A little below Piesport the course of our river is obstructed by a
huge mass of nearly perpendicular rock, descending so abruptly into
the water, that no path can be made round its base. From the top of
this tremendous rock the best view on the whole river is obtained. From
there the eye can follow the windings of the stream as it serpentines
through the hills, for many miles.
Unable to force her way through, the river bends off to the right,
and wins by concession what she cannot gain by force, affording a
lesson to her sex; teaching them to encircle by affection, instead
of battling against the rock. By the latter course she may at length
succeed in her desires, but not without fretting and chafing the hard
rock, causing many a line upon its once smooth brow; and, finally,
when the way is worn, the passage forced, will not the sullen rock
for ever hang, darkening with its shadow the stream conqueror, and
threatening to fall and overwhelm the persevering brawler? while, by
the course here taken, the glad wave circles with her bright arms the
lordly rock, and the sunlight on his face is reflected in her bosom;
while the light from her gay, happy breast, is thrown back upon his
manly front.
At this corner, too, the tree-groups teach us the same lesson; repeated
and beautified by the tender water hues, they, in lending beauty to
the stream, enhance their own, and give another of the innumerable
instances in which by nature we are shown how all things are adapted
and suited to their several stations; and, by aiding and assisting
one another, increase their own beauty or usefulness: thus should it
be in life.
REFLECTIONS.
The dark shades quiver
Where the tree-tops bend
Over the river,
To whose depths they lend
Their leafy beauty, which reflected lies
Within the wave, like love that never dies;
But ever from the loved one back is thrown,
Encircling him whose love is all her own.
On the promontory which we are now leaving behind us on the right
are several little villages, of which Emmel is the principal. It is
celebrated for a schism which took place there.
In 1790, the Directory at Paris wished the Curé of Emmel to take
the same oath they had compelled the French clergy to pronounce;
and on receiving the Curé's refusal, he was proscribed. All his
flock accompanied the Curé on his being driven forth, until he thus
addressed them: "I quit you, but my spirit will always remain with
you. At Bornhofen, whither I now go, I shall say the mass every
morning at nine, and you can in spirit join in the service."
They all promised so to do; and every day at nine the people collected
in the church, and said their prayers without a Curé.
After some years the Curé died, and a new one was appointed, but
the people of Emmel persisted in saying their prayers by themselves
without any assistance; and, in spite of all remonstrances, many
families remained schismatics until a few years back. It is doubtful
whether they have all returned to their former allegiance, even at
the present time.
Round the pebbly bed in which our river sings along her course where
her banks widen, then again beneath impending cliffs, we hurry on,
past Minnheim, Rondel, Winterich, and other little nests of vitality,
from which the labourers come forth to cultivate the fertile soil.
Two pretty legends are told of this district; the first is called
"The Cell of Eberhard;" the second, "The Blooming Roses;" and there
is an evident connexion between the two.
THE CELL OF EBERHARD.
A mother, being provoked, said to her unoffending child, "Go off
to the devil!" The poor girl, frightened, wandered into the woods,
then covered with snow.
Soon the mother, growing calm, became anxious about her child,
and sought her everywhere, but she could not be found: lamenting,
she wept all night.
At daybreak she arose, and induced her neighbours to join her in her
search; but no tracks were found in the freshly-fallen snow.
The mother then sought Eberhard's Cell, and wept and prayed till
four days and nights had passed. She now requested the priest to
say a mass for her lost child. No sooner had the priest raised the
Host on high, than a tender voice sounding from the forest said,
"Your little girl yet lives."
Out sprang the mother, and there, beneath the trees, she found
her little daughter, a nosegay of summer flowers in one hand and a
green twig in the other. With tears of joy the mother clasped her,
and asked her how she had been preserved.
"Dear mother," replied the child, "has always been with me. Dear
mother carried a light, and with her ran a little dog, white as the
snow, and so faithful and kind."
Then the mother perceived that the Virgin had guarded her child;
and she led the little girl into Eberhard's Cell, where they offered
the wreath at the Virgin's shrine.
Still blossoms the wreath, embalmed by love and thankful prayer.
THE BLOOMING ROSES.
Within the forest stood a little chapel, in which was a statue of
the Virgin. Hither came a young girl, and day by day adorned it with
fresh flowers. From the Madonna's arms the infant Jesus smiled upon
the child. Thus passed the spring and summer. The girl, devoted to her
occupation, and her heart filled with love for Jesus, thought less
and less upon the things of this world. One thought alone troubled
her as the autumn advanced; this was, that in winter she would not
be able to find flowers to adorn the chapel.
This sad thought weighed heavily on her till one day, when sitting
weaving a rose-wreath for the child Jesus, a voice said in her ear,
"Be not faint-hearted: are not the summer's blessings still present
with thee? let the present be sufficient for thee:" and so the girl
wove on with lightened heart.
When winter came and the roses faded, the young girl was lying on her
death-bed; her only sorrow was leaving the Virgin and child Jesus so
lonely in the forest.
Lo! at her death the hedges once more bloomed; and, in spite of snow
and frost, fresh roses blossomed in the forest. With these was the
pall decked, and on the gentle wings of their fragrance the spirit
of the young girl was wafted to the sky.
A funny story is told of an old lady at Winterich (which we are now
passing). The old lady had been the superior of a convent which was
suppressed by the French. Much grieved at this, the old lady was seized
with fits of melancholy, and when in these fits was in the habit of
knocking her head against the table. These knocks being often repeated,
and with considerable force, the part thus ill used became hard and
horny, until at length a regular ram's horn, with three branches,
protruded from the much-knocked head. The old lady cut them down;
but they only grew larger and harder, entirely covering one of her
eyes. A surgeon being called in, operated on the old dame, who,
although now eighty-eight years old, got well through the operation,
and lived for two years after, dying in 1836.
The hill called Brauneberg is now passed; the vineyards on it produce
a fine wine, called by its name.
At Muhlheim we must leave our river for a time, and explore the
charming valley of Veldenz, with its ruined castle placed on the
summit of a richly-wooded hill. The walk there is through miles of
vineyards edged with fruit-trees, and the valley below the castle is
emerald with well-watered grass.
The hills are a mass of forest, and the variously-shaped houses,
which are dropped at uncertain intervals along the bubbling stream,
form a pleasant picture of rural beauty.
Veldenz was a little principality in itself; formerly it was governed
by the Counts of the same name, but afterwards it was given to the
church of Verdun, and was then governed by fourteen magistrates,
elected by the different villages, and presided over by a prévôt,
probably appointed by the Bishop of Verdun.
LEGEND OF VELDENZ.
Irmina wept for her knightly lover, who had departed to fight the
Saracens. Her mother bade her dry her tears, for there was no lack of
lovers for a pretty girl like her; but Irmina replied with sobs, that
the ring which her knight had given her, and which she always wore,
united her to him for ever, and seemed to whisper words of love and
caress her hand.
Then the mother, fearing for her daughter's health, advised her to
throw off the ring, for her lover was surely dead, and it would be
wiser to take a live husband than mope for a dead lover.
Persuaded at length, Irmina cast her ring into the well, and seemed
to get the better of her melancholy; but one day the ring was drawn up
in the well-bucket, and the maid brought it in to her young mistress:
then her love likewise returned.
Her mother again persuaded her to cast away the fatal ring, and this
time it was buried deep in the earth; but a bean that was buried
there likewise, grew rapidly up, and carried the ring to the window
of Irmina's chamber.
Much frightened, Irmina yet rejoiced at recovering her ring, and
her love for the absent knight grew stronger than ever. Her mother
once more pressed her to destroy it, and this time proposed fire as
a means of being quit of the ring for ever.
"Do not, dear mother," said the maiden; "'twould be sin before
God. In spirit I am wedded to my absent knight, and, alive or dead,
none other husband will I have."
Still the mother persisted, and wrested the ring from her daughter's
hand; but before she could cast it into the flames the knight
stood alive in the room, and soon the ring was used for the purpose
of turning the wandering knight and the lady Irmina into a happy
bridegroom and bride.
A day's exploration of the Veldenz-thal, and other valleys into
which it leads, makes us acquainted with many agreeable walks and
charming scenes. The old castle itself is quite a ruin, but well worth
exploring, there being still a good deal of its stone-work remaining;
vineyards are found within and around its walls.
What enjoyment there is in finding one's self free to climb and saunter
amidst delicious scenery! Now we walk briskly along, returning the
"Guten tag" of the ever-polite peasants, who enunciate this phrase
from the bottom of their throats. The guten is not heard at all,
and the tag sounds as if, in the endeavour to swallow the word, the
performer choked, and was obliged, when half-strangled, to gasp it out.
At midday we halt, and luxuriate over our hard-boiled eggs and
bread and cheese, with green cloth ready spread, and gushing stream
sparkling from the rock. Then, as we lie back musing and dreaming,
what strange thoughts of the old times come into our heads! Peopled
by fancy, the old towers and walls again re-echo to the lutes and
voices of long-gone days.
And what a charming friend or mistress we find in Fancy! Most
beautiful of aërial beings, she gilds for us the darkest paths,
and smiles through every cloud upon her admiring followers.
FANCY.
I climb the hill,
And sit me in the shade;
Sitting I muse,
And, musing, woo the maid
Whose steps earth fill
With flower and loveliness
For those who use
Her kindness not amiss.
She softly sends
To me the gentle gale;
My brow she cools
With scented sweets, that sail
From where she bends
The tree-tops down below,
Mid which in pools
The tiny brooklets flow.
I woo her, she gently kisses me--
Thus goes day, as happy as can be.
Great peaks of jagged rock start out of the green hills that surround
Burg Veldenz. The stream at its base glitters through the foliage;
and the neat, well-kept farm-houses (unusual in this part) that are
sprinkled through the valley, make "Thal Veldenz" a perfect Arcadia.
Re-embarking at Muhlheim, and continuing our descent of the river,
into which three or four streams now now from the side-valleys, we
soon get a sight of the ruined castle above Berncastel, and rounding
the island opposite to Cus, the town itself, with its picturesque
houses and towers, comes into view.
Muhlheim is celebrated in verse for the sorrows of three sisters,
who, as young ladies will do, fell in love, one after another, as
each came to years of indiscretion. The eldest, being forbidden to
marry by her father, died in three months; the second, being also
forbidden, was obliged to be confined in a mad-house; still the
unrelenting old father treated his third and youngest daughter in
the same harsh manner, objecting to her very natural wish to marry a
brave young esquire: having more spirit than her sisters, or being
warned by their fate, this youngest ran away with her sweetheart,
and was disinherited by the old curmudgeon, who seems to have loved
nothing but his gold. We are not told the after-fate of the youngest,
or whether love made up for loss of gold.