Making the CuvéeMAKING THE CUVÉE AT MESSRS. GIESLER’S, AT AVIZE.
MAKING THE CUVÉE AT MESSRS. GIESLER’S, AT AVIZE.
There are a couple of floors above these celliers, the uppermost of which is used as a general store, while in the one beneath many thousands of bottles ofvin brutreposesur pointe, either in racks or on tables, as at the Clicquot-Werlé establishment. This latter system requires ample space, for as the workman who shakes the bottles is only able to use one hand, the operation of dislodging the sediment necessarily occupies a much longer time than is requisite when the bottles rest in racks.
The buildings on the opposite side of the courtyard comprise a large packing-hall, celliers where the wine is finished off, and rooms where corks and suchlike things are stored. Here, too, is the entrance to the cellars, of which there are three tiers, all lofty and well-ventilated galleries, very regular in their construction, and faced with either stone or brick. In these extensive vaults are casks of fine reserved wines for blending with youthful vintages, and bottles ofvin brut, built up in solid stacks, that may be reckoned by their hundreds of thousands. At Messrs. Giesler’s the disgorging of the wine is accomplished in a small cellier partially underground, and the temperature of which is very cool and equable. Thedégorgeurs, isolated from the rest of the workpeople, are carrying on their operations here by candlelight. So soon as the sediment is removed, the bottles are raised in baskets to the cellier above, where the liqueuring, recorking, stringing, and wiring are successively accomplished. By pursuing this plan the loss sustained by the disgorgement is believed to be reduced to a minimum.
Extensive as these premises are, they are still insufficient for the requirements of the firm; and across the road is a spacious building where new bottles are stored, and the washing of the bottles in preparation for the tirage takes place. By the aid of the machinery provided sixteen women, assisted by a couple of men, commonly wash some fifteen or sixteen thousand bottles in the course of a day. Here, too, stands one of the two large presses with which, at the epoch of the vintage, a hundred pièces of wine are pressed every four-and-twenty hours. The remaining press is installed in a cellier at the farther end of the garden on the other side of the road. Messrs. Giesler possess additional presses at their vendangeoir at Bouzy, and during the vintage have the command of presses at Ay, Verzenay, Vertus, Le Mesnil, &c.; it being a rule of theirs always to press the grapes within a few hours after they are gathered, to obviate their becoming bruised by their own weight and imparting a dark colour to the wine, a contingency difficult to guard against in seasons when the fruit is over-ripe. The firm own vineyards at Avize, and have agreements with vine-proprietors at Ay, Bouzy, Verzenay, and elsewhere, to purchase their crops regularly every year. Messrs. Giesler’s brand has secured its existing high repute solely through the fine quality of the wines shipped by the house—wines which are known and appreciated by all real connoisseurs of Champagne.
From Messrs. Giesler’s it is merely a short walk to the establishment of M. Charles de Cazanove, situated in the principal street of Avize. On entering the court we encountered a tame young boar engaged in the lively pursuit of chasing some terrified hens; while a trio of boar-hounds, basking on the sunny flagstones, contemplated his proceedings with lazy indifference. Boars abound in the woods hereabouts, and hunting them is a favourite pastime with the residents; and the young boar we had noticed proved to be one of the recent captures of the sons of M. de Cazanove, who are among the warmest partisans of the exciting sport.
The house of M. Charles de Cazanove was established in 1843, by its present proprietor, on the foundation of a business which had been in existence since 1811. Compared with the monumental grandeur of some of the great Reims and Epernay establishments, the premises present a simple and modest aspect; nevertheless, they are capacious and commodious, besides which, the growing businessof the house has led to the acquisition of additional cellarage in other parts of Avize. More important than all, however, is the quality of the wine with which these cellars are stocked; and, following the rule observed by Champagne firms of the highest repute, it has been a leading principle with M. de Cazanove always to rely upon the choicer growths—those light, delicate, and fragrant wines of the Marne which throw out the true aroma of the flower of the vine. M. de Cazanove, who is distinguished for his knowledge of viticulture, occupies an influential position at Avize, being Vice-President of the Horticultural Society of the Marne, and a member of the committee charged with guarding the Champagne vineyards against the invasion of the phylloxera. His own vines include only those fine varieties to which the crus of the Marne owe their great renown. He possesses an excellent vineyard at Grauves, near Avize; and his mother-in-law, Madame Poultier of Pierry, is one of the principal vine-growers of the district.
M. de Cazanove’s wines are much appreciated in Paris, where his business is very extensive. His shipments to England are also considerable; but from the circumstance of some of his principal customers importing the wine under special brands of their own, the brand of the house is not so widely known as we should have anticipated.
Vineyards of Avize and CramantVINEYARDS OF AVIZE AND CRAMANT, FROM THE GARDEN OF M. C. DE CAZANOVE.
VINEYARDS OF AVIZE AND CRAMANT, FROM THE GARDEN OF M. C. DE CAZANOVE.
From M. de Cazanove’s terraced garden in the rear of his establishment a fine view is obtained of one of the most famous viticultural districts of the Champagne, yielding wines of remarkable delicacy and exquisite bouquet. On the left hand rises up the mountain of Avize, its summit fringed with dense woods, where in winter the wild-boar has his lair. In front stretch the long vine-clad slopes of Cramant, with orchards at their base, and the housetops of the village and the spire of the quaint old church just peeping over the brow of the hill. To the right towers the bold forest-crowned height of Saran, with M. Moët’s château perched half-way up its north-eastern slope; and fading away in the hazy distance are the monotonous plains of the Champagne.
We have already explained that the wines of Avize and Cramant rank aspremiers crusof the white grape district, and that every Champagne manufacturer of repute mingles one or the other in his cuvée. The white grapes are usually gathered a fortnight or three weeks later than the blackvarieties, but in other respects the vintaging of them is the same. The grapes undergo the customary minute examination by theéplucheuses, and all unripe, damaged, and rotten berries being thrown aside, the fruit is conveyed with due care to the press-houses in the large baskets known aspaniers mannequins. The pressing takes place under exactly the same conditions as the pressing of the black grapes; the must, too, is drawn off into hogsheads to ferment, and by the end of the year, when the active fermentation has terminated, the wine is usually clear and limpid.
At Rilly-la-Montagne, on the line of railway between Reims and Epernay, Roper Frères & Cie., late of Epernay, have their establishment. Starting from the latter place, we pass Ay and Avenay, and then the little village of Germaine in the midst of the forest, and nigh the summit of the mountain of Reims, with its ‘Rendezvous des Chasseurs’ in immediate proximity to the station. Finally we arrive at Rilly, which, spite of its isolated situation, has about it that aspect of prosperity common to the more favourable wine districts of France. This is scarcely surprising, when the quality of its wines is taken into consideration. The still red wine of Rilly has long enjoyed a high local reputation, and to-day the Rilly growths are much sought after for conversion into Champagne. White wine of 1874, from black grapes, fetched, we are informed, as much as 600 to 700 francs the pièce; while the finer qualities from white grapes realised from 300 to 400 francs. Messrs. Roper Frères & Cie. are the owners of some productive vineyards situated on the high-road to Chigny and Ludes.
The establishment of Roper Frères is adjacent to a handsome modern house standing back from the road in a large and pleasant garden, bounded by vineyards on two of its sides. In the celliers all the conveniences pertaining to a modern Champagne establishment are to be found, while extending beneath the garden are the extensive cellars of the firm, comprising two stories of long and spacious galleries excavated in the chalk, their walls and roofs being supported whenever necessary by masonry. A curious feature about these cellars is that the roots of the larger trees in the garden above have penetrated the roof of the upper story, and hang pendent overhead like innumerable stalactites. Here, after the comparatively new wine of 1874 had been shown to us—including samples of the vin brut or natural Champagne of which the firm make a specialty at a moderate price—some choice old Champagnes were brought forth, including the fine vintages of 1865, 1857, and 1846. The latter wine had of course preserved very little of its effervescence, still its flavour was exceedingly fine, being soft and delicate to a degree. At the Vienna Exhibition of 1873, and the London Exhibition of 1874, the collection of Champagnes exhibited by Roper Frères met with favourable recognition from the international juries.
Our tour through the Champagne vineyards and wine-cellars here comes to an end. It is true there are important establishments at Châlons, notably those of the Perriers, Freminet et Fils, Dagonet et Fils, and Jacquard Frères. As, however, any description of these would be little else than a recapitulation of something we have already said, we content ourselves with merely notifying their existence, and close the present chapter with a poem on Champagne, from the pen of M. Amaury de Cazanove of Avize:
ODE AU CHAMPAGNE.
Pour ta beauté, pour ta gloire, ô Patrie,Nous t’adorons … surtout pour tes malheurs!Oublions-les…. Avec idolâtrie,Chantons ton ciel, tes femmes et tes fleurs.France, nous chanterons tes femmes et tes roses;France, nous chanterons tes vins, autre trésor;Qu’on voie, ouvrant tes lèvres longtemps closes,Un fier sourire étinceler encor!Nectar qu’aux dieux jadis versait Hébé la blonde!O noir Falerne! ô Massique vermeil!Pauvres vins du vieux temps oubliés à la ronde …Car le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.‘Je suis le sang des coteaux de Bourgogne!’Dit celui-là baron à parchemin,Grand assommeur qui vous met sans vergogneSon casque au front, si lourd le lendemain….‘C’est moi l’exquis Bordeaux, je sens la violette;Mes rubis, le gourmet goutte à goutte les boit,Et mon parfum délicat se complètePar ta saveur, aile d’un perdreau froid.’Messeigneurs les Grand Vins, s’il faut qu’on vous réponde;Bordeaux, Bourgogne, écoutez un conseil:Vantez un peu moins fort vos vertus à la ronde….Car le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.Car le Champagne est le vrai vin de France;C’est notre cœur pétillant dans nos yeux,Se relevant plus haut sous la souffrance;C’est dans sa fleur l’esprit de nos aïeux;Le souffle de bravoure aimable, qui tressailleSous le vent de l’épée aux plumes des cimiers;C’est le galant défi de la bataille:‘A vous, Messieurs les Anglais, les premiers!’Certain buveur de bière en vain ricane et gronde;Aux cauchemars de ses nuits sans sommeilDieu livre ses remords! … Nous chantons à la rondeQue le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.[481]
Pour ta beauté, pour ta gloire, ô Patrie,Nous t’adorons … surtout pour tes malheurs!Oublions-les…. Avec idolâtrie,Chantons ton ciel, tes femmes et tes fleurs.France, nous chanterons tes femmes et tes roses;France, nous chanterons tes vins, autre trésor;Qu’on voie, ouvrant tes lèvres longtemps closes,Un fier sourire étinceler encor!Nectar qu’aux dieux jadis versait Hébé la blonde!O noir Falerne! ô Massique vermeil!Pauvres vins du vieux temps oubliés à la ronde …Car le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.‘Je suis le sang des coteaux de Bourgogne!’Dit celui-là baron à parchemin,Grand assommeur qui vous met sans vergogneSon casque au front, si lourd le lendemain….‘C’est moi l’exquis Bordeaux, je sens la violette;Mes rubis, le gourmet goutte à goutte les boit,Et mon parfum délicat se complètePar ta saveur, aile d’un perdreau froid.’Messeigneurs les Grand Vins, s’il faut qu’on vous réponde;Bordeaux, Bourgogne, écoutez un conseil:Vantez un peu moins fort vos vertus à la ronde….Car le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.Car le Champagne est le vrai vin de France;C’est notre cœur pétillant dans nos yeux,Se relevant plus haut sous la souffrance;C’est dans sa fleur l’esprit de nos aïeux;Le souffle de bravoure aimable, qui tressailleSous le vent de l’épée aux plumes des cimiers;C’est le galant défi de la bataille:‘A vous, Messieurs les Anglais, les premiers!’Certain buveur de bière en vain ricane et gronde;Aux cauchemars de ses nuits sans sommeilDieu livre ses remords! … Nous chantons à la rondeQue le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.[481]
Pour ta beauté, pour ta gloire, ô Patrie,Nous t’adorons … surtout pour tes malheurs!Oublions-les…. Avec idolâtrie,Chantons ton ciel, tes femmes et tes fleurs.France, nous chanterons tes femmes et tes roses;France, nous chanterons tes vins, autre trésor;Qu’on voie, ouvrant tes lèvres longtemps closes,Un fier sourire étinceler encor!
Pour ta beauté, pour ta gloire, ô Patrie,
Nous t’adorons … surtout pour tes malheurs!
Oublions-les…. Avec idolâtrie,
Chantons ton ciel, tes femmes et tes fleurs.
France, nous chanterons tes femmes et tes roses;
France, nous chanterons tes vins, autre trésor;
Qu’on voie, ouvrant tes lèvres longtemps closes,
Un fier sourire étinceler encor!
Nectar qu’aux dieux jadis versait Hébé la blonde!O noir Falerne! ô Massique vermeil!Pauvres vins du vieux temps oubliés à la ronde …Car le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.
Nectar qu’aux dieux jadis versait Hébé la blonde!
O noir Falerne! ô Massique vermeil!
Pauvres vins du vieux temps oubliés à la ronde …
Car le Champagne a fait le tour du monde
En conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;
Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,
Et semble
Dans le cristal un rayon de soleil.
‘Je suis le sang des coteaux de Bourgogne!’Dit celui-là baron à parchemin,Grand assommeur qui vous met sans vergogneSon casque au front, si lourd le lendemain….‘C’est moi l’exquis Bordeaux, je sens la violette;Mes rubis, le gourmet goutte à goutte les boit,Et mon parfum délicat se complètePar ta saveur, aile d’un perdreau froid.’
‘Je suis le sang des coteaux de Bourgogne!’
Dit celui-là baron à parchemin,
Grand assommeur qui vous met sans vergogne
Son casque au front, si lourd le lendemain….
‘C’est moi l’exquis Bordeaux, je sens la violette;
Mes rubis, le gourmet goutte à goutte les boit,
Et mon parfum délicat se complète
Par ta saveur, aile d’un perdreau froid.’
Messeigneurs les Grand Vins, s’il faut qu’on vous réponde;Bordeaux, Bourgogne, écoutez un conseil:Vantez un peu moins fort vos vertus à la ronde….Car le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.
Messeigneurs les Grand Vins, s’il faut qu’on vous réponde;
Bordeaux, Bourgogne, écoutez un conseil:
Vantez un peu moins fort vos vertus à la ronde….
Car le Champagne a fait le tour du monde
En conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;
Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,
Et semble
Dans le cristal un rayon de soleil.
Car le Champagne est le vrai vin de France;C’est notre cœur pétillant dans nos yeux,Se relevant plus haut sous la souffrance;C’est dans sa fleur l’esprit de nos aïeux;Le souffle de bravoure aimable, qui tressailleSous le vent de l’épée aux plumes des cimiers;C’est le galant défi de la bataille:‘A vous, Messieurs les Anglais, les premiers!’
Car le Champagne est le vrai vin de France;
C’est notre cœur pétillant dans nos yeux,
Se relevant plus haut sous la souffrance;
C’est dans sa fleur l’esprit de nos aïeux;
Le souffle de bravoure aimable, qui tressaille
Sous le vent de l’épée aux plumes des cimiers;
C’est le galant défi de la bataille:
‘A vous, Messieurs les Anglais, les premiers!’
Certain buveur de bière en vain ricane et gronde;Aux cauchemars de ses nuits sans sommeilDieu livre ses remords! … Nous chantons à la rondeQue le Champagne a fait le tour du mondeEn conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,Et sembleDans le cristal un rayon de soleil.[481]
Certain buveur de bière en vain ricane et gronde;
Aux cauchemars de ses nuits sans sommeil
Dieu livre ses remords! … Nous chantons à la ronde
Que le Champagne a fait le tour du monde
En conquérant, à nos drapeaux pareil;
Il rit, léger, sous la mousse qui tremble,
Et semble
Dans le cristal un rayon de soleil.[481]
Avize, 8 Juillet 1877.
Cupids Bathing in Champagne Glass
BoarTHE BOAR TAKES SOIL.
THE BOAR TAKES SOIL.
The Champagne forests the resort of the wild-boar—Departure of a hunting-party in the early morning to a boar-hunt—Rousing the boar from his lair—Commencement of the attack—Chasing the boar—His course is checked by a bullet—The dogs rush on in full pursuit—The boar turns and stands at bay—A skilful marksman advances and gives him thecoup de grâce—Hunting the wild-boar on horseback in the Champagne—An exciting day’s sport with M. d’Honnincton’s boar-hounds—The ‘sonnerie du sanglier’ and the ‘vue’—The horns sound in chorus ‘The boar has taken soil’—The boar leaves the stream, and a spirited chase ensues—Brought to bay, he seeks the water again—Deathly struggle between the boar and a full pack of hounds—The fatal shot is at length fired, and the ‘hallali’ is sounded—As many as fifteen wild-boars sometimes killed at a single meet—The vagaries of some tame young boars—Hounds of all kinds used for hunting the wild-boar in the Champagne—Damage done by boars to the vineyards and the crops—Varieties of game common to the Champagne.
Champagne and the Hunt
THEChampagne does not merely comprise vineyards producing some of the finest wine in the world. In parts it is covered by vast and luxuriant forests, where the pleasures of the chase are not lacking to the Champenois, who as a rule are eager in the pursuit of sport. In winter these forests are the resort of wild-boar, who haunt by preference the woods around Reims, journeying thither, it is said, by night from the famous forest of the Ardennes—the scene of Rosalind’s wanderings and Touchstone’s eccentricities, as set forth inAs You Like It; and whose gloomy depths and tangled glens shelter not merely boars, but wolves as well.
In the villages of the Champagne on a cold winter’s morning, with it snowing or blowing, youare frequently awake before daylight by the noise of barking dogs, of horns sounding the departure, and of some vehicle rolling heavily over the stones. A party of sportsmen is proceeding to the meet. Jokes and laughter enliven the journey, but every one becomes silent and serious upon reaching the place of rendezvous, for the object of the gathering is the excitable and perilous boar-hunt.
In the Champagne it is no longer the fashion, as in Burgundy,
‘With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore.’
‘With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore.’
‘With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore.’
‘With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore.’
The more certain rifle is the weapon usually employed, and these arms are now examined and carefully loaded. Meanwhile the reports of the keepers are attentively listened to. They have beaten the wood, each on his own side, accompanied by a bloodhound, and they inform the hunters what they have seen or found. Great experience is necessary to accomplish therembuchement, as this tour of inspection is termed, in a satisfactory manner; and with some it is a veritable science. Eventually, after a discussion among the more experienced ones, it is decided to follow the scent which appears to be freshest; whereupon the dogs are brought up coupled, and let loose upon the trail. The attack now begins. There are always two or threepiqueurswho follow the dogs, exciting them with their voices, and making all the noise possible, as long as the game has not been roused from its lair. Meanwhile the marksmen place themselves at the posts indicated by the president of the hunt, the most experienced being assigned the best spots, whilst those whose habit it is never to harm the boar go of their own accord ‘up wind’—that is, to bad places—thus causing the animal to ‘refuse,’ and to pass within range of guns that rarely let him escape unhurt.
At first the dogs raise a somewhat distant cry—perhaps one has followed a wrong scent—and some of the huntsmen remark in a low tone to themselves that after all they would have done better to have stopped at home, and turned out of their beds at a less unseasonable hour; then, at least, they would not be standing with frozen feet in the snow, and with colds in the head in perspective. But suddenly there comes a cry of ‘Vlô!’—the Champenois expression for designating the boar—‘Attention!’ ‘Look out!’ Then the report of a couple of shots, and finally the howling of the pack of dogs. Snow and cold are at once forgotten. Each man grasps his rifle and waits for the boar to pass by. The branches of the underwood creak and break; there is a noise as of a squadron of cavalry dashing into a wood; then, all of a sudden, a black mass is caught sight of approaching. But the boar is a cunning fellow; he has seen the sportsman who is in wait for him, or has scented his presence, and will pass out of range. Now that luck has betrayed the latter, he has to content himself with therôleof a spectator.
So far as one can judge by the barking of the dogs, the boar is directing his course to where an experienced marksman is posted—one who is not about to fire his first difficult shot. Observe him: he is perfectly motionless, for the least movement might betray his presence; his eyes alone dart right and left in quest of the foe. Here comes the boar, passing like a cannon-ball along the line, and there is scarcely time to catch a glimpse of him between the reports of two shots, which succeed each other with the rapidity of lightning. The boar is by no means an animal easy to knock over. The forest roads are never more than ten to fifteen paces broad; and as there are marksmen both on the right and left, it is necessary to reserve your fire until the animal has crossed the road and is plunging again into cover. In addition to this, there are only two spots where a mortal wound can be inflicted upon the boar—either behind the shoulder or in the neck. Hit elsewhere, he will lose but little blood, and the only effect of the wound will be to render him more savage. He will rip up a dog or two, perhaps, and then rush off far away, without showing any further sign of injury. Boars carrying several bullets in their bodies, but rejoicing in capital health, as well as others covered with cicatrices, are frequently killed. Firing too high is a common fault with many marksmen, arising from the fact that in winter the boar’s bristles are very long and thick, and that each one stands on end at the sight of an enemy, thus making the animal look much higher on his legs than he really is.
But to return to our description of the hunt. The boar has just been hit by one of those rare marksmen, every bullet of whose rifle goes straight to its intended billet. Although struck, the animal continues his onward course, a couple of drops of blood which have tinged the snow with red showing unmistakably that he has not been missed. The dogs who follow him closely hesitate for a minute as they reach the roadway, but the leader has espied the spot where the boar was wounded; he sniffs the blood, and darts off again, followed by the pack, who have full confidence in his discernment. The dogs are torn and wounded by the thorns and briers which continually obstruct their path, for the boar rushes through the thickest and most inaccessible cover, in hopes of retarding the progress of his pursuers; but the hounds divine that their prey is near, and the most tired among them recover all their energy. Suddenly a great silence succeeds the furious yelping and baying of a short time ago. The boar is about to turn at bay. His strength is becoming exhausted, and feeling that he is doomed to die, he has faced round, with his back towards some inaccessible thicket, so as not to be taken in the rear, and confronts his pursuers, determined to die bravely and to sell his life dearly. It is no longer the baying of a pack in full cry that now rends the air, but isolated yelpings and plaintive howlings, such as watch-dogs give vent to when strangers are wandering round the house they protect.
Then comes the crowning feat of the hunt, and the most difficult to accomplish. The most intrepid marksman advances towards the dogs, his hunting-knife and rifle alike ready, the former to be made use of should the latter not suffice. He has need of great prudence and great coolness to accomplish his task, for directly the boar hears his approach he will unhesitatingly dash upon him. He must await the animal’s onslaught with a firm heart and steady hand, and only fire when sure of his aim. Often, however, the hunter is bothered by the dogs, which surround the boar on all sides, hang on to him from behind, and excite his fury. The position may become critical, and many a sportsman who has counted too much upon his nerve has found himself compelled to climb a tree, whence he has been able to ‘bowl over’ the enemy, without incurring any danger. It is needless to add that when discovered in this position he has felt very much ashamed at having resorted to such an expedient.
In the Champagne the wild boar is almost invariably pursued on foot, the minute subdivision of the land into different holdings and consequent limitation of the right of sport rendering it very difficult to follow the animal on horseback. M. Roederer, it is true, started a pack of hounds in the Forest of Reims; but at his death there were not sufficient lovers of the chase to keep up this style of sport, and every one fell into the habit of knocking over a wild-boar in the same prosaic fashion as a simple rabbit. However, some few years back, a rich landowner from Brittany, the Vicomte d’Honnincton, having had an opportunity of sport in the Champagne, and having seen that large game abounded, installed himself near the fine Forêt de la Traconne, in the neighbourhood of Sézanne, and resumed the chase of the wild-boar on horseback. The great success he met with induced him to take up his quarters in this district, and his pack, composed of a cross between the English staghound and the Artois hound, has become justly famous.
In the month of December 1878, an exciting day’s sport was had with M. d’Honnincton’s boar-hounds. The presence of herds of wild-boar having been noted in the neighbouring woods between Epernay and Montmort, M. d’Honnincton was soon to the fore with his pack, and all the sportsmen for miles around were summoned. The meet was at the Château de la Charmoye, a regular hunters’ rendezvous, belonging to the Vicomte de Bouthylliers, and situate in the heart of the woodland. During breakfast one of the huntsmen came to announce that a hugesolitairehad passed the night at a short distance from the château. Everything, therefore, promised well for sport. The guests mounted in haste, each one equipped in true French style, with an immense hunting-horn round his body and a light gun or a pistol attached to the saddle. The lively strains of the horn had begun to sound on every side, and the hounds were being uncoupled, when the boar, disturbed by all this noise, majestically traversed the main avenue of the château, and pushed on towards a group of ladies assembled to witness the departure of the sportsmen. A finer start would have been impossible.The hounds dashed towards their prey as soon as they caught sight of him at full cry, and thesonnerie du sanglierand thevuewere blazed forth by the horns on every side. The hunt commenced. The greatest difficulty and the object of all was to hinder the boar from plunging into the thick of the forest, where, in the dense cover, he would have gained a considerable advance upon the dogs. Thanks to the activity of the huntsmen, who cut off his retreat on this side, it was possible to drive him towards the plain of Montmort; and from this moment the sport was as fine as can be imagined, it being easy to note the minor details of the hunt even from a distance. The boar made his way with difficulty over the ground saturated by rain, and the eagerness of the hounds increased in proportion as they gained upon him.
A broadish rivulet with very steep banks was reached. The boar tried to clear it at a bound, but fell into mid-stream. The sportsmen all came up at this moment, and with their horns began to sound in chorus ‘The boar has taken soil;’ the hounds plunged in and began to swim after the boar, and the scene became a truly exciting one. At length the boar succeeded in quitting the stream; but frightened by the horsemen whom he saw on the opposite shore, he recrossed it a second and then a third time, amidst the hounds, who were assailing him on every side, and each time met with the same difficulty in ascending the bank. It may be readily understood that he was getting exhausted by his efforts, and began to appear done up. He recovered his vigour, however, and soon gained ground on the hounds. He had still two or three miles to cover in order to regain the forest, and it was necessary at all costs to prevent him from accomplishing this. Then ensued a wild hunt, a mad steeplechase over fields, hedges, brooks, ditches; the horses in several places sank over their hocks, and were covered with foam, but whip and spur restored energy to the least ardent. The boar was gasping, but still kept on, and the steam from his body, which quite surrounded him and caused him to resemble a four-legged demon, could be plainly perceived from a distance. In this style the hunt swept through the little village of Lucy, with all the dogs of the place howling, the women and children shrieking, and the men arming themselves with spades and pitchforks. But the boar not losing courage on this account, and despising these primitive weapons, did not stop, and drew nearer and nearer to the wood. The hounds were getting tired, and the most experienced sportsmen began to despair somewhat of a successful day, when suddenly the beast plunged into a pond situate close to the forest, halted, rolled several times in the mud, and rose completely covered in steam and mire. It is all over: the animal is at bay, and cannot go any further.
This is the interesting moment. The boar pulls himself together, feeling that he is to die, and, up to his belly in water, he bravely awaits the pack. With his eye glowing with rage, his bristles erect, he utters grunts of defiance. The fifty dogs throw themselves on to him without a moment’s hesitation; but four or five are sent rolling into the middle of the water, never more to rise. The struggle which follows is terrible; the boar’s tusks tell at every blow, and the water becomes literally red with blood. At length the foremost sportsmen come up, and it is high time they do. Seven dogs are already lying on their backs, with their legs in the air, and almost all bear marks of the boar’s terrible tusks. The first who is ready alights from his steed, and boldly advances into the water; for it would be imprudent to fire at the boar from the edge of the pond, and thereby run the risk of wounding him, and rendering him still more furious, or even of killing one of the dogs, by whom he is surrounded. An interval of solemn silence ensues; the horns only wait for the shot to be fired to sound thehallali. The dogs make way in order to let the sportsman advance; the boar draws back a little, and then making a bound recovers all his strength for a rush upon his enemy. Woe to the man who misses him! the boar will give him no quarter. But the sportsman waits for him very quietly, and when he is only two paces from him plants a bullet between his eyes, which lays him dead. The notes of thehallaliawake the echoes: never had a hunt been crowned by finer results. The setting sun lighted up the scene, which transpired just below the Château de Montmort, scarcely half a mile off, and the ladies assembled on the terrace of the old château of Sully waved their handkerchiefs in congratulation to the fortunate sportsmen.
The foregoing narrative furnishes a good idea of the ordinary method of hunting the wild-boaron horseback in the Champagne, a method which, though offering at times varying details, arising from the size of the animal pursued and the number and strength of the hounds engaged in the chase, presents, on the whole, a general resemblance to the description just given.
Some years back boars were far from numerous in the Champagne, hiding themselves, moreover, in inaccessible positions far away in the woods, so that it was necessary to cover a larger extent of ground in order to sight a recent trail. Latterly, however, these animals have multiplied considerably, each sow having seven or eight young ones at a litter, and littering three times a year. In the forests around Reims and Epernay twelve, and even fifteen, boars have been killed during a single hunt. It not unfrequently happens that a herd of fifty, and even a hundred, boars are encountered together, when a veritable massacre often ensues, if the hunting-party only comprises a sufficient number of guns.
The victims include at times some sows with young grice, which the hunters frequently try to bring up. One of these little animals, who had been named ‘Snow’ from having been captured one day when the snow was on the ground, followed his owner about everywhere like the most faithful poodle. His master would often take him into the wood and simulate a hunt with his dogs. Snow, however, possessed vices as well as virtues, and one of his habits was an extremely disagreeable one. Like the rest of his species, he was very fond of rolling himself in the mire, and, on returning home, would proceed to clean himself by rubbing unconcernedly against the dresses of the ladies of the house. One Sunday his master had taken him out for a walk, and as they returned home they passed the church, which the ladies of the locality, arrayed in their richest attire, were just leaving. During his walk Snow had taken two or three mud-baths, and, on meeting the fair devotees of Avize, he thought the occasion a propitious one for cleansing himself. He at once put the idea into practice, employing the silk dresses of the ladies for the purpose. The children who accompanied them were greatly terrified, and rushed shrieking into the adjoining houses, pursued by the gambolling boar, who seemed to greatly enjoy the panic he had caused. As La Fontaine has remarked,
‘Rien que la mort n’était capableD’expier son forfait.’
‘Rien que la mort n’était capableD’expier son forfait.’
‘Rien que la mort n’était capableD’expier son forfait.’
‘Rien que la mort n’était capable
D’expier son forfait.’
So, after such an offence, poor Snow was sentenced to undergo capital punishment, and expiated by death his want of regard for the silk attire of the fair sex.
Another boar named ‘Scotsman,’ and belonging to the same sportsman, was also an amusing fellow. He would stretch himself out in the sun of an afternoon as majestically as the Sultan on his divan, whilst a hen with whom he had contracted a tender friendship kindly relieved him of his parasites.
A gentleman of the same district owns two enormous sows, which follow him like greyhounds whenever he rides out. When a friend asks him to step indoors and to refresh or rest himself, he replies: ‘I must beg you to excuse me; I have with meCatherineandRigolette, who might inconvenience you.’ The friend looks round to see who these interesting young people may be, and his surprise may be imagined when two big swine familiarly place their forepaws upon his shoulders.
Several sportsmen of the Champagne possess packs of hounds, and the true boar-hound, the ‘dog of black St. Hubert breed,’ is really a magnificent animal, with his long pendant ears, his open chest, and broad-backed body. Hounds of the La Vendée and Poitou breeds are also used at boar-hunts. Dogs, though they may be of excellent race, require, however, skilful training before they will hunt the boar. It is necessary they should see several boars killed ere they will venture to tackle this formidable enemy, of which the dog is instinctively afraid. House-dogs, curs, and terriers will at times pursue the boar admirably, and prolong his standing for hours without approaching within range of the beast’s tusks, whilst animals of a higher spirit will allow themselves to be ripped up alive, or, if they escape, will not dare to again approach their foe after a first repulse.
Since boars became so numerous in the Champagne they have done considerable damage to the crops, a corn or potato field being soon devastated by them. At harvest-time a watch has oftento be set for them by night. A few years ago, at the moment of the vintage, people were even compelled to light large fires near the vineyards to scare away these dangerous neighbours.
The shooting season in the Champagne extends from the commencement of September till the end of February; but boar-hunting is often prolonged until the first of May, and occasionallybattuesare organised during the summer.
Other four-footed game tenanting the forests of the Champagne are the roe-deer, in tolerable quantity; a few fallow-deer and stags and wolves, which latter are still numerous, spite of the warfare carried on against them. The roe-deer is hunted, like the boar, with hounds; but this easy sport, which does not possess the attraction of danger, is quite neglected when boars are numerous. The forests also give shelter to hares in abundance, martins, wild-cats, and foxes, the latter being rigorously destroyed on account of their depredations. They are stifled by smoke in their holes, or else poisoned or taken in traps.
Sportsmen are so numerous in every little village of the Marne, the shooting license only costing five-and-twenty francs, that feathered game has become very rare. The most remarkable specimen is the caimpetière, or small bustard, which exists only in the Champagne and Algeria, and the flesh of which is highly esteemed.
Partridges and hares would have entirely disappeared from the plains were it not for the shelter which the vineyards afford them, for woe to him who ventures to shoot among the vines! The vine is as sacred to the Champenois as the mistletoe was to their Gallic forefathers. Great severity is shown in respect to trespassers at the epoch when the vines are sprouting, for each broken bud represents a bunch of grapes, which its owner hoped might realise its weight in gold.
Hunting the Boar
Coteau de SaumurTHE VINEYARDS OF THE COTEAU DE SAUMUR.
THE VINEYARDS OF THE COTEAU DE SAUMUR.
French Nobleman
The sparkling wines of the Loire often palmed off as Champagne—The finer qualities improve with age—Anjou the cradle of the Plantagenet kings—Saumur and its dominating feudal Château and antique Hôtel de Ville—Its sinister Rue des Payens and steep tortuous Grande Rue—The vineyards of the Coteau of Saumur—Abandoned stone-quarries converted into dwellings—The vintage in progress—Old-fashioned pressoirs—The making of the wine—Touraine the favourite residence of the earlier French monarchs—After a night’s carouse at the epoch of the Renaissance—The Vouvray vineyards—Balzac’s picture of La Vallée Coquette—The village of Vouvray and the Château of Moncontour—Vernou, with its reminiscences of Sully and Pépin-le-Bref—The vineyards around Saumur—Remarkable ancient Dolmens—Ackerman-Laurance’s establishment at Saint-Florent—Their extensive cellars, ancient and modern—Treatment of the newly-vintaged wine—The cuvée—Proportions of wine from black and white grapes—The bottling and disgorging of the wine and finishing operations—The Château of Varrains and the establishment of M. Louis Duvau aîné—His cellars a succession of gloomy galleries—The disgorging of the wine accomplished in a melodramatic-looking cave—M. Duvau’s vineyard—His sparkling Saumur of various ages—Marked superiority of the more matured samples—M. E. Normandin’s sparkling Sauternes manufactory at Châteauneuf—Angoulême and its ancient fortifications—Vin de Colombar—M. Normandin’s sparkling Sauternes cuvée—His cellars near Châteauneuf—Recognition accorded to the wine at the Concours Régional d’Angoulême.
AFTERthe Champagne, Anjou is the French province which ranks next in importance for its production of sparkling wines. Vintaged on the banks of the Loire, these are largely consigned to the English and other markets, labelled Crême de Bouzy, Sillery and Ay Mousseux, Cartes Noires and Blanches, and the like; while their corks are branded with the names of phantom firms, supposed to be located at Reims and Epernay. As a rule, these wines come from around Saumur; but they are not necessarily the worse on that account, for the district produces capital sparklingwines, the finer qualities of which improve greatly by being kept for a few years. One curious thing shown to us at Saumur was the album of a manufacturer of sparkling wines containing examples of the many hundred labels ticketed with which his produce had for years past been sold. Not one of these labels assigned to the wines the name of their real maker or their true birthplace, but introduced them under the auspices of mythical dukes and counts, as being manufactured at châteaux which are so many ‘castles in Spain,’ and as coming from Ay, Bouzy, Châlons, Epernay, Reims, and Verzenay, but never by any chance from Saumur.
Being produced from robuster growths than the sparkling wines of the Department of the Marne, sparkling Saumur will always lack that excessive lightness which is the crowning grace of fine Champagne; still, it has only to be kept for a few years, instead of being drunk shortly after its arrival from the wine-merchant, for its quality to become greatly improved and its intrinsic value to be considerably enhanced. We have drunk sparkling Saumur that had been in bottle for nearly twenty years, and found the wine not only remarkably delicate, but, singular to say, with plenty of effervescence.
Richard CÅ“ur de LionSTATUE OF RICHARD CÅ’UR DE LIONAT FONTEVRAULT.
STATUE OF RICHARD CÅ’UR DE LIONAT FONTEVRAULT.
To an Englishman Anjou is one of the most interesting of the ancient provinces of France. It was the cradle of the Plantagenet kings, and only ten miles from Saumur still repose the bones of Henry, the first Plantagenet, and Richard of the Lion Heart, beneath their elaborate coloured and gilt effigies, in the so-called Cimetière des Rois of the historic Abbey of Fontevrault. The famous vineyards of the Coteau de Saumur, eastward of the town and bordering the Loire, extend as far as here, and include the communes of Dampierre, Souzay, Varrains, Chacé, Parnay, Turquant, and Montsoreau, the last-named within three miles of Fontevrault, and chiefly remarkable through its seigneur of ill-fame, Jean de Chambes, who instigated his wife to lure Bussy d’Amboise to an assignation in order that he might the more surely poignard him. Saumur is picturesquely placed at the foot of this bold range of heights, near where the little river Thouet runs into the broad and rapid Loire. A massive-looking old château, perched on the summit of an isolated crag, stands out grandly against the clear sky and dominates the town, the older houses of which crouch at the foot of the lofty hill and climb its steepest sides. The restored antique Hôtel de Ville, in the Pointed style, with its elegant windows, graceful belfry, and florid wrought-iron balconies, stands back from the quay bordering the Loire. In the rear is the Rue des Payens, whither the last of the Huguenots of this ‘metropolis of Protestantism,’ as it was formerly styled, retired, converting their houses into so many fortresses to guard against being surprised by their Catholic adversaries. Adjacent is the steep tortuous Grande Rue, of which Balzac—himself a Tourangeau—has given such a graphic picture in hisEugénie Grandet, the scene of which is laid at Saumur. To-day, however, only a few of its ancient carved-timber houses, quaint overhanging corner turrets, and fantastically studded massive oak doors, have escaped demolition.
The vineyards of the Coteau de Saumur, yielding the finest wines, are reached by the road skirting the river, the opposite low banks of which are fringed with willows and endless rows of poplars, which at the time of our visit were already golden with the fading tints of autumn. Numerous fantastic windmills crown the heights, the summit of which is covered with vines, varied by dense patches of woodland. Here, as elsewhere along the banks of the Loire, the many abandoned quarries along the face of the hill have been turned by the peasants into cosy dwellings by simply walling-up the entrances, while leaving, of course, the necessary apertures for doors and windows. Dampierre, the first village reached, has many of these cave-dwellings, and numbers of its houses are picturesquely perched up the sides of the slope. The holiday costumes of the peasant womenencountered in the neighbourhood of Saumur are exceedingly quaint, their elaborate and varied headdresses being counterparts ofcoiffuresin vogue so far back as three and four centuries ago.
Peasant WomenPEASANT WOMEN OF THE ENVIRONS OF SAUMUR.
PEASANT WOMEN OF THE ENVIRONS OF SAUMUR.
Quitting the banks of the river, we ascend a steep tortuous road, shut in on either side by high stone walls—for hereabouts all the best vineyards are scrupulously enclosed—and finally reach the summit of the heights, whence a view is gained over what the Saumurois proudly style the grand valley of the Loire. Everywhere around the vintage is going on. The vines are planted rather more than a yard apart, and those yielding black grapes are trained, as a rule, up tall stakes, although some few are trained espalier fashion. Women dexterously detach the bunches with pruning-knives and throw them into theseilles—small squat buckets with wooden handles—the contents of which are emptied from time to time into baskets—the counterpart of the chiffonnier’shotte, and coated with pitch inside so as to close all the crevices of the wickerwork—which theportes-bastescarry slung to their backs. When white wine is being made from black grapes for sparkling Saumur, the grapes are conveyed in these baskets to the underground pressoirs in the neighbouring villages before their skins get at all broken, in order that the wine may be as pale as possible in colour.
The black grape yielding the best wine in the Saumur district is the breton, said to be the same as the carbinet-sauvignon, the leading variety in the grand vineyards of the Médoc. Other species of black grapes cultivated around Saumur are the varennes, yielding a soft and insipid wine of no kind of value, and the liverdun, or large gamay, the prevalent grape in the Mâconnais, and the same which in the days of Philippe-le-Hardi theparlementsof Metz and Dijon interdicted the planting and cultivation of. The prevalent white grapes are the large and small pineau blanc, the bunches of the former being of an intermediate size, broad and pyramidal in shape, and with the berries close together. These have fine skins, are oblong in shape, and of a transparent yellowish-green hue tinged with red, are very sweet and juicy, and as a rule ripen late. As for the smallpineau, the bunches are less compact, the berries are round and of a golden tint, are finer as well as sweeter in flavour, and ripen somewhat earlier than the fruit of the larger variety.
We noticed as we drove through the villages of Champigny and Varrains—the former celebrated for its fine red wines, and more especially its cru of the Clos des Cordeliers—that hardly any of the houses had windows looking on to the narrow street, but that all were provided with low openings for shooting the grapes into the cellar, where, when making red wine, they are trodden, but when making white wine, whether from black or white grapes, they are invariably pressed. Each of the houses had its ponderous porte-cochère and low narrow portal leading into the large enclosed yard at its side, and over the high blank walls vines were frequently trained, pleasantly varying their dull gray monotony.
The grapes on being shot into the openings just mentioned fall through a kind of tunnel into a reservoir adjacent to the heavy press, which is invariably of wood and of the old-fashioned cumbersome type. They are forthwith placed beneath the press and usually subjected to five separate squeezes, the must from the first three being reserved for sparkling wine, while that from the two latter, owing to its being more or less deeply tinted, only serves for table-wine. The must is at once run off into casks, in order that it may not ferment on the grape-skins and imbibe any portion of their colouring matter. Active fermentation speedily sets in, and lasts for a fortnight or three weeks, according to whether the temperature chances to be high or low.
The vintaging of the white grapes takes place about a fortnight later than the black grapes, and is commonly a compound operation, the best and ripest bunches being first of all gathered just as the berries begin to get shrivelled and show symptoms of approaching rottenness. It is these selected grapes that yield the best wine. The second gathering, which follows shortly after the first, includes all the grapes remaining on the vines, and yields a wine perceptibly inferior in quality. The grapes on their arrival at the press-house are generally pressed immediately, and the must is run off into tuns to ferment. At the commencement these tuns are filled up every three or four days to replace the fermenting must which has flowed over; afterwards any waste is made good at the interval of a week, and then once a fortnight, the bungholes of the casks being securely closed towards the end of the year, by which time the first fermentation is over.
It should be noted that the Saumur sparkling wine manufacturers draw considerable supplies of the white wine, required to impart lightness and effervescence to theirvin préparé, from the Vouvray vineyards. Vouvray borders the Loire a few miles from the pleasant city of Tours, which awakens sinister recollections of truculent Louis XI., shut up in his fortified castle of Plessis-lez-Tours, around which Scott has thrown the halo of his genius in his novel ofQuentin Durward. A succession of vineyard slopes stretch from one to another of the many historic châteaux along this portion of the Loire, the romantic associations of which render the Touraine one of the most interesting provinces of France. Near Tours, besides the vineyards of Saint-Cyr are those of Joué and Saint-Avertin; the two last situate on the opposite bank of the Cher, where the little town of Joué, perched on the summit of a hill in the midst of vineyards, looks over a vast plain known by the country-people as the Landes de Charlemagne, the scene, according to local tradition, of Charles Martel’s great victory over the Saracens. The Saint-Avertin vineyards extend towards the east, stretching almost to the forest of Larçay, on the borders of the Cher, where Paul Louis Courier, the famous vigneron pamphleteer of the Restoration, noted alike for his raillery, wit, and satire, fell beneath the balls of an assassin. A noticeable cru in the neighbourhood of Tours is that of Cinq Mars, the ruined château of which survives as a memorial of the vengeance of Cardinal Richelieu, who, after having sent its owner to the scaffold, commanded its massive walls and towers to be razed ‘à hauteur d’infamie,’ as we see them now.
Touraine, from its central position, its pleasant air, and its fertile soil, was ever a favourite residence of the earlier French monarchs, and down to the days of the Bourbons the seat of government continually vacillated between the banks of the Seine and those of the Loire. The vintages that ripen along the river have had their day of court favour too; for if Henri of Andelys sneeringlydescribes the wine of Tours as turning sour, in his famous poem of theBataille des Vins, the sweet white wines of Anjou were greatly esteemed throughout the Middle Ages, and, with those of Orleans, were highly appreciated in Paris down to the seventeenth century. The cult of the ‘dive Bouteille’ and the fashion of Pantagruelic repasts have always found favour in the fat and fertile ‘garden of France;’ and the spectacle of citizens, courtiers, and monks staggering fraternally along, ‘waggling their heads,’ as Rabelais describes them, after a night of it at the tavern, was no uncommon one in the streets of its old historic towns during the period of the Renaissance.