bouquets with which Jean Raisin bedecks
himself, that while they remain in bloom the
labourers avoid, as much as possible, even
passing up and down amongst the vines.

It was the long, cold spring—coulure in
fact, and not the vine disease—which has
caused the vintage to fail this year. The
degree of failure, happily, varies. The
neighbourhood of Tonnerre has suffered the most
severely. There, they may dolefully sing, as
soon as a dozen bunches are gathered, "Adieu,
paniers, vendages sont faites;" Baskets, goodbye.
The vintage is done. Champagne cries
out that her crop is null. In good years, the
prating and laughter and hum of the
vintagers is heard all over the face of the hills;
there is a difficulty in procuring sufficient
hands to make the work go off quickly
enough. This time, the country is almost as dull
and still as midnight. In Upper Burgundy,
though matters are better, the result is
more deplorable than was expected. One
proprietor of fifteen acres of choice vines has
only gathered seven baskets of grapes, which
make less than three-quarters of a hogshead
of wine. On some spots, the scarcity of
grapes is such, that they scarcely pay for the
expense of gathering them.—"With your per-
mission, I am come to see your vintage," I
said to a maker of sparkling burgundy, into
whose saloon an acquaintance conducted me.
"We have no vintage this year," he abruptly
answered, with indescribable gestures and
tones. "To see that, you must travel further."
The fact is, every wine-grower in France is
watching to see how high the price will rise.

The extreme south, as might be expected,
has suffered the least; and many speculators
have sent empty tubs into Spain to be brought
back full. 'Fifty-four wine will be therefore
dear; not only because there is little of
it, but because that little is likely to be good;
unless the Parisian wine-doctors spoil the claret
and burgundy with brandy and water coloured
with deep red wine from the south, and drown
the white wines under a cataract of cider.

Hail is another of Jean Raisin's fearful
enemies, scattering the ground with half-grown
grapes. The worst foe of all is the
sloth, or sometimes the poverty, of the
vine-dresser. Weeds are the slow but sure assailants
that fight behind the shield of indolence.
A vineyard ought to be the emblem of labour,
as well as of friendship and other pleasant
things. Omit the labour, and joy takes flight.

Jean Raisin's personal appearance is
extremely prepossessing. It is better than the
most flattering letter of recommendation.  I
am not talking of dandy Raisins coddled in
greenhouses and nursed in hotbeds. They
are beaux and fine gentlemen, not without
merit in their own dandy way. But stroll
(with leave) on a vine-clad hill, peep under the
leaves, admire the bunches at the foot of the
stein, cut off a sample, taste, and then tell me
where you think Jean Raisin is most at home.

If we proceed to dissect Jean Raisin, we
find that a bunch of grapes, besides its juice
consists, first of the stones, whence, both in
Italy and France, oil has been extracted to
burn in lamps; secondly, of the skin, coloured
in black grapes, and the sole source of colour
in all genuine red wines, tawny in the Muscat
and the Orleans variety, and greenish in the
grapes which are popularly called white
(delicate folks do right to reject the skins in
eating grapes; as, although not injurious
they distend the stomach with indigestible
matter); thirdly, of the stalks, which are
removed in districts where they strip the
grapes, because it is fancied they damage the
wine, but which in general are allowed to
remain. It is remarkable that stripping is
most in favour in the south, where they have
the greatest reason to abstain from the
practice; whilst in the north, where the
stalks increase the roughness of the produce,
they are allowed to remain. In hot years, it
is necessary to keep the stalks, to fulfil the
office of hops in beer, giving body, astringency,
and keeping qualities to the wine, which
otherwise turns flat and vapid. In cold
years, too much stalk is injurious, by adding
a superabundance to the acid and saline
principles of the grape.

These three together constitute the marc
of grapes. The same word, marc, is used to
denote the pasty mass of crushed flax or
colza seed in an oil-mill. Grape-marc
contains one-fourth part of pips, which are never
made use of to reproduce the plant. It still
retains a portion of juice which has not been
extracted by the pressure it has undergone.
It therefore ferments, and may be converted
to various purposes, such as to make piquette,
or the smallest of small wine, with. Steeped
in water for a longer or shorter period, it
thus forms the beverage of the poor in wine
countries. It is also employed to furnish
alcohol. Baths of dry marc in a state of
fermentation have been prescribed for chronic
rheumatism, scrofula, and other obstinate
maladies. The patient is buried up to the
neck in the mass, and it requires some care
to save him from being stifled. After the
remaining goodness of the marc has been
extracted, in the shape either of piquette or
alcohol, it is good for nothing but to burn as
fuel. It is sometimes, however, spread on the
land as manure. It has been proposed,
moreover, to make use of it in tanning.

I have many other details to mention; but
Jacques Bonhomme and Jean Guêtre, my
rustic viticultural friends, tell me that I must
pack up my carpet-bag and be off to-morrow
morning, if I have a mind to see with my
own eyes how Jean Raisin is metamorphosed
into wine.

Next Week will be Published the TWELFTH PORTION of

NORTH AND SOUTH.

By the AUTHOR OF MARY BARTON.