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.
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 château 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
Berncasteler wine was formerly held in the following story of
THE BEST DOCTOR.
The lord of the château 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 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.
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 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
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 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 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.
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."