THE
LIFE OF THE MOSELLE.

LONDON:
Printed by G. Barclay, Castle St. Leicester Sq.

Ein donnernd Hoch aus voller Brust

Ersling zum Himmel laut,

Dir schönem, deutschem Moselstrom,

Dir, deutschen Rheines Braut!

Julius Otto.

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.

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.

Illustrations,

FROM SKETCHES BY OCTAVIUS ROOKE;

THE BORDERS AND FLORAL DECORATIONS BY NOEL HUMPHREYS;

THE ENGRAVINGS BY T. BOLTON.

CHAPTER I.

Source.

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.

Confluence.

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.

Nurses and Children.

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.

River Fall.

CHAPTER III.

Bathing at Toul.

“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.”

Part III.

Peace was with the earth again; the dear-bought peace, that found parents and children, wives and sisters, mourning for those the war had snatched from their embrace.

Around the walls of Toul the harvest had been gathered; the last few sheaves were loaded on the carts as the declining sun sank down; the horses or oxen, gaily decked, moved slowly towards the city; round the waggons the children danced, and thus the maidens sang as in the olden time:—

THE HARVEST SONG.

Our labour all is done;

We’ve finished with the sun,

Who now, in the far west

Low sinking, goes to rest.

The golden grain is stored;

The Great God be adored,

Who sent the sun and rain

To swell the golden grain.

The stalwart oxen strong

Drag the great wain along;

The last ray from the sun

Shines on our work now done.

Twine, then, the garlands gay;

Let, then, the music play;

And gaily dance till morn,

And fill the flowing horn:

For now the grain is stored,

The Great God be adored,

Who sent the sun and rain

To swell the golden grain.

Adèle entered not into their joy, her heart was like her lover—dead. As they go with the last waggon towards home suddenly a shout is heard—a crowd comes on—she hears her name called—many voices seem to say “Gustave!”—the crowd gives way.

Well-known eyes are looking into hers as she awakes to consciousness—his arm is round her, and his heart is beating against hers.

Alive, though grievously wounded, he had been taken care of by a noble foe; and at the termination of the war, released, he had come back; one empty sleeve was pinned against his breast, but there she placed the cross,—he smiled fondly on her, but looking at it sighed, thinking perchance glory may be bought too dear.

And now by the Moselle’s banks Adèle nurses her invalid husband, and peace for the moment reigns in France. But, alas and alas! many another Adèle will mourn many another Gustave, before mankind have learnt to fulfil the wish contained in Jeanette’s song, and be content to

“Let those that make the quarrel be

The only ones to fight.”

Reaping.

Toul contains little to detain us except its fine cathedral; it is “dullest of the dull,” no movement in its streets; a railroad hurries past her gates, but few of the passengers enter them; her history alone is interesting: built before history for this portion of the globe began, she was, when visited by the Roman eagles, the capital of the warlike Leuci.

Erected at a very early period into a bishopric, its Bishops were its rulers; nominally subject to these Bishops and the Counts of Toul, the burghers seem actually to have enjoyed all the rights of a free city, and eventually the town was reckoned one of the free Imperial cities.

In a quarrel which arose between these burghers and their bishop, Gilles de Sorcy, in the thirteenth century, three arbiters were named to settle the dispute. It appeared, that formerly the townspeople had been obliged to find food for the Bishop’s table during the month of April; this custom had fallen into disuse, but now Gilles claimed arrears and its continuance: the burghers, in their turn, claimed certain gifts from the Bishop on his entrance into the city.

It was agreed that the town should pay to the Bishop sixteen pounds, money of Toul, each year; and he, on his part, was to distribute, on his solemn entry into the city, forty measures of wine, eight hundred pounds of bread, and an ox boiled (?) whole, with parsnips.

By this award it would appear that neither party had the upper hand, but that the power was nearly equally divided.

At the death of Gilles dissensions broke out, and in A.D. 1300 the people placed themselves under the protection of the King of France. Disputes now arose between the French monarchs and the German emperors, as Toul was an Imperial free city; but the French were the more active, and the city was considered under their protection.

Occasionally the citizens had to be recalled to a sense of their allegiance by burning their suburbs or occupying their town. Finally, in the sixteenth century, Toul was formally ceded to France, and in A.D. 1700 Louis XIV. pulled down the old walls, and erected the fortifications within which the town now stagnates.

The great canal connecting the Rhine and Marne runs parallel with the Moselle to Frouard, near which place the Meurthe falls in: the country is pleasant, diversified by hill and dale, and richly wooded.

Beyond Liverdun, railroad, road, canal, and river, run side by side,—fire, earth, water, and air, all rendered thus subservient to man.

And now the Meurthe runs in; full of gay confidence, this friend imparts her knowledge to our stream.

She tells her of a city beautifully laid out with gardens of great trees, beneath whose shade gay dames and damsels walk, while music fills the air; hard by the numerous fountains play; and the old palace of King Stanislas, who enriched the town with many a stately building, is near. The shops and cafés, the theatre and walks, all render Nancy a cheerful and agreeable abode.

Within the old town is the curious palace of the ancient Dukes, containing a museum, where all sorts of relics are preserved.

Old towers stud the walls; and statues, groves, and churches ornament the town: in the ducal chapel are the tombs of the Dukes of Lorraine, who were powerful sovereign princes. This chapel is very beautiful.

Nancy appears to have been at the height of its lustre during the reign of Stanislas, who received the Duchy of Lorraine, in lieu of his own kingdom of Poland, from the French monarch; at his death the duchy finally reverted to France, and became extinct in 1766.

Stanislas and his queen, in 1699, took part in a very curious ceremony called “The Fête des Brandons,” annually practised in Nancy.

This fête was thus conducted: on a certain day all the newly-married couples, of whatever degree, were obliged, under pain of penalty, to go out of the city gate and fetch a fagot; these fagots were, to save them the trouble of going to the wood, sold to them outside the gates, where a sort of fair was held, in which they purchased ribands, pruning-knives of white wood, &c.; they returned, with their fagot bound with the ribands, and the husband with one of the pruning-knives hanging to his button, to the Halle des Cerfs in the ducal palace: from there they went in procession to the market-place, and formed a pile with the fagots; they then inscribed their names at the Hôtel de Ville, in a book kept for that purpose, and received certain privileges for the coming year.

Returning to the palace, they danced in the court, and the young men pelted peas under their feet; which “being,” says the chronicler, “very hard, occasioned the dancers many falls, which caused great hilarity among the spectators.”

At seven in the evening they had a grand supper at the Hôtel de Ville, and afterwards the bonfire was lit and fireworks sent up.

During the blazing of the bonfire the new-married had the right of proclaiming from the balcony of the Hôtel de Ville, “Les Valentins et les Valentines,” i.e. they called out the names of any of their unmarried friends with the following words, “Qui donne-t-on à M——?” “Mademoiselle ——” was answered by another, and the crowd took up the names, expressing their approbation or otherwise.

In the course of the next week the Valentin was to send to his Valentine a bouquet, or other present; if she accepted it, she appeared, with the cadeau, at the toilette of the Duchess, on the following Sunday; if no present had been sent by the Valentin, his neighbours lit a fire of straw in front of his house, as a sign of their displeasure.

The ladies were to give a ball to their Valentins, and if they did not do so, a straw-fire was lit before their houses.

These fires were called “Brûler le Valentin,” or “Valentine,” and showed “the new-married” had made a mistake in their choice for the unmarried. The chronicle finishes by saying, “the people were so pleased at seeing Stanislas and his queen taking a part in their fête, that they did not pelt peas under their feet when dancing.”

Nancy is not a town of very ancient date like its neighbours, Metz and Toul; it dates only from the eleventh century, and even then it was merely “a castle with a few houses clustered round.”

Here Joan of Arc, born at Domremy, near Toul, was first presented by the Sire de Baudricourt to Duke Charles II., who gave her a horse and arms, and sent her to Chinon to the King, Charles VII. of France, to whom Joan made use of the following words:—“Je vous promets de par Dieu, premier qu’il soit un an, tous les Anglais hors de royaume je mettrai, et vous certifie que la puissance en moi est.”

After her barbarous murder the King ennobled all her family, males and females, in perpetuity; and they retained this privilege into the seventeenth century, when a parliamentary decree confined the honours to the males.

Many in Lorraine believed that Joan was not really burnt: this belief gave rise to several impostors, one of whom was so successful that she deceived even Joan’s brothers, and under her assumed name married a certain Seigneur des Armoises: another was for some time believed in, and fêted accordingly, but at last, being confronted with the King, he posed her by asking what was the secret between them.

In 1445 the Duke of Suffolk arrived at Nancy to demand the hand of Marguerite, René’s beautiful daughter, for Henry VI. of England; René willingly consented to this honour, and Marguerite went forth to pass her troubled life in camps and battles, until, after the murder of her husband and son, she returned to Lorraine, and died in 1482, near St. Mihiel. She was remarkable, says the historian, for her virtues, her talents, her courage, her misfortunes, and her beauty.

Charles the Bold besieged and took Nancy in 1475; contrary to his usual custom, he was most affable to the citizens, wishing to make Nancy the capital city of the new kingdom he proposed carving out for himself from the adjoining states; but his quarrel with the Swiss arrested the progress of these schemes, and in his absence René II. retook the city, the garrison capitulating: after the capitulation the governor sent René a pâté of horseflesh, and told him that for several days they had been reduced to such nourishment.

Immediately afterwards Charles re-appeared, and again besieged the city; René departed to procure assistance from the Swiss, the garrison promising to hold out for two months; and in keeping this promise it suffered great hardships,—the walls were in ruin, a terrible disease appeared within the town, and no less than four hundred men were frozen to death on Christmas night only.

At length René and the Swiss arrived; then the celebrated battle was fought in which Charles was slain. It is said that before the fight commenced he feared for the result, as, in putting on his helmet, the crest fell to the ground. René re-entered his capital by torchlight the same night.

Under its Duke, Charles IV., Nancy suffered much from war, and endured several sieges; at length it was finally incorporated in the French Empire in 1766.

CHAPTER IV.

Aqueduct at Jouy.

Sweet age of girlhood’s prime,

When glad, and gay, and free,

Loving and loved by all,

Life flows on joyously;

Ere yet earth’s cares have dimm’d

Eyes bright with happiness,

Or thrown a shade of gloom

O’er the imagined bliss

Of coming life, which in

Dim future seems to shine,

Lit up by present hope

As jewels light the mine.

O fair Moselle! O sweetest Maid!

Who, dancing on midst sun and shade,

Hast left thy distant mountain home,

Through woods and valleys thus to roam;

May no sad shade thy life o’erspread,

No storm break o’er thy beauteous head,

But ever may thy fair wave glide

Peaceful, as when Meurthe’s sparkling tide