On the Moselle the vintage is still conducted in the old-fashioned way, much of the wine being still pressed from the bunches by the feet. The clusters, which have been carefully cut from the trees, are placed in the baskets (which the people seem always to wear on their backs), and [126]borne down the hill-side to the village, where they are tumbled into great tubs, in which they are crushed, if not by the feet, by wooden mallets.

The long toil of carrying up great basketsful of dressing for the roots, of hacking round the vines, of carefully tying up the boughs and tending them in every possible way, repairing the walls and steps, and placing beneath the fruit-bunches flat stones to refract the heat on to their lower sides, is ended; all having prospered, joy is at its height, for plenty will fill the homes of the cultivators during the coming winter.

The peasantry suffer great hardships in bad years; and, unfortunately, these more frequently recur than good.

Having, week after week, toiled up and down the nearly perpendicular cliffs, and worked amid their vineyards unmindful alike of sun and rain, it is very sad to think that generally the gain is small for so much labour; and even in good years, although the peasantry benefit considerably, yet it is not they, but the wine-buyers, who make the principal profit.

In every village may be seen one or two houses, evidently occupied by a class far above the peasantry. To these houses are attached large cellars, through whose open doors we sometimes see great casks piled up; the owners of these dwellings are small merchants, who buy up the grapes from the poorer people, paying by the weight. They are the real gainers by a good year, for they rule the prices of the market; and by advancing sums when necessary [127]to the peasants, the latter are in a measure bound to accommodate them. That all do benefit is, however, an undoubted fact; and the happy vintage-time is the most joyful season of the year upon our river’s banks.
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; [128]

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;[129]

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 ............