early rising is absolutely indispensable to the tourist on the moselle. the steamers constantly start at five or six in the morning, and if walking, the midday heat is too great to be encountered; added to which, he would lose his pleasant rest-time by the sparkling stream.

from berncastel, then, in the grey of early morning, we wander forth. there are roads on both banks,[154]—small pleasant by-roads, through gardens and vineyards. as we proceed, and begin to think that coffee and new-laid eggs would be no encumbrance, but rather help to balance the system, a faint tinge of crimson appears over the grey hills; little wreaths of mist break away from the mass of watery vapour that clings to the river’s banks, and curl upwards to the light, and then with all its glory comes the

break of day.

how beautiful the first faint rays of light,

gilding the clouds that, banishing the night,

come like swift messengers, and drive away

from us the darkness, ushering in the day!

the day approaches, brighter and more bright;

the heavens seem bursting with the coming light;

up flames the sun! and first the lofty hills,

the corn and uplands, with his lustre fills;

the shades retire, the birds melodious sing,

the glad earth turns to meet its gracious king;

cool blows the wind, the water freshly flows,

all earth rejoices and in sunlight glows.

how strong and full of life we feel as (having break-fasted) we stride along, drinking in with every breath the pure sweet air! “guten morgen” has not yet given place to “guten tag,” and the peasants are ascending to their labour amid the vines; suddenly a strain of martial music fills the air, and all look towards the trees through which now wind a body of soldiers, with their helmets glittering in the light; gaily they march along; the music ceases, and voices take up the strain, [155]which gradually sounds fainter as “the pomp of war” recedes into the distance, until at length the air is left free to the songs of birds.

the birds, the flowers, the trees, the river,—all inoculate our senses with their delights; all claim our praise and thankfulness: but to which shall we award

the prize of beauty?

the birds sang, “unto us the prize

“of beauty must be given;

“our songs at morn and evening rise,

“filling the vault of heaven.”

the flowers uplifted their bright heads

from where they had their birth;

“nay, for our scented beauty sheds

“a charm o’er all the earth.”

the trees from ev’ry leafy glade

their claims with haste expressed;

they urged that they “gave cooling shade,

“’neath which mankind could rest.”

the stream in gentle music said,

“like birds i sweetly sing;

“like flowers a charm o’er earth i spread,

“like trees i coolness fling:

“thus all their beauties i combine;

“and unto me is given

“a greater glory, for i shine

“with light that flows from heaven.”

where we come to patches of grain-land we find the ploughman busy with his oxen turning up the fresh earth. the oxen are coupled together by short beams of wood, which are fastened to their heads, [156]and must keep the poor animals in a constant state of misery; in other respects the cattle seem well cared for.

occasionally we meet droves of sheep tended by boys and dogs. the sheep crop a precarious livelihood from the bits of waste land near the river and on the slopes of hills, whose aspect is unfavourable to the culture of the vine.

arriving at zeltingen, on the right bank, we taste one of the most delicious wines on the moselle; it is of a fine rich colour, with a highly-scented flavour, but is withal light and sparkling. in the following incident it will be seen that this wine was properly appreciated by the prebends who owned the martinshof farm in former days.

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the cask in reserve.

the fame of the wine made from the grapes that grew in the martinshof vineyard penetrated even to trèves, and the elector philip was very desirous to drink of a wine so renowned; but the monks, who owned the vineyard, would not take heed of the hints dropped by the elector on this subject, as they did not love his tyrannical government.

the elector, therefore, determined, under the pretext of an official inspection, to visit the cloister.

he accordingly arrived, and the prebends, who had been summoned to meet him, did not fail to make their appearance. [157]

the abbot perceived that the inspection concerned more his cellar than his cloister. he kept his own counsel, and ordered different sorts of rhine, moselle, and nahe wine to be set before the guests, murmuring the while to himself, “drink on—drink away, my noble elector and guests; but the martinshof wine remains, bright in the cellar: of the mother cask shalt thou never taste.”

when the elector was about to leave he called the abbot aside, and praised highly the wine he had drunk, and thanked him for his hospitality; he also invited the abbot to trèves, but told him he feared he could not give him as good wine as his own martinshofberger.

the abbot smiled, thanked him for the compliment, and added, that when the elector should come to see his cloister, not his cellar, he would serve to him the real martinshof wine; till then it would be saved for his true friends.

the prebendaries and monks were so fond of good wine, that the people suppose their saints must also have a liking for grape-juice; therefore, as soon as the new wine is made each year, a bottle is placed in the hands of the effigy of the patron saint, or offered at his shrine: who drinks it eventually, does not appear.

we seem to be quite out of the world on the banks of the moselle. we wander along amid its ever-varying scenery with that delight which novelty always gives. at every turn new views break upon [158]us; at every step something calls our attention; now it is a flower, then a rock, and again a castle, a group of old houses or trees, or perhaps a little gay boat adorned with boughs of trees, in which children, celebrating a holiday, are singing: so we wander on, and find at midday that, owing to the many detentions caused by these things, and the frequent sketches the beauty of the localities have compelled us to make, we have progressed but little on our road. but what does it matter? we cannot be in a paradise too long; and at every few miles we are sure of finding a little village inn, with a clean room in which we may eat or sleep.

cloister-machern is on the left bank of our river, a little further down the stream than zeltingen. this cloister once contained a lovely nun, named

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ermesinde.

antioch had fallen before the crusaders’ arms, and the cross waved from her towers. the joyful tidings were brought to the banks of the moselle, and bonfires celebrated the event. the pilgrim who had brought this news from over sea was feasted by ermesinde’s father, and all gathered round him, eagerly catching his words.

he told of the deeds of valour performed by the christian knights; and as ermesinde greedily listened, but feared to question the pilgrim, he mentioned the name of her lover, and highly extolled him, mournfully adding, “such valour as this knight showed forth was [159]surpassed by none, but now the grave is closed over his glory.”

hearing, poor ermesinde fell as though dead, and lay motionless on the stone floor; then the pilgrim saw by the looks of those present that he had incautiously broken her heart. further interrogating the pilgrim, ermesinde’s father only gained a repetition of the first story told him, and other particulars seemed to confirm it.

the walls of cloister-machern received the poor broken reed, who offered to heaven a heart that was dead to the world.

soon poor ermesinde found that stone walls do not shut out wickedness, nor sombre dresses cover only morality; for in cloister-machern the nuns, one and all, led scandalous lives, and mocked her for not joining with them. she resisted their wiles, and sought refuge in prayer.

one evening a pilgrim arrived at the gate, and asked ermesinde, who answered the bell, to give him refreshment. as a strain of music, once familiar and dear, the sounds smote on the nun’s ear, and with a bewildered look she gazed on the pilgrim’s face; the light fell on her pale features, and the pilgrim exclaimed, “ermesinde!” one long look into each other’s eyes and time had vanished, care was forgotten, intervening years had rolled away, and ermesinde and rupert were in each other’s arms.

bound by her vows, ermesinde would not consent to accompany her lover in flight, but she agreed to [160]see him at intervals; and while her sister nuns rioted in the hall she sometimes knelt with rupert in the chapel, where they prayed for each other’s happiness.

when waiting one night for her lover, an old beggar drew near, and prayed for some food. ermesinde went in to fetch some, but the others refused her request that the old beggar should be relieved, and coming out to him, they drove him away with threats and abuse.

then the old beggar turned round, and raising his hand to the heavens, cried out: “woe be unto you, ye false servants of god! chastisement will soon overtake you.” so saying, he vanished into the dark cloudy night.

rupert and ermesinde were kneeling within the chapel when the storm which was threatening burst forth; fire struck from the clouds on the cloister, destroying the nuns in the hall; the chapel alone was preserved.

ermesinde now was persuaded that she was released from her vows, and soon she pledged them to rupert, and as his loved wife she worshipped her god and performed all her duties far better than those who uselessly shut themselves up from the world.

a curious old robbers’ nest is still to be seen in the michaelslei, which is a tall red cliff, a mile or two further on. it consists of a cave, with a strong wall built over its mouth. no path used to lead there, and [161]long ladders were used by the robbers, who, drawing them up after them, were in perfect security.

this castellated cave was once used as a prison, in which an archbishop was placed; this was the good bishop kuno, who was on his road to trèves, where he was to be installed as archbishop.

the prebends of trèves wished not to have kuno for their archbishop. they, therefore, excited count theodorich, who was governor of their town, to send out armed men and capture the bishop.

accordingly, when halting at kylburg, the bishop, who was travelling in company with the bishop of spires, was seized and carried off to the michaelslei fortress, and there thrown into a dungeon.

many days the good bishop languished in his damp cell. at length four ruffians entered and carried him forth to the top of the rock; there binding his limbs, they addressed him as follows: “we have brought you here to see whether you are, indeed, elected of god; as if so, no harm will befall you.” thus jeering, they threw him down into the valley; but the bishop sustaining no hurt, they twice repeated their deed.

finding he was not thus to be slain, they ended by killing him with their swords, and cut off his head.

the good bishop was laid in a tomb, and many miracles were there performed. these coming to the ears of the count theodorich, his conscience smote him, and he took the cross and proceeded to the holy land. the vessel, unable to uphold his guilty weight, [162]sank down, and the waters now shroud the remains of this wicked count.

rounding the promontory on which the wolf’s cloister is buried in trees, our river’s course turns for awhile in the direction of its source, so much does it wind. the wolf cloister is only a ruin, of which but little remains.

at a small chapel near here the pastor of traben used to perform a service on each tuesday after pentecost, and here gathered crowds from all parts to attend at the ceremony. all were covered with flowers, and the young of both sexes pelted each other with bouquets, and dancing and merriment occupied all. but now, says the narrator (storck), the convent and the sanctuary are no more; their place is filled with vineyards. the present age respects nothing but gold; popular fêtes, sanctuaries, souvenirs of antiquity, and rustic simplicity, are alike swallowed up, and all is sacrificed for money.

a wonderful story is told of a young lady of these parts. one fine day in summer, a very beautiful girl of the family of meesen was sitting at her open window, engaged in knitting. she was so occupied with her work or her thoughts, that she did not perceive the fearful storm that was rising over the mountains, until suddenly there came a clap of thunder that shook the whole house. arising in haste, the “fr?ulein” endeavoured to shut to the window; but before she could accomplish her object a thunderbolt fell, and striking the metal-work which adorned the laces that [163]fastened her bodice, it passed through her garments, softening the metal clasps of her garters, and partially melting her shoe-buckles; then, without having harmed the fair fr?ulein, it burst its way out by the floor.1

very high hills are surrounding us as we approach trarbach, a beautifully wooded slope, and rich cliffs announce a site of more than ordinary beauty; but before we take our evening’s rest in trarbach we must, landing at riesbach, climb to the top of mount royal.

this fortress was made by vauban for louis xiv. it cost an immense sum of money, and people from all parts were collected and forced to work at its ramparts; but sixteen years after its completion it was dismantled in compliance with treaties, and only a few mounds and walls now mark the site.

splendid views are seen from it on all sides. the river, starting from our feet, appears gliding in all directions; and the evening shadows are filling the valleys and climbing the hills, while the glory of the departing sun hangs yet upon the corn-fields.

mount royal.

upon the royal mount i stood,

the day was waning to its close;

soon the great “giver of all good”

would send to weary man repose.

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the glorious brilliancy of day

now soon would leave the world to rest;

and speed on glowing wings away,

to shine on regions further west.

beneath my feet, the haunts of men

with many sounds of eve were teeming;

the herds returning home again

drank where the river’s tide was gleaming.

beside me were the wrecks of power

that had been grasped by hand of man;

around me was that evening hour,

reminding me how short the span

of life which kingly pomp and pride,

though strong on earth, yet vainly tries

to lengthen or to set aside,

when dying on his couch he lies.

throw down thine iron sceptres then, o kings!

lift up thy feet from off thy people’s necks;

no longer look on fellow-men as things,

whose toil enriches and whose labour decks

thy fleeting pomp, thy quickly-passing pride,

which leaves thee but a worm when life decays;

when no proud robe thy earthly dust shall hide,

and vanished be the pomp of former days.

like this dead king, whose ruined forts surround,

lay not up on earth what ye deem glory,

but store that which hereafter may be found

immortal crowns and thrones to set before ye.

1 this extraordinary incident is related as a simple matter of fact, which is well known in these parts.