Gushes a healing fount,
A bounteous spring, whose water never fails
To flow from forth the mount.
Love so has banished Hate, and Beauty shines
Above the darksome toil of demon mines.
From Alf to Bad Bertrich an excellent road runs winding through a succession of green valleys, shut closely in by the mountains, which are covered with foliage. The Alf-bach, or brook, runs by the side of the road; its waters turn the wheels employed in the iron-works, which are embosomed in trees near the entrance of these secluded valleys. So, after all, we find the fire-fiend is not extinguished, but by the assistance of his friend Man is, as of old, still defacing nature and enslaving a beautiful stream.
Six English miles of beauty bring us to Bad Bertrich itself. In all probability, the tourist in Germany will here exclaim, “I never heard of Bad Bertrich.” Even so, we reply; and that constitutes one of its greatest charms. While the English, and Russians, and French are all swarming to Baden, to Ems, Schwalbach, Wildbad, and the legion of baths with which all Germany teems, there is left neglected one of the most beautiful places in Europe. There is plenty of shade, and plenty of sun, and plenty of air, and yet “the Bad” is quite sheltered.
The village is very small and clean. There are several small inns, and one good hotel, called Werling’s. This hotel is kept by an unmarried woman, who is one of the oddest, best-hearted old bodies possible. She, however, is not the leading person in the establishment, as everything is left to the waiter, a remarkable character.
This waiter is an exceedingly jolly old fellow, who, as the day advances, becomes more and more deeply in liquor; his eyes close up gradually, and his senses seem to be wandering. Now these symptoms are not unusual to men in his state; but it is most unusual for a man when so overcome to be able to wait on some twenty or thirty guests, to bring what is wanted for each, and to (without any notes) keep account in his head of what wine and food each has partaken. Yet all this he does, and does it right well.
In the winter this hotel is shut up, and our old friend the waiter goes hunting with two apoplectic dogs, that snore on chairs all the summer.