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.
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 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