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-............