us tired voyagers, or the face of our Lord hallowin’ the spot, or the baby Christ in his Ma’s arms. It made the spots where we see ’em more lifted up, and made me feel kinder safer, though I knew it wuz only some wood and paint and glass it wuz made of. I spoze it wuz the memories and thoughts they invoked that seemed to hover over us some like wings.
How it sweeps onward in my mind—high cliffs three or four hundred feet high, with a picteresque old castle perched on it; anon a bridge of boats more’n a thousand feet long!
Then I see, a-lookin’ onto the paneramy, dog-teams, peasants, soldiers, beautiful towns, queer little villages, lovely villas, humble cottages, green grass, wavin’ trees, blue murmurin’ river. Ah, how it floats along in front of my foretop! Coblentz—Thurnberg—then the high cliff where the Siren ust to set and sing. I wonder if she sets there now? I mistrusted she’d kinder moved down into the vineyards. She sings there a sight, lurin’ the wine lovers right along to destruction.