THE
LIFE OF THE MOSELLE,
From its Source in the Vosges Mountains
To
Its Junction with the Rhine at Coblence.
BY
OCTAVIUS ROOKE,
Author of "The Channel Islands, Pictorial, Legendary, and Descriptive."
Illustrated with Seventy Engravings from
Original Drawings by the Author.
Engraved by T. Bolton.
LONDON:
L. BOOTH, 307 REGENT STREET.
1858.
Ein donnernd Hoch aus voller Brust
Ersling zum Himmel laut,
Dir schönem, deutschem Moselstrom,
Dir, deutschen Rheines Braut!
Julius Otto.
THIS BOOK IS
DEDICATED TO
His Wife
BY THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
The beautiful scenery of the Moselle has too long been left without
notice. It is true, some of our Artists have presented to us scenes
on the banks of this river; but English travellers are, for the most
part, ignorant how very charming and eminently picturesque are the
shores of this lovely stream.
"The Rhine! the Rhine!" is quoted by every one, and admired or abused
at every fireside, but the Moselle is almost wholly unexplored. Lying,
as she does, within a district absolutely overrun with summer-tourists,
it is altogether inexplicable that a river presenting scenery
unsurpassed in Europe should be so neglected by those who in thousands
pass the mouth of her stream. When the Roman Poet Ausonius visited
Germany, it was not the Rhine, but the Moselle which most pleased him;
and although glorious Italy was his home, yet he could spare time to
explore the Moselle, and extol the loveliness of her waters in a most
eloquent poem.
The Moselle, which rises among the wooded mountains of the
Department des Vosges, never during its whole course is otherwise
than beautiful. Below Trèves it passes between the Eifel and Hunsruck
ranges of mountains, which attain to the height of ten or twelve
hundred feet above the level of the river.
In the Thirty Years' War the Moselle country suffered severely from
the ravages of the different armies; but there still remain on the
shores of this river more old castles and ruins, and more curious
old houses, than can elsewhere be found in a like space in Europe.
Having in the following pages endeavoured to lay before English readers
the interesting scenery of the Moselle, I trust, that although in
summer my countrymen do not mount her stream, fearful, perhaps,
of discomfort; yet that by the fireside in winter the public will
not object to glide down the river, in the boat now ready for them
to embark in; and hoping that they will enjoy the reproduction of a
tour that afforded me so much pleasure,
I subscribe myself
Their humble servant,
THE AUTHOR.
Richmond, December 1857.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE SOURCE 1
II. REMIREMONT AND EPINAL 12
III. TOUL AND NANCY 24
IV. METZ 39
V. FROM METZ TO TRÈVES 65
VI. TRÈVES 70
VII. RIVER INCIDENTS 99
VIII. PIESPORT 110
IX. THE VINTAGE 125
X. VELDENZ 133
XI. BERNCASTEL 144
XII. ZELTINGEN AND THE MICHAELSLEI 153
XIII. TRARBACH 165
XIV. ENKIRCH AND THE MARIENBURG PROMONTORY 173
XV. BERTRICH 185
XVI. BREMM, NEEF, AND BEILSTEIN 197
XVII. COCHEM 207
XVIII. CARDEN AND ELZ 219
XIX. OLD CASTLES 235
XX. GONDORF AND COBERN 249
XXI. CHANGE OF THE SEASONS 261
XXII. COBLENCE AND JUNCTION WITH RHINE 269
ILLUSTRATIONS,
FROM SKETCHES BY OCTAVIUS ROOKE;
THE BORDERS AND FLORAL DECORATIONS BY NOEL HUMPHREYS;
THE ENGRAVINGS BY T. BOLTON.
FRONTISPIECE.
DEDICATION.
PAGE
THE SOURCE 1
THE SPIRIT OF THE MOSELLE AND HER ATTENDANTS 4
THE CONFLUENCE 12
NURSES AT EPINAL 20
RIVER FALL 23
BATHING AT TOUL 24
REAPING 31
JOAN OF ARC 38
AQUEDUCT AT JOUY 39
METZ 52
ENVIRONS OF METZ 64
ROMAN BRIDGE AT TRÈVES 65
INITIAL 70
PORTA NIGRA 71
ROMAN BATHS 84
FOUNTAIN 95
ROMAN MONUMENT, IGEL 98
FERRY 99
WOMAN FERRYING 102
BOAT-BUILDING 103
DITTO 104
HAY-LADING 106
BEDDING 106
BOAT WITH CASK 107
CHURCH 109
PIESPORT 110
THE VINTAGE 125
GIRLS TENDING VINES 132
VELDENZ 133
GIRL AT SHRINE 143
BERNCASTEL BY MOONLIGHT 144
OLD HOUSES, BERNCASTEL 147
THE GERMAN MAIDEN 152
THE GRÄFENBURG 153
TRARBACH 165
CONFLAGRATION AT TRARBACH 170
LILIES 172
MARIENBURG 173
ENKIRCH 175
MERL 183
BERTRICH 185
KÄSEGROTTE 192
ALF-BACH 195
THE OLD CHURCH 196
BEILSTEIN 197
NEEF 199
KLOSTER STUBEN 203
COCHEM BY MOONLIGHT 207
CLOTTEN CASTLE 216
FISHING 218
INITIAL 219
TOLL-HOUSE 224
CARDEN 226
GATE AT CARDEN 227
CASTLE OF ELZ 231
SKETCH AT CARDEN 234
BISCHOFSTEIN 235
ALKEN 243
THURON CASTLE 245
ASCENDING SPIRIT 248
GONDORF CASTLE 249
LOWER CASTLE AT GONDORF 252
THE PROCESSION 257
ST. MATTHIAS CHAPEL 260
WINTER SCENE 261
TOWING 268
MARKET, COBLENCE 269
SPIRITS OF THE MOSELLE AND RHINE 287
CHAPTER I.
At a short distance from Bussang, a little town in the Department des
Vosges in France, is the source of the Moselle; trickling through the
moss and stones that, together with fallen leaves, strew the ground,
come the first few drops of this beautiful river.
A few yards lower down the hill-side, these drops are received into a
little pool of fairy dimensions; this tiny pool of fresh sweet water
is surrounded by mossy stones, wild garlic, ferns, little creepers
of many forms, and stems of trees.
The trees, principally pine, grow thickly over the whole ballon (as the
hills are here called); many are of great size; they shut out the heat
of the sun, and clothe the earth with tremulous shadows--tremulous,
because the broad but feathery ferns receive bright rays, and waving
to and fro in the gentle breeze give the shadows an appearance of
constant movement.
Here, then, O reader, let us pause and contemplate the birth-place of
our stream; leaving the world of stern reality, let us plunge together
into the grateful spring of sweet romance; and while the only sounds
of life that reach our ears are the rustling of the leaves, the
buzz of the great flies, the murmur of the Moselle, and the distant
ringing of the woodman's axe, let us return with Memory into the past,
and leaving even her behind, go back to those legendary days when
spirits purer than ourselves lived and gloried in that beautifully
created world which we are daily rendering all unfit for even the
ideal habitation of such spirits.
And reverie is not idleness; in hours like these we seem to see
before us, cleared from the mists of daily cares, the better path
through life--the broad straight path, not thorny and difficult,
as men are too prone to paint it, but strewed with those flowers and
shaded with those trees given by a beneficent Creator to be enjoyed
rightly by us earthly pilgrims.
Life is a pilgrimage indeed, but not a joyless one. While the whole
earth and sky teem with glory and beauty, are we to believe that
these things may not be enjoyed? Our conscience answers, No; rightly
to enjoy, and rightly to perform our duties, with thankfulness,
and praise, and love within our hearts, such is our part to perform,
and such the lesson we are taught by the fairy of the sweet Moselle.
BIRTH OF THE MOSELLE.
The fair Colline slept in sunshine, when from the far horizon a
rain-cloud saw her beauty, and with impetuous ardour rushing through
the sky he sought the gentle Colline, wooed her with soft showers,
and decked her with jewelled drops and bright fresh flowers.
She soon learnt to love the rugged cloud, and from their union sprang
a bright streamlet which, cradled in its mother's lap, reflected her
sweet image. Then, as the time passed on, the little one increased
in strength, and leapt and danced about its mother's knee. Larger and
stronger grew the streamlet until its tripping step became more firm,
and then it passed into the valley, catching reflections from the
things around. And onward went this fairy stream, her source watched
over by a mother's love; and her cloud-father fed her as she passed
between her grassy banks.
Then girlhood came, and sister streams flowed in, and, whispering
to her, told their little tales of life: so now, her mind enlarged,
she onward flows, sometimes reflecting on the things of earth, but
oftener expanding her pure bosom to catch the impress of the holy sky;
and all the tenants of the sky loved to impart their infinite beauties
and their glory to the pure stream.
The age of girlhood passes now away, and she becomes a fair maiden,
to gaze on whose beauties towers and cities, castles, spires, and
hills, come crowding, and line her path, each giving her the gift of
its own being.
Now come the mountains, too, with their crowns of forest waving on
their heads, and do homage to her beauty: she gives a sweet smile to
all, lingering at every turn to look back upon her friends; but yet
she tarries not, her duty leads her on,--nor worldly pomp, or pride,
or power, can keep her from her appointed path; she leaves them
all behind, and swelling onwards through the level plain, receives
the approving glance of heaven, and meets her noble husband Rhine,
who, long expecting, folds her in his arms. And thus her pilgrimage
complete, her duty ended, she calmly sleeps that happy sleep which
wakes only in eternity.
Such is the history of the birth and life of the Moselle. We have
now to wander from her birthplace here, in the Vosges mountains,
to where she joins her glorious husband Rhine beneath the walls of
Ehrenbreitstein. From time to time we shall linger by the roadside,
to pluck a flower from legendary lore; from time to time we shall
stop to secure a chip from the great rock of history: storing thus
our herbal and our sack as well as our portfolio, we shall follow the
many bendings of our graceful river, which, womanlike, moves gently
and caressingly along, soothing and gladdening all things.
The fairy and the river are as one, life within life; ever flowing
on, yet always present; ever young, and yet how old; ever springing
freshly mid the hills and woods, yet ever ending the appointed course.
One life is material, earthly, but still sweet and beautiful; the
other life is born of the first, but far exceeds it,--it is the
life poetic, whose other parent is the human mind: this life, which
leaves the parent life behind, floats upwards on its glorious wings
and reaches the highest realms of heaven, carrying with it the souls
of those who read this life aright----
Lying here beneath the pines, we recall those old days of the past
when, on the borders of our river, only forests waved, amid whose
depths tribes of wild warriors dwelt apart,--their only amusement
hunting, their only business war, they scorned to cultivate the soil
save for their actual necessities.
In this neighbourhood lived the Leuci, whose capital was Toul; lower
down, the Mediomatrices had their chief city, Metz; and beyond these
again came the Treviri, occupying the country about Trèves.
All these were members of that great German family which gave
sea-kings to Norway, conquerors to imperial Rome, and at a later day
that champion (Charles Martel) who stayed the tide of Moslem conquest
near Poitiers; thus Christianising half Europe, and probably saving
all earth from Mahomet's false creed.
Rugged and strong were these old Germans--the huge pines well
represent them; glorious in strength, stern in duty, upright, sombre,
and picturesquely magnificent: they are recorded as having been of
great size, with blue eyes and light hair, inured to every hardship,
and never laving aside their arms.
Owning no superior, yet when once they had elected a chief, and
raised him aloft upon their shields, they obeyed him implicitly; if
unsuccessful in battle they would kill themselves rather than survive,
believing that those who died on the battle-field were received by
the Walkyren, or heavenly maidens, who hovered over the fight and
chose lovers from the dying warriors.
What a picture of barbaric grandeur and indomitable will is given us
in the last act of one of their more northern naval heroes! Being
mortally wounded in a fight in which he had conquered his enemies,
he caused himself to be placed on board his vessel with the bodies of
his slain enemies around him, and all his plunder piled into a throne,
on which he sat,--then the sails were set, the pile was lighted, and
the blazing vessel putting out to sea, he sought his heaven--Walhalla.
This Walhalla was supposed to contain a great battle-field, on
which the warriors fought their foes all day, receiving no hurt;
and at evening they returned to carouse and enjoy the caresses of
the Walkyren.
Of these immediate tribes, however, Cæsar relates, that "they only
worshipped the forms of the gods they could see and whose beneficence
they felt, such as the sun, moon, and fire; of others they had never
heard." Doubtless, in after days, they adopted many of the Roman
divinities, but at the time of which we speak they adored their Creator
on the mountain tops; and when Christianity was introduced they built
their churches on the tops of hills, and even now the sacred edifices
are usually placed on eminences. Some remnant of the old hill-worship
still remains, for the Mass is annually read to the Sens shepherds
on the Alps; and not long ago the Saint John's fire was yearly lit
upon the hill-tops.
Christmas was their most holy time; for then, they said, the gods
walked on earth.
The oak and the alder were objects of especial reverence; for from
the former man was made, and woman from the latter.
They considered all trees, and flowers, and plants, and stones,
and even animals, to be inhabited by beings of a superior order,
who came from an intermediate heaven and hell.
Lakes, rivers, and springs, were held in special veneration; and
Petrarch relates, that even in the fourteenth century the women at
Cologne bathed in the Rhine to wash away their sins.
Strangely in their natures were intermixed the gentle and the savage,
the cruel and the terrible, with the honourable and brave. Side by side
we find human sacrifices and a festival in honour of the first violet;
men who had been mutilated, and sickly children were sunk in morasses,
or otherwise destroyed; and we find them with a pure love for woman,
whom they held in the highest reverence. Their women were brought
up in the strictest seclusion, scarcely seeing any stranger,--an
injury offered to female modesty was punished by death, and fines
for injuries done to them were heavier than for those to men.
Maidens were portionless, so only married for their merits or their
beauty: they seldom married before their twentieth year, and the
husband had generally reached his thirtieth; they had but one husband,
and the historian Tacitus observes, speaking of them, "as she can
have but one body and one life, so she can have but one husband."
Prophetesses were frequent, and great confidence placed in their
predictions,--they were called Alrunæ, and lived apart in the recesses
of the forests.
They had many ways of interpreting the will of the gods, but of
all interpreters the horse was considered the most sacred; white
horses were peculiarly venerated, and maintained at the expense of
the community, expressly to interpret the divine will,--even the
priests themselves considered that they were but the ministers,
while the horses were the confidants of the gods.
The priests, as in all semi-barbarous countries, were the real
governors of these uncurbed Germans: no control but theirs was
submitted to; even in camp they alone had the right to bind and flog,
and in all public assemblies they kept order: these functions they
assumed as ministers of the supreme, invisible Being. There was,
however, no priestly caste, and each head of a family could perform
religious offices for his own household.
Thus we find, at this earliest period of the known history of our
river--its banks occupied by a brave, hardy race, given to dissipation
and war, and governed by priests whose bloody sacrifices were offered
to a supreme Being, worshipped through His great emblems of sun,
fire, and water--they enjoyed a life of action, and looked forward
to a death of glory.
Under this rugged nature appear the gentler attributes of love and
veneration; and a belief in Fairies, Kobolds, Nixies, and all the
different classes of superior existences with which they supposed
the whole world to teem.
Savage and grand, loving and honourable, we shall, if we examine
history, find them first engaging the Romans on equal terms, then
for a while giving place to the conquerors of the world, but ever
holding themselves superior to them, not adopting their habits but
merely borrowing their knowledge to render themselves more fit to
encounter them; and finally, we shall find them supplanting these
world-conquerors, and seizing for themselves that crown and dominion,
the fairest portion of which remains with the German race to this
present day. And, moreover, it is this German race that has carried
civilisation over the whole earth, and whose descendants, the English
people, are rapidly populating the great continents of America and
Australia.
Back from the train of old history our thoughts return as the evening
closes in by the source of our sweet river, and we bend our steps
down through the dim woods. The white butterflies flap past, heavily,
as though feeling the last moments of their short lives are fleeting
fast; frequently above our heads starts out a projecting mass of rock,
from whose summit a great pine towers up, first leaning forward,
then shooting upwards, its top seems piercing the blue sky.
Ever and anon open out green dells, filled with bright foxgloves and
other beautiful flowers; through these dells trickle tiny rivulets
that swell the course of our young stream, which through the woods
we hear gurgling and gushing on, falling from stone to stone, and
wearing many a little pool in the rough ground.
Occasionally we pass a heap of fresh-cut wood, and across our path lie
huge trunks of the fallen forest giants; a resinous odour is strongly
mixed with the scent of the wild flowers,--one flower, from which the
mountain bees make their delicious honey, is peculiarly fragrant and
very frequent; occasionally the rivulet is quite hid by the luxuriant
carpets of the false forget-me-not that line its banks.
At length we pass from the forest to the cultivated land: the little
valley opens into a wider one, which is surrounded by mountains of
diverse forms steeped in sunlight; the sun declines, and wreaths of
blue smoke ascend from the châlets on the hill-sides, where the evening
meal is being prepared for the active, hard-working peasantry, who,
with loads of all sorts on their heads, pass by, saluting politely
as they go us and each other.
The young stream dances along by the roadside, and thus we enter
Bussang, and close our first chapter of this fairy life.
CHAPTER II.
From Bussang to Remiremont our infant stream gurgles plashingly
along; sometimes it conceals itself in little tranquil pools, where
the large trout lie deep beneath the roots of the overshadowing
trees; sometimes it falls with a gentle splash over an obstruction,
leaping, as we do in early life, over all difficulties with a smile,
even seeming to enjoy that which at a maturer age too often frets and
chafes us, though we conceal our chagrin under an unruffled surface.
Sometimes our stream passes, broken into ripples, over smooth shiny
pebbles,--here the trout from time to time suddenly dart up and
seize their insect food; and sometimes it glides between green banks
which hem it in (fair setting for so bright a gem): here it is blue,
reflecting the sky above.
Through the sultry summer days, hours spent splashing in this little
stream, or dreaming on its banks, are most delicious,--but beware,
O bather! of the shining pebbles that gleam mid the blue tide, for
Beneath the waters bright
The glitt'ring pebbles lie,
Like nymphs whose eyes the light
Shines on with brilliancy:
Like wicked water-sprites
These rounded pebbles trip
The bather, who delights
His body here to dip.
The timid foot is placed
Upon the tempting stone,
Then downward in all haste
The luckless wight is thrown.
And when he wrathful tries
His footing to regain,
The sprites, with shining eyes,
Just trip him up again.
The scenery down the valley is altogether charming, occasionally grand,
but oftener sweetly beautiful; the hills are of considerable height,
some cultivated in patches of grain-crops, some covered with trees,
while others again are brightly green with turf, except where grey
rocks crop out and break the outline. Farther off the large shadowy
mountains rise, calmly shutting in the minor hills, the valley, and the
stream; the fleecy clouds float gently on, and rest upon their summits.
Groups of trees half hide the houses which frequently appear within
the valley; the numerous bridges are generally of wood, some covered
as in Switzerland.
The peasant women, in great straw hats or little close caps, work hard
amidst the fields storing the hay crop; the oxen yoked together munch
their fill of sweet fresh grass, that has grown in the well-watered
meadows; round them the children play, piling the hay upon each
other until, overcome by the heat, they hasten off to bathe in our
cool stream.
Here, at a short distance above Remiremont, is the confluence of two
branches of our river; and river the Moselle now becomes. Leaving
her infant days she glides forth, with all the sunny joyousness of
girlhood, through the valleys of Remiremont and Epinal, then on through
the undulating plain, past Toul, to meet her confidant the Meurthe.
Remiremont is a well-built, clean town, with rivulets flowing
constantly on both sides the roadway; it contains a fine church,
near which are the buildings that formerly held the celebrated Dames
de Remiremont, of whom the following account is given.
In the seventh century a monk named Amé arrived at the court of King
Theodobert of Austrasia; moved by his preaching, one of the principal
officers of the king, named Romaric, embraced the monastic life, and
gave an estate to found a monastery of nuns: the mountain on which
this monastery was built was called "Mons Romarici," hence the modern
name of Remiremont.
A community of monks was established shortly after, near the nunnery,
and St. Amé governed both; he dying, Romaric succeeded him: but
now the female monastery was governed by an abbess,--it is said,
a daughter of Romaric.
To this monastery Charlemagne came to enjoy the pleasures of the
chase, and here the unhappy Waldrada, wife of Lothaire II., came to
die after her long persecution by the Church.
In the tenth century the Huns penetrated here, and ravaged the
monastery; a few years after it was totally destroyed by fire;
after this event it was rebuilt at the foot of the mountain: the two
communities now separated, the ladies entering on their new abode,
and the monks retiring to the mountain.
The ladies lived such scandalous lives that Pope Eugenius reproached
them with dishonouring the religious habit; his complaints were
useless, and the ladies soon threw off even the appearance of
religieuses, and remained bound together by a sort of female
feudality. The abbesses were people of the best families, and none
were admitted as members of the community but those who could prove
themselves of noble blood on both sides for two hundred years.
The abbess ranked as a princess of the Empire, and held a feudal
court,--a drawn sword was carried before her by one of the officers,
of whom she had many in her service; she received her investiture from
the hands of the Emperor himself, and had many rights over different
parts of the surrounding country, her power often clashing with that
of the Dukes of Lorraine.
The Dukes were bound to appear before the monastery on the 15th
of July of each year, and to carry on their shoulders the shrine
of St. Romaric; they then signed, in a large book plated with gold
and kept for that purpose, a confirmation of all the privileges of
the abbey. In consideration of these services, however, they gained
certain solid advantages.
One of the most violent quarrels between "les Dames" and the Dukes of
Lorraine was owing to Duke Charles III. refusing to carry the saint's
relics on his shoulders; eventually the ladies gave up the point on
consideration of receiving, in lieu, an annuity of 400 francs.
In 1637 Duke Charles IV. besieged the town, which had been garrisoned
by the French with fifteen companies of the regiment of Normandy. These
soldiers being driven to extremity, declared, rather than submit
without conditions, they would burn the abbess, abbey, and all the
ladies, as well as the citizens; the ladies despatched six of their
number to the Duke, who, overcome by the tears of beauty, granted an
advantageous capitulation to the Norman rascals.
Next year Turenne appeared before the city, which the Duke had left
feebly garrisoned; but the abbess, mindful of the Duke's kindness,
so stoutly defended it, that after three assaults Turenne retired
with considerable loss. After this the abbess obtained from the French
king a promise of neutrality.
The power of these extraordinary "Dames de Remiremont" lasted
(though somewhat shorn) until the tide of the French Revolution
swept away for a time even the name of the town, which was called
Libremont. The church and buildings still remain, the last remnants
of this extraordinary community.
Having climbed the hills above Remiremont and seated ourselves amid
the heather and ferns, the valley in folds of bright green extends
itself beneath; the hills around are varied and beautiful, clumps of
trees adorn the meadows, and great shadows steal along, presenting
to our eyes a constant succession of moving pictures.
One of these shadows we watch roll down the distant mountain-side,
leaving it bright and glowing with the grain,--then, coming onwards,
it rests upon a great clump of trees, whose contrasted darkness lights
up the grass beyond: they in their turn are left behind, and, now
quivering in light, they stand backed by the sombre mountain wrapped in
a succeeding veil; these clouds roll on, and others quickly following,
give to the valley an appearance similar to that of a rolling prairie:
now they approach, and envelope the hill on which we sit in gloom;
but shortly all again is clear, the sky above is pure, the air is
sweet; the meadows glory in their abundance, and our river, bending
and turning, now to the far side of the valley, now towards the town,
freshens the heated herbage with its limpid stream.
From the valley, beautiful though it be, we turn our eyes to the more
glorious beauty of the
NOONDAY CLOUDS.
Over our heads the sunbeams quiver,
The air is filled with heat and light,
While at our feet the shining river
Sparkles with thousand dimples bright.
The distant hills, in sombre masses,
Sleep calmly on amidst the haze;
A mighty cloud through heaven passes,
And from the earth arrests our gaze.
For in the shadows of that cloud,
We seem to see extending far
Valleys and hills, where seraphs bow'd,
Praising their great Creator are.
Praising for ever "Him on high."
Those glorious seraphs also pray,
That from this planet crime may die,
From man and earth sin pass away.
The shades of these hills of central air,
The gales that spring 'mid their lake,
Spread over our earthly valleys fair,
From our souls the weariness take;
And hope reviving emits its glad beam,
Which brightens our hearts, as sun does the stream.
Where we sit the ground is heaped into all sorts of forms, and covered
with ferns and heather,--from the latter rushes a large covey of
whirring partridges, and swoops into the valley.
Above, the still forest sends down its treasures of bark and firewood,
which are borne in creaking waggons down the steep ascent; the oxen
stagger beneath the weight, while the drivers shout encouragement,
and their great dogs look calmly from the overhanging bank upon the
busy scene.
All the environs of Remiremont are beautiful, and the town itself is a
favourable specimen of a French country town: it is much better paved
than those towns usually are, and the principal street has arcades
under the first floor, beneath whose shade it is pleasant to sit during
the midday heat, and hear the water rushing through the tiny canals.
In the little busy inns people come and go rapidly, the fashionable
watering-place of Plombières being only some twelve miles distant:
the tables d'hôte at these inns are wonderful, the number of dishes,
the rapidity with which they are served, and the really excellent
cookery. Most of the diners are men, and they one and all make love to
the woman who, in conjunction with a lad, waits on some twenty guests,
and yet finds time to parry all their jokes with sharp repartee.
Here may be seen a good specimen of the false politeness of the
French,--they never help themselves to the vin ordinaire without
filling up their neighbour's glass, whether he wants more or not, and
they almost invariably pick out the choice morsel from the dish which
the aforesaid neighbour eyes with longing looks: one, an epicure,
reaches over you to secure the oil and pepper, with which to make
additions to some vile sauce he is compounding for a coming dish;
another will have something out of its proper turn, which irritates
the handmaid; all eat voraciously, and with knives scoop up superfluous
gravy, endangering the fair proportions of their mouths. After dinner
(which is at twelve), cards and coffee fill the time until a little
gentle exercise brings them to a second dinner at seven, when the
knives play their part again.
Travelling in the smaller diligences is very miserable, but the little
rattling carts that can be hired are worse and slower. Journeying,
again, brings out the politeness of the French men,--who secure the
best seats if possible, never giving them up to ladies, and fill the
vehicle with very bad tobacco smoke.
Leaving them to the smoke and dust, we will go down into the meadows,
and walk with our fresh river through the fields it waters on its
passage to the gay town of Epinal.
On a slight elevation at the entrance of the town is a public garden
of fine old beech-trees, that shade seats and walks; rough grass lawns
fill the intervening spaces. Here plays a military band on Sundays
and fête-days, and the young men sun themselves in the eyes of the
fair ladies, who in many-hued attire float up and down, ostensibly
listening to the military music, but really to that of the voices of
their admirers.
Here on all days play the children, and on the grass sit the
picturesquely-dressed nurses, with great bows in their hair and
snowy sleeves puffed out upon their arms. It is a pleasant lounge and
of considerable extent; on one side is the river, the main body of
which falls over a wear, while a portion of the water is conducted
through the town in a clear stream, which reunites itself with the
main body below the town: thus an island is formed, and Epinal stands
on both banks as well as on this island, several bridges joining the
different quarters.
There is near the end of the town a very beautiful old church; on
the hill above, was formerly a strong castle, only a few stones of
which now remain: the hill is covered by a private garden commanding
fine views.
Epinal is on the site of a very ancient town that was twice destroyed
by a fire and pillage; the modern town arose round the walls of a
monastery founded in 980 A.D. by a Bishop of Metz, and enlarged in
the following century.
The ladies of this monastery appear to have rivalled the "Dames de
Remiremont" in leading scandalous lives, if not in power; and when,
in the thirteenth century, a Bishop of Toul undertook to re-establish
the primitive rules among them, they refused to take any vow, and
ended by secularising themselves, but still kept in some measure
aloof from the world: they had two dresses, one for the convent,
the other for society. They existed as a community till last century.
As a Bishop of Metz had founded this monastery, his successors
assumed the sovereignty of the town, and one of them, in the thirteenth
century, caused it to be fortified. This sovereignty was often disputed
by the townspeople on the one hand, and by certain seigneurs, who
had been declared guardians of the monastery, on the other: thus many
disputes arose; at last it was agreed that the town should be ceded
to the Dukes of Lorraine, and to this house it remained attached.
Frequently taken by the French, and as often retaken, it suffered
much from war, but was always constant to its ducal rulers until
Lorraine became finally incorporated in France. At the present day
it is bustling, dirty, thriving, and ill-paved.
And now away, over the hills and valleys. The river swells on beneath
or past us, leaving Thaon, Châtel, Charmes, and many other towns and
villages behind; on it flows, falling over wears and circling many
islands, wearing its course along until it leaves the Department des
Vosges and enters on that of the Meurthe.
Laughing and gay, we shall in the next chapter find "the fair girl"
basking amid the corn-fields that adorn her course near Toul.
CHAPTER III.
"Oh, pleasant land of France!" sings the poet; and a pleasant land it
is, especially when, as now, the tall and yellow grain is spreading
over its fair plains. As we approach Toul the reapers are at work;
the women and children are busy binding or spreading out the sheaves
fast as the men can cut them,--all is gay and happy; the sun glowing
on the grain makes the whole land seem an El Dorado, and we appear
to move in one of the golden dreams of fairyland.
Coming on our river again, which has serpentined along, loitering to
water those fruitful plains of "old Lorraine," we find her stream
shrunk within its pebbly bed; for the sun has drunk from earth her
moisture, and the fire element rules now for the good of man, where the
water, moistening the earth, had produced the germ within her bosom.
The contrast of the burning sun and corn makes our dear river seem
the cooler and the fresher. All down its course the bathers are
wading refreshingly about: in a side-stream, shaded by tall poplars
and guarded from eyes inquisitive by rows of piled-up firewood,
bathe the women, maids, and girls; in long loose dresses floating,
with hair wreathed lightly round their glistening heads, they toss
the glittering drops upon each other, and laugh, and scream, and sing:
here, hand-in-hand, with tottering gait, they struggle up against the
stream, slipping and tumbling at each forward step,--then, the desired
point reached, merrily they float down, and the blue tide sparkles
with their beauty. Upon the bank are some timidly adventuring their
hesitating feet before they plunge into the element; some bind their
hair, preparing; others, having bathed, unbind, and the long tresses
stream over the fair shoulders: blithely thus they pass the time,
and defy the hot old sun upon the river's bank.
A little further, and the green slopes of the fortifications sweep up,
and the cathedral towers stand high above the invisible town; beyond
the towers is a great flat-topped hill, whose smaller brethren stretch
south-wards: in all, the same flatness of the summit is perceptible.
The river makes a great bend after passing Toul; she seems to have
come so far, to see the old capital of the Leuci, and finding there
little to arrest her progress or detain her steps, she hastens off
to hear from her girlish friend, the Meurthe, the history of Nancy,
whose walls the latter guards.
Before we go with our Moselle to hear the tales of Nancy, we must
first listen to a simple story from French every-day life, near Toul.
ADÈLE AND GUSTAVE.
Once more War stalked the land; again France was aiming, and calling
on her sons to fight a foreign foe: but this time her quarrel was a
righteous one, for side by side with England she appeared, to guard
the weak against the oppression of the strong.
Adèle's heart was beating with anxiety when the day for drawing
the fatal numbers had arrived,--those numbers that should determine
whether Gustave left her for the battle-field or remained to marry,
as had been agreed between them and their parents.
Gustave, however, though he dearly loved his sweet fiancée, loved more
that empty trumpet glory, a grand word, and one that chains the hearts
of men,--but, like the drum and trumpet, its appropriate adjuncts,
only expressing a hollow though a ringing sound.
Such was the glory Gustave dreamt of,--not true glory, not heroism
in daily life, not the dying in defence of what we love,--but the
rush and the glitter, the pomp and the pride, the excitement and the
turmoil of the imagined war.
Little thought he of the days of severe privation, the nights
of watching, the constant petty troubles, and the lingering pains
brought on by disease engendered by a soldier's life; and still less,
it is to be feared, did his mind dwell on the number of Adèles this
ruthless war leaves mourning and trembling, while their husbands,
friends, and lovers, fight and die afar. He only thought of glory
in the abstract; perhaps also of a time when, a high grade won,
triumphant he should return and lay his spoil at Adèle's feet.
And he was drawn; his friends begged him to let them purchase a
substitute,--he, with his ambition and his love for them combined,
would not allow that they should thus impoverish themselves; but,
being strongly urged, he turned to where Adèle silently was grieving,
and left the choice to her.
Poor Adèle, knowing well his secret heart, and fearing that he
would only fret and chafe at home,--perhaps, too, being herself a
little tainted with his love for glory,--wept, but said, "Go, then,
dear Gustave; never shall a French girl counsel her lover to desert
his country."
So, while many a tear and secret prayer are poured out for his welfare,
Gustave goes.
The land rings with martial preparations; on all sides is the
excitement of the coming war: the eagles and the banners are raised
high; and all the air is filled with the grand anthem, "Partant pour
la Syrie."
Part II.
Gustave wrote often: first he was learning his drill, then he had
finished his initiation and was in favour with his superiors, often
being able to assist with his clear head and ready pen.
Soon after these, a letter came to say the regiment was to hasten to
Marseilles, there to embark for Eastern service.
A long silence, and a battle had been fought upon the plains of Alma:
his name was not in the lists of killed and wounded,--those fearful
lists that break the hearts of many; it is not those fighting, but
those left behind we ought to pity.
Then came a day of joy: Gustave had performed one of those daring
feats of which the Russian war gave so many instances,--he had been
promoted; and Adèle's eyes sparkled, and her bosom heaved, as friends
came flocking in offering their congratulations.
The long winter was rolling on; still the enemy, with desperate
courage, defended the beleaguered city; and men died fast of fatigue,
and cold, and want, both within and without the walls.
Gustave was strong and healthy, never sick or suffering; but, alas! a
day came when, after a night sortie gallantly repelled by the French,
who followed the enemy nearly into the very town, it was found that
he had not returned; and his men reported that he had fallen mortally
wounded close to the city walls: they had endeavoured to bring him
off, but the task was too difficult, and he was left to breathe his
last where he had fallen.
The Colonel himself wrote to his friends, and a decoration was
forwarded; but did those words of praise, did that cold cross, repay
Adèle for her lost lover? Often, when no eye but that of God was on
her, she sat with these treasures in her lap, but from her eyes the
tears would flow, and the cross and words were dimly seen through
the descending drops,--no, Adèle was not consoled, though he had died
for France; hollow were to her the words, "Mourir pour la Patrie."