The Life of the Moselle / From its source in the Vosges Mountains to its junction with the Rhine at Coblence

by Octavius Rooke

THE HARVEST.

The green leaves wither with the autumn’s breath;

The brown leaves falling, pass from life to death.

The winter, stealing on with silent feet,

Hastens the yearly cycle to complete.

But on our river’s banks no sorrows dwell,

No sigh is breath’d for summer on Moselle;

For autumn’s glory throws its ripening beam

Upon the cluster’d vine, whose branches teem

With the rich fulness of the luscious prize,

Which each year gives to man, ere yet it dies.

The evening spreads its shadow over earth,

From ev’ry vineyard comes the sound of mirth;

High spring the fiery rockets into air,

And hearty shouts the vintage-time declare.

The ruddy fires illumine ev’ry hill,

Reports of arms the throbbing valleys fill;

These from the river back are lustrous thrown,

Those by the rocks repeated thunder on.

Thus is the grape-god welcom’d to his throne.

And Bacchus rules, in vintage-time, alone.

With sounds like these the great harvest of the year is ushered in. Rejoicing and merriment rule all hearts; the voice breaks forth in song, and the dance is followed by unwearied feet. Every thought for months past has been directed to the vine. Other harvests have been stored, with thankfulness, but the vintage has ever been the great subject of conversation in every cottage and at every well. The tedious watches are at an end, for, thickly clustered on every tree, the grapes are ready for the gatherer’s hand.

Our river is now more beautiful than ever: the panorama at our feet is gorgeous with crimson and gold; groups of children pile the grapes into the baskets; boats, laden with the rich treasure, are passing to and fro; and from them we hear the voices of the rowers, which, re-echoing from the rocks, roll away into distance, filling the great valley with songs of happiness:—

From the Mosel’s clust’ring hills

Freely flows the sparkling wine;

Midst them cooling water-rills,

Through the greenwoods pleasant shine.

These sweet draughts of beauty give

To the charmèd eyes of men;

Let us hasten, then, and live

With woods and rivulets again;

Our eyes shall feast on streams, our lips on wine;

We’ll quaff by night—by day we’ll garlands twine.

And with these garlands gay

The lovely maids we’ll crown;

So joyous pass the day—

The night in goblets drown:

Life thus shall roll its days and nights along,

We’ll pass the hours away with cup and song.

The whole course of the Moselle is more or less sheeted with vineyards. Wherever a shelf of rock is accessible, or can be made so, there are the vines. Within the old walls of the mouldering castles are vineyards; upon the nearly level ground are fields of vines; hanging from every wall, and climbing round every window, are the rich green leaves and graceful tendrils of this wine-giving plant. And yet there is no sameness; from the peculiar formation of the hills there is always some outjutting crag or overhanging precipice, with roof of trees, to break the lines of the vineyards. Great masses of forest still remain in many places, reserved for fire-wood and other purposes: the vineyards, too, are for the most part formed of old vines; their foliage, consequently, is more luxuriant. Owing to these reasons the vine does not assume on the Moselle that monotonous appearance that it presents in many parts of the Rhine, and generally in France. Interspersed with the vines are numbers of wild flowers, of which the white convolvulus is the most conspicuous; its graceful flower contrasts beautifully with the deep rich green of the supporting plant, and where the vines festoon, wreaths of unsurpassed loveliness are formed.

Piesport is considered the centre of the wine district, and its wine bears a high reputation, though other names bear a higher price, and a few of the wines are better flavoured. Almost all the Moselle wine is white, and has a scented flavour and exquisite bouquet; it is thought by many superior to Rhine wine, but it will not bear transport so well.

Even the most ordinary table-wine has generally a sparkling freshness, most grateful to the drinker, as it assuages his thirst much better than other wines; but what we term “sparkling Moselle” is only to be obtained in Trèves or Coblence, and even then it is not like our idea of that wine: therefore it must, like port and sherry, be prepared expressly to suit English palates.

Some of the red wine is tolerable, but not to be compared to the red wines of the Rhine and the Ahr valley; it has something of the roughness of the latter, but not its flavour.

They have in many places in Germany what is termed the “Grape Cure.” The season for this begins as soon as the grapes are ripe enough to be eaten; and the cure consists simply in munching as many bunches as the patient can possibly swallow,—about fourteen pounds being considered a fair day’s eating for one person: nothing else is to be taken. Whether this cramming cures the patient of anything but love for grapes is doubtful; but it must have that effect, so it is perhaps properly called “Grape Cure.”

Little paths lead up to the hill-sides through the vineyards. Often steps in the solid rock have had to be cut, and the labour and perseverance must have been immense. When the vintage approaches, these paths are closed by great bundles of thorn, and other signs and marks are put up to warn off intruders.

In bad years more vinegar is made than wine; often even they do not attempt to make the latter.

The completion of the vintage is celebrated as it began, by firing and shouting, dancing and singing, and then the toil of tending the vines recommences; but if the season has been propitious, the result may be easily read in the features of the peasants, which are now for a time released from the anxious contracted look they wore through the summer and earlier part of the autumn.

So much in celebration of wine; but, ever mindful of our beautiful Moselle, we will close this vintage chapter, with its praise of wine, with a few lines in praise of water, and thus preserve that happy balance between the two fluids which is the true secret of enjoyment. Both are good; both are gifts to be rightly used and thankfully enjoyed: but if the palm is to be given to one over the other, it should not be to the usurper Wine, who generally sits upon his sister’s throne.