Читать книгу The Life of the Moselle - Octavius Rooke - Страница 7

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.