To convent walls the dying maid
Retired, her days to close;
Soon in the grave her sorrow laid,
God sent her his repose.
Retracing our steps down the valley of the Elzbach, we found a good path leading through the bottom of the vale. Little meadows bordered the brook which we were compelled to cross frequently, but the great stepping-stones afforded a sure footing over the stream in which the trout were greedily rising at flies. It was evening, and on our left the dense foliage was glowing in light, while the meadows and opposite hills were in shade with little puffs of grey spreading in thin lines among the trees.
At the mouth of the valley we came upon Moselkern, and put up at a tidy little inn, where the young lady of the house rather despised two travellers who had no baggage but what their capacious pockets contained. She was a pretty girl, and doubtless a village belle, so had a right to give herself airs. She, however, relented, and became more polite, when we, regardless of expense, ordered the best wine, which cost at least eighteen-pence a bottle.
In all these inns, we observed that the landlord or his representative thought it a matter of necessity to sit and keep company with his guests, even if they did not talk.
Moselkern we found to be a cheerful village, very prettily placed among the trees, just below where the Elz brook falls into the Moselle. Between it and the river is a broad, green piece of land, where boat-building is generally going on.
Here the youth of the place bathe, and the inhabitants meet to discuss the prospects of the coming vintage, and rejoice or mourn over the past one.
There seemed to be a great leaning towards the French on the banks of our river. In most of the villages there is to be found some old soldier, who expatiates to his listeners on the glorious days of the old Napoleon; and many of the better class of villagers speak a sort of mongrel French. Even among the lowest, French expressions are common.