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-Ma............