“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 [25]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. [26]
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.
[Contents]
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 [27]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.” [28]
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. [29]
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 [30]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. [31]
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.
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 [32]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 [33]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. [34]
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 H?tel de Ville, in a book kept for that purpose, [35]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 H?tel 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 H?tel 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 “Br?ler le Valentin,” or “Valentine,” and showed “the new-married” had made [36]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. [37]
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 paté 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 [38]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.