That portion of our river which lies between Trèves and Coblence is
the most beautiful, and the part usually visited by the few who allow
themselves the enjoyment of seeing scenery yet unspoiled by Art. The
Moselle at this present time is much what the Rhine was half a century
ago. No great roads line the banks, cutting off the quaint houses
of the old towns and villages from the river-side; and the towns and
villages themselves are, with some few exceptions, far more picturesque
than those on the Rhine. Their old water-towers and walls still lave
their bases in the stream, as those of St. Goarshausen-on-Rhine did
until a few years back, when the new road drove them inland.
In places where the rocks approach closely to the river, the usual
arrangement of the houses is in one long street, with behind it
ruined towers perched at intervals upon the ascending walls, which
straggle through the vineyards, till the rise becomes too sudden for
them to climb or intruders to pass over. Where the space is larger,
the houses are clustered among walnut-trees, which grow to an immense
size. Perhaps the greatest charm of all in descending our river is the
absence of those swarms of mere sight-seers who infest the Rhine,--the
trifling discomforts of a more unfrequented route being sufficient
to deter these garrulous butterflies from "doing" the Moselle; and
as yet Murray has not given in detail the number of turrets to each
castle on this river, for eager watchers to "tell off" as the steamer
breasts the stream. Still it is remarkable how few of all those that
pass the mouth of the Moselle at Coblence ascend its waters.
We now invite those who cannot in person see "the blue Moselle"
to embark their minds in our skiff, and as we glide along we will
tell them tales of the old time, when the ruined towers above our
heads clanged with the tramp of armed men, and echoed to songs of
love and wine.
Trèves and its bridge are shut out by the trees, and the river nymphs
surround us with garlands and with song.
Now our boat adown the stream
Floats, as in a happy dream,--
Thoughts to fancy's kingdom go,
There, like waters, tranquil flow;
Airy palaces they build
Where our kindred spirits dwell,
Who with woven sunbeams gild
Regions that we love so well.
Rippling now the gentle waves
(Gay sunshine our pathway paves),
Sing to us as on we glide
Down the swiftly-glancing tide:
"Happiness and harmless mirth
Innocently we enjoy,
So the denizens of earth
May, like us, their time employ,--
Working we sing,
In leisure hours we play;
O'er toil we fling
A garland ever gay."
O'er our heads the dark rocks rise,
Stern their mass the stream defies,--
Round their base the dark wave flows,
Battling, silently, she goes:
Thus in life, too frequent, rocks
Stand before us in our way;
And their bulk our passage blocks,
Bidding us our course to stay.
Shall we at their bidding turn,
Fearful of their aspect stern?
No: for patiently we may
Round, or through them, win our way.
The little incidents seen on the banks of the river as we move along
are eminently picturesque, and give life and reality to what we should
otherwise almost imagine to be a dream of beauty, rather than real
actual scenes, where toil and labour are at work. Such foregrounds,
too, for artists! Here is a woman mowing: further down, one impels
a heavy boat along by means of a pole: there red cows stand, half
in the water, half on a grassy slope, with the reflected green of
which their red contrasts. Again, as we approach a village, some
of the maidens are seen drawing water; while others, in groups and
attitudes that present endless studies, wash their gay clothing,
or bleach long strips of brownish linen.
Boat-building is carried on at nearly every village, and the smoke from
the accompanying fire wreathes among the walnut-trees. In reality,
the people work hard; but it is difficult to divest our minds of the
idea that they are merely sauntering about, and forming groups for
their own amusement and the delight of others. All is so complete in
loveliness, that it seems unreal.
The ribs of the great flat-bottomed boats look like skeletons of
some curious animal, which the apparent loungers are examining at
their ease; and the nearly completed barge seems to be a sort of
summer-house, in which the idler can sit, or under which he may smoke
his pipe in the shade,--for, of course, all smoke. Usually the long
stem with the earthenware or china bowl is the medium by which the
fragrant weed is inhaled, but sometimes a few inches of coarse stick
(in appearance) is the substitute.
These boats, when finished, are used for all sorts of purposes. The
want of good roads, and the fact of the stream being less rapid
than that of the Rhine, as well as the absence of steam-tugs, makes
the Moselle more lively with barges and small boats, especially the
latter; though, of course, there being only three or four steamers
on the whole distance (about 150 miles) between Trèves and Coblence,
the absence of those puffing drawbacks to tranquil enjoyment renders
the Moselle more quiet on the whole.
The larger barges carry iron, earthenware, charcoal, bark, wine,
and general cargoes; while the smaller ones are filled with market
produce of all sorts going to be sold in the larger towns, and numbers
of these small boats are kept at each village for the residents
to cross to their farms or vineyards on the opposite bank. There
are also ferry-boats, large enough for carts and oxen, or horses,
at nearly every cluster of houses.
Often watching these great boats with their miscellaneous lading, or
waiting our own turn to cross, we have been struck by the contrast
between the young fair children with flaxen hair and the careworn
countenances of the parents, whose skin is nearly as brown as that of
a Maltese boatman, his approaching to claret-colour. The peasantry
are, as far as we could judge or learn, a simple, contented race,
working hard, and in bad seasons ill-fed.
THE FERRY.
On grassy bank the village stands,
The crowds returning, throng
The ferry-boat, which quickly lands,
Impelled by arms so strong.
The heavy boat is filled with men,
With women, and with carts;
Amongst the crowd the children
Move with their lightsome hearts.
The women's brows are stamped with care,
The men with toil are worn;
But midst them stand those children fair,
Those happy newly-born.
The doom of man, "for life to toil,"
Rests on the parents both,
But on that young, fresh, virgin soil,
Even the Sun is loth.
His hot red hand too fierce to press,
Where innocence and love
Call for a mother's sweet caress
And from the sky above
Speak unto us, who labour here,
This message through them sent:
"Live, love, and worship, in God's fear;
"To labour be content;
"So shall ye live, and dying, shall not miss
"The life immortal, in the realms of bliss!"
The different seasons of the year, of course, bring different incidents
on our river into existence, each in its proper turn. The hay-harvest
is a very lively time upon its banks; everywhere the green slopes
are rid of their superfluous load, and boats cross and recross the
river with the sweet-scented cargoes, some of which are stored,
some transferred to larger bottoms for transportation down the stream.
Later comes the corn-harvest, then the boats are freighted with the
golden ears; soon after an equally busy time sets in, when every
sort of boat is seen piled with small branches of the oak: the leaves
are stripped from the branches so brought home, and, being carefully
dried, they form an excellent material with which the people stuff
their mattresses, this making, as they assert, much warmer and softer
beds, than straw. Every village possesses a right of cutting bedding
at some place, and the different inhabitants have days allotted them
by the authorities, on which they may help themselves.
The winter draws near and the vintage sets in, then all boats are
employed on this absorbing service; the little boats, with large casks
on board, look in the distance very much like gondolas: wherever the
eye rests, nothing is seen that has not some connexion with the great
event of the year on the Moselle. However, the vintage has a chapter
to itself, so we will not dwell upon it here.
Carrying firewood is the last great occupation of the year for the
smaller boats, and it is well for those who can procure a good supply
of fuel, for the winter is cold and severe; unfortunately, too, wood
is very scarce and dear, and though somewhat cheaper on the Moselle
than in most parts of Germany, yet a good fire is quite out of the
reach of the poorer classes, and they scrape together every morsel
to enable them to feed the iron stoves which warm their cottages.
The river is in parts so shallow that breakwaters are built out
from the banks, in order to deepen the centre of the stream; this,
of course, makes the water run swifter, and it requires great toil
of many horses to tug the barges up the stream. Floating down these
rapids is agreeable enough, and the descent is made with very little
labour, towns and villages succeeding each other on the banks, the
approaches to them being lined with fruit-trees, of which the walnut
and cherry are the most conspicuous.
The cherries are excellent, and so plentiful that children will often
refuse a handful when offered, having previously gorged themselves
at home. Numbers are exported, going by river to Coblence, and so on
down the Rhine.
Apricots are also abundant in good seasons. They are grown on
standard trees.
Garden produce of all sorts abounds, and apples and pears drop unheeded
to the ground.
Through incidents like these, on bank and river, we glide on. We have,
perhaps, halted during the midday heat at some inviting spot, where the
cool shadows reposed beneath the walnuts; now the evening draws near,
and rounding a corner, our resting-place for the night appears. The
thin mist rising from the river obscures the base of the church, whose
sharply-pointed spire is conspicuous above the trees; lights fall in
tremulous lines from the high windows, and in the air is the sound of--
CHURCH MUSIC.
From the church the anthem pealing,
O'er the wave is gently stealing:
Now it swells, now dies away,
Making holy harmony.
The spire from out the trees
Our eyes directs on high;
The sounds which swell the breeze,
The heavens to us bring nigh;
For while we listen to the song
Of glory rais'd to "Him on high,"
Our thoughts soar up, and dwell among
Those realms where Immortality,
In angel forms and bright array,
Before God's throne for ever pray,
And Hallelujahs joyous raise
To their "Almighty Maker's" praise.