berncastel is a delightful, old, tumble-down-looking conglomeration of queer-shaped houses; a mountain-stream hurries through its principal street, if such a heterogeneous jumble of odd gable-ends and door-posts may be called a street: but as it does duty for one, it must receive the appellation. [145]

this street should rather be spoken of in the past tense, for the greater part of it was burnt in 1857; three times the town was on fire in this year, a church and about forty houses being consumed in the last and largest conflagration. as we shall have to revert to these fires again, suffice it to say that the part of the old street nearest the mountain was destroyed.

berncastel contains some four thousand inhabitants; the tourist passing in a steam-boat would hardly believe so many people were housed in so small a space. this remark will apply to most of the towns and villages on the moselle, for only a few of the better class of houses are visible from the water in general, the mass of buildings being huddled out of observation as much as possible, and crowded under the base of the impending hills; formerly these burgs were all walled, which accounts for the crushing.

this town dates from the tenth century, and at the end of the thirteenth it was destroyed by a fire, in which the chateau of the bishop was burnt, together with many pictures and other valuable objects, to the estimated worth of 70,000 rix thalers; it is now inhabited by many rich people, to whom a great part of the fine vineyards of the vicinity belong: there are also mines of gold, silver, copper, and lead, which serve to enrich the community.

the vineyards are very extensive, and produce a very good wine; they cover the mountain to a height of some hundreds of feet, and extend for miles down the river. we are shown the estimation in which the [146]berncasteler wine was formerly held in the following story of

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the best doctor.

the lord of the chateau of berncastel sat with his chaplain drinking his wine,—not sipping it, but pouring down huge bumpers, as was the custom then.

seeing his chaplain did not drink, the baron pressed him to do so, assuring him that the fine muscatel-berncasteler would be good for his health.

the chaplain sighing, refused, saying, “it was not meet that he should be drinking while his bishop lay sick in the town at their feet.”

“sayest thou so!” cried the baron; “i know a doctor will cure him;” and quaffing down another mighty flagon he set off to the bishop, carrying a cask of the precious wine upon his own shoulders.

arrived at the palace, he induced the invalid bishop to consult the doctor he had brought with him: the invalid tasted, and sipped, then, finding the liquor was good, he took a vast gulp, and soon a fresh life seemed glowing within him.

“that wine restores me,” quoth the bishop. “in truth, sir baron, thou saidst well; it is the best doctor.”

from that time the bishop’s health mended, and returning again and again to the great phial—for he was in nowise afraid of its size—he soon was quite cured; and ever after he consulted this doctor when feeling unwell, keeping him always within easy reach.

since this wonderful cure many patients have [147]imitated the example of the venerable bishop, and a single barrel of berncasteler-muscateler is considered sufficient to cure an ordinary patient. more must, however, be taken by those who require it; and in all cases it has been observed, that the patient so loves his good doctor he never is willing to be separated from him for long. “come and try the doctor wine, o ye who suffer under a vicious system of sour beer!”

the little openings in berncastel, for we cannot call them squares, are rich in subjects for the painter of old houses; they look as if they had walked out of one of prout’s pictures, and set themselves up like stage-scenes for the oddly-costumed people to walk and talk between.

old houses in berncastel.

old houses in berncastel.

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a good view is got from the ruined castle over the town; which not in itself very interesting, is yet, on this account, well worth a walk. when there, cus lies at our feet, with the river rolling between us and it. this cus (pronounced koos) was the birthplace of the celebrated cardinal cusanus, who, report says, was a fisherman’s son: this is, to say the least of it, very uncertain; but doubtless he was born in quite a low station of life, and by his abilities raised himself to be bishop of brixen in the tyrol, and a cardinal.

he died in 1464; his body rests at rome, and his heart is deposited in the church of the hospital which he founded at cus, for the maintenance of thirty-three persons who were to be not less than fifty years of age, and unmarried; or if married, their wives were to go into a convent.

of these thirty-three, six are ecclesiastics, six nobles, and twenty-one bourgeois; they all dine at a common table, and wear a like habit of grey; they are presided over by a rector, who is to be always a priest of irreproachable manners, a mild and good man, and not less than forty years old: all the inmates take a vow of chastity and obedience to the orders of their superiors.

the inn in berncastel is a fair sample of the houses of refreshment on the moselle: the landlord dines with his guests; the dinner is good, but ill-served, and is eaten at one o’clock, being followed by supper at eight. travellers come and go without the people of the house seeming to care whether they [149]stop long time or short; they are charged according to their nation, english paying more than french, and germans less than either: however, the charges are not at all high, except for private dinners and out-of-the-way things.

the original pie-dish bason is here found in full force, accompanied by small square boards of napkins; the scantiness, combined with the hardness of which, render them about as useful as a wooden platter would be for the purpose of drying your face,—which, owing to the fortunate construction of the bason, does not, luckily, become very wet.

an agreeable fellow-diner informed us, that on the moselle two codes of law were in force,—the prussian on the right bank, and the code napoléon on the left: thus, in berncastel a couple could not be united in marriage without a church ceremony, while in cus it was optional. our informant added that the ladies generally insisted on a church marriage, not because they thought the ceremony necessary, but to show off the grand array of their wedding-finery.

a tale is told at cus of a ghost who haunts the neighbourhood, and sometimes visits the town; he is called

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the bad maurus.

the departed maurus, who now figures as a pernicious hobgoblin, was formerly a resident of cus; a drunkard and scoffer at all things holy, this wretch filled up the measure of his iniquities by [150]beating his wife: so ill did he use her, that the neighbours were constantly obliged to come in and save her from his brutality.

the thread of his evil life was summarily cut in this manner: one night as he returned, drunk as usual, to his home, fully intending to beat his wife if waiting up, and equally bent on thrashing her if she had gone to bed, a man in black with a lantern kindly offered to show him the way home: he eagerly accepted the offer, and his guide preceded him; so the two went on, the black-hearted man led by the man in black.

in the morning maurus was found lying dead at the foot of a rock; they raised the body and brought it to his poor wife, who, forgetting all his ill-usage, sorrowed for the death of her husband.

the widow ordered a suitable funeral, and the body was laid in the churchyard, but on coming back from the funeral, maurus was seen looking from the garret-window, where he had been observing and sneering at his own funeral: everybody was horrified, and maurus continued to haunt the upper story of his wife’s house until three priests exorcised the hobgoblin, and forced him into the country.

here the mischievous rascal amused himself by shouting to the ferrymen, “fetch over! fetch over!” they, thinking it the voice of a voyager, willingly crossed; then maurus jeered them, clapping his hands: at last the priests attacked him again, and drove him into the forest. still, at times the wicked maurus [151]sneaks into town, and sits on the doorstep of his old house, and his voice is yet heard in the forest, where he wanders for ever.

a charming mountain walk of about four miles leads to trarbach. up through the vines we climb, no longer wondering where all the wine comes from; above the vines is a bare crest of heath-covered turf, then a steep descent leads into the valley, at the mouth of which trarbach is placed: but by going this road, beautiful as it is, more interesting scenery is omitted. the distance by river from berncastel to trarbach is about fifteen miles, while by land it is only, as we have said, about four, so great are the bendings of the stream; which, however, we shall follow, being by no means tired of her society. it was at berncastel that the following verses were written, after admiring the lovely effects there produced by the

morning mists.

i love the river when the sunshine gay

kisses the waves, which joyful seem to play,

dancing like elves so merrily around,

rippling and gurgling with many a happy sound.

i love the river when the dewdrops fall,

when rocks re-echo to the herdsman’s call,

who, as the eve spreads darkly o’er the plain,

returning, leads his cattle back again.

i love the river at that moonlight hour

when all bad spirits lose their evil power;

calmly and holily she rides on high,

the waves soft murmur and the zephyrs sigh.

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but most i love thee, o my gentle river!

when at glad morn the mists around thee quiver;

when round and o’er thee the faint-flowing veil

now falls, now rises with the swelling gale.

as on her wedding morn the blushing bride,

with fleecy veil and white robe seeks to hide

from eager gazers, who in crowds attend,

her beauty, and the very act doth lend

a greater charm, a new and crowning grace,

to which all other lesser charms give place:

arrayed in veil and robe of pure white, she

fit emblem is of virgin modesty.

o thy great beauty! thy enduring grace!

to which all other scenes and streams give place;

causing all those who thy sweet waters know,

to praise their god, “from whom all blessings flow.”