Elizabeth is now in a position to decide whether the Rhine is a cocktail river or no, for she is on it, and so am I. We are sitting, with an awning over our heads, and little wooden stools under our feet. Elizabeth has a small sailor’s hat and blue ribbon on her head. The river breeze has blown it rather awry; has tangled her plenteous hair; has made a faint pink stain on her pale cheeks. It is some fête day, and the boat is crowded. Tables, countless camp-stools, volumes of black smoke pouring from the funnel, as we steam along. “Nothing to the Caledonian Canal!” cries a burly Scotchman in leggings, speaking with loud authority, and surveying with an air of contempt the eternal vine-clad slopes, that sound so well, and look so _sticky_ in reality. “Cannot hold a candle to it!” A rival bride and bridegroom opposite, sitting together like love-birds under an umbrella, looking into each other’s eyes instead of at the Rhine scenery. “They might as well have stayed at home, might not they?” says my wife, with a little air of superiority. “Come, we are not so bad as that, are we?” A storm comes on: hailstones beat slantwise and reach us--stone and sting us right under our awning. Everybody rushes down below, and takes the opportunity to feed ravenously. There are few actions more disgusting than eating _can_ be made. A handsome girl close to us--her immaturity evidenced by the two long tails of black hair down her back--is thrusting her knife half way down her throat. “Come on deck again,” says Elizabeth, disgusted and frightened at this last sight. “The hail was much better than this!” So we return to our camp-stools, and sit alone under one mackintosh in the lashing storm, with happy hearts and empty stomachs. “Is not this better than any luncheon?” asks Elizabeth, triumphantly, while the raindrops hang on her long and curled lashes. “Infinitely better,” reply I, madly struggling with the umbrella to prevent its being blown inside out, and gallantly ignoring a species of gnawing sensation at my entrails. The squall clears off by-and-by, and we go steaming, steaming on past the unnumbered little villages by the water’s edge with church spires and pointed roof, past the countless rocks with their little pert castles perched on the top of them, past the tall, stiff poplar rows. The church bells are ringing gaily as we go by. A nightingale is singing from a wood. The black eagle of Prussia droops on the stream behind us, swish-swish through the dull green water. A fat woman who is interested in it, leans over the back of the boat, and by some happy effect of crinoline, displays to her fellow-passengers two yards of thick white cotton legs. She is, fortunately for herself, unconscious of her generosity.