hardly has the traveller quitted besan?on in the direction of lons-le-saunier ere he finds himself amid wholly different scenery; all is now on a bolder, vaster scale, desolate sweeps of rocky plain, shelving mountain sides, bits of scant herbage alternating with vineyards, the golden foliage lending wondrous lustre to the otherwise arid landscapes, the rocks rising higher and higher as we go—such are the features that announce the jura. we have left the gentler beauties of the doubs behind us, and are now in one of the most romantic and picturesque regions of all france. salins, perhaps the only cosmopolitan town that the jura can be said to possess, since hither english and other tourists flock in the summer season, is superbly situated—a veritable fairy princess guarded by monster dragons! four tremendous mountain peaks protect it on every side, towering above the little town with imposing aspect; and it is no less strongly defended by art, each of these mountain tops being crested with fortifications. salins bears indeed a formidable front to the enemy, and no wonder the prussians could not take it. strategically, of course, its position is most important, as a glance at the map will show. it is in itself a wonderful little place from its "assiette," as the french say; and wherever you go you find wild natural beauty, while the brisk mountain air is delightful to breathe, and the transparent atmosphere lends an extra glow to every feature of the scene.
at salins too we find ourselves in a land of luxuries, i.e., clean floors, chamber-maids, bells, sofas, washing basins and other items in hygiene and civilization not worth mentioning. the h?tel des messageries is very pleasant, and here, as in the more primitive regions before described, you are received rather as a guest to be made much of than as a foreigner to be imposed upon. this charming bonhomie, found among all classes, is apt to take the form of gossip overmuch, which is sometimes wearisome. the franc-comtois, i must believe, are the greatest talkers in the world, and any chance listener to be caught by the button is not easily let go. yet a considerable amount of volubility is pardoned when people are so amiable and obliging.
mendicity is forbidden in the jura as in the department of the doubs, and there is little real pinching poverty to be found among the rural population, though of course a laboriousness and economy unknown among our own. in the most part, the vine-grower and fabricator of gruyère cheese, so called, is well-to-do and independent, and here indeed, the soil is the property of the people.
the salins season ends on the 15th of september, when the magnificent hydropathic establishment is closed, and only a few stray visitors remain. the salins waters are said to be much more efficacious than those of kreuznach in prussia, which they much resemble; and the nature of the soil is shown by its deep crimson hue. if the tonic qualities of these mountain springs are invaluable, it must be admitted that they are done ample justice to, for never surely were so many public fountains to be found in a town of the same size. a charming monograph might be devoted to the public fountains of franche-comté, and those of salins are especially meritorious as works of art. how many there are, i cannot say, but at least half-a-dozen are interesting as monuments, notably the charming life-size bronze figure of a vintager, by the gifted salinois sculptor, max claudel, ornamenting one, the fine torso surmounting another, and of which the history is mysterious, the group of swans adorning a third, and so on; at every turn the stranger coming upon some street ornament of this kind, whilst the perpetual sound of running water is delightful to the ear. i shall never recall the jura without this cool, pleasant, dripping noise, as much a part of it as its brisk air and dazzling blue sky.
there is a good deal to see at salins; the salines, or salt-works, the old church of st. anatole with its humorous wood-carvings, the exquisite bruges tapestries in the museum, the ancient gateways of the city, the quaint renaissance statue of st. maurice in the church of that name—wooden figure of a soldier-peasant on horseback—and lastly the forts and the superb panoramas to be obtained from them. this little straggling town, of not more than six thousand and odd inhabitants, possesses a public library of ten thousand volumes, a natural history museum, and a theatre, and other resources. it is eminently catholic, but i was glad to find that the thin edge of the protestant wedge is being driven in there, a protestant service being now held once a month, and this will doubtless soon develop into some regular organization. protestantism means cleanliness, education, and domestic morality, and catholicism the reverse; so no wonder that the more enlightened mayors and municipalities are inclined to look upon these quiet invasions with favour. as i narrate my progress through the jura, it will be seen that i found protestantism everywhere making head against the enemy.
perhaps the most beautiful excursion to be made from salins is to the little town of nans, and the source of the river lison, a two hours' drive amid scenery of alternating loveliness and grandeur—vines everywhere as we climb upwards, our road curling round the mountain-sides, as a ribbon twisted round a sugar-loaf, and then having wound in and out jagged peaks covered with light foliage and abrupt slopes clad with vines, we come to the sombre pine-forests, passing from one forest to another, the air blowing upon us with sudden keenness. no sooner do we emerge from these gloomy precincts than we come upon the pretty little village of nans, smiling and glowing in a warm sunlit valley, and most enticing to us after the sombreness and chilliness of the mountain-tops.
although anything but a gourmand myself, i will mention for the benefit of those who really care for good things, that we found a most wonderful dinner awaiting us in the homely little auberge at which we alighted—hare, salmon, trout, prawns, and all kinds of local confectionery, were here supplied at the modest price of ten francs and a half, the cook of the establishment being the landlady herself, and the entire staff consisting of two old women. one of these was drafted off to guide me to the source, and off we set on our walk, at once leaving the warm open valley for the mountain world. on and on we went, the mountain closing upon us and shutting out more and more of the glowing blue heavens, till we came to a stand. from these rocky fastnesses, here forbidding further progress, the river lison has its source; above they show a silvery grey surface against the emerald of the valleys and the sapphire of the sky, but below the huge clefts, from which we are soon to see the river issue forth exultingly, they are black as night.
a few steps onward and we were in sight of the source, and no words can convey its imposingness, or the sense of contrast forced upon the mind—the pitchy, ebon cavern from which flashes the river in silvery whiteness, tumbling in a dozen cascades down glistening black rocks, and across pebbly beds, and along gold-green pastures. we explored the inner part of this strange rock-bed; the little river lison, springing from its dark cavernous home, leaping forth with wild exultation into the light, pursuing its way under all kinds of difficulties, growing broader and broader as it goes, till a wide, sunlit river, it flows onward and onward, finally reaching the sea, reminded me, as i gazed, of a lovely thought emerging from the thinker's brain, which, after obstacles and hindrances innumerable, at last, refreshing all as it goes, reaches the open light of universal truth.
behind the source, and reached by a winding path cut in the rocks, is a lofty chasm, from the summit of which another mountain stream falls with beautiful effect; and no less impressive and curious are the so-called grottes des sarrazins, a little further off, huge caverns shutting in a little lake, and where the river rushes with a sound of thunder.
on the steep mountain path, leading to the chasm just mentioned, we found hellebore growing in abundance, also the winter-cherry, its vermillion-hued capsules glowing through the green. the brilliant red berry of the white bream-tree also lends colour to the wayside hedge, as well as the deep rose-coloured fruit of the barberry. flowers also grow in abundance; and in the town their cultivation seems a passion. some gardens contain sun-flowers, or little else, others are full of zinnias, flowering mallow trees, and balsams. there is no gardening aimed at, in our sense of the word, but simply abundance of colour; the flowers are planted anyhow and grow anyhow, the result being ornamental in the extreme.
there is a pottery, or faiencerie; of two hundred years standing at nans, and some of the wares are very pretty and artistic. the chief characteristics of the nans ware, or cailloutage, is its creamy, highly-glazed surface, on which are painted, by hand, flowers, birds, and arabesques in brilliant colours, and in more or less elaborate styles. attempts are also made to imitate the well-known strasburg ware, of which great quantities are found in these parts, chiefly at sales in old houses. the strasburg ware is known by its red flowers—chiefly roses and tulips—on a creamy ground, also elaborate arabesques in deep purple. if we take up a specimen, we find the ornamentation done at random, and, in fact, the artist was compelled to this method of working in order to conceal the imperfections of the porcelain. the nans ware—very like the faiencerie of salins—commends itself alike for form and design, and the working potters employed there will be found full of information, which they are very ready to impart. one of them, with whom i fell into conversation, had just returned from the paris exhibition, and expressed himself with enthusiasm concerning the english ceramic galleries, of which, indeed, we may be proud.
it is impossible to exaggerate the beauty of salins, and its stately environment of rock and vine-clad peak, especially seen on such a september day as this i describe, when the sky is of warmest blue, and the air so transparent, fresh, and exhilarating that merely to breathe is a pleasure. nor are the people less striking than their mountain home. dark hair, rich complexions, regular features, an animated expression, are the portion of most, especially of the women, whilst all wear a look of cheerfulness and health. no rags, no poverty, no squalor; and the abundance of natural resources brings the good things of life within reach of all. at the unpretending hotel, the cookery would not discredit the h?tel de bristol itself, everything being of the best. i was served with a little bird which i ate with great innocence, and no little relish, supposing it to be a snipe, but, on asking what it was, i found, to my horror, the wretches had served up a thrush! i am sorry to say a tremendous slaughter of migratory birds goes on at this time of the year; not only thrushes, but larks, linnets, and other sweet little songsters supplying the general dinner table. the thrushes feed largely on grapes, which lend them a delicious flavour when cooked, and for which nefarious practice on their part they are said to be destroyed. i was assured that a thrush will eat two bunches of grapes a day, and so they are killed by the hundreds of thousands, and sold for three half-pence each, or sometimes a franc per dozen. thrushes, moreover, are considered game, and occasionally the gendarmes succeed in catching a poacher, but so mixed are one's feelings in dealing with this question that it is impossible to know whether to sympathise with the unfortunate wine-grower whom the thrush robs of his two bunches of grapes per day, the poacher who is caught and heavily fined for catching it, or with the bird itself. no one who has browning's charming lines by heart on the thrush in an "english garden in spring," will ever quietly sit down to such a repast, and, whenever i could, i lectured the people on this slaughter of singing birds for the dinner table, i fear to no purpose. leaving the gourmand—whose proclivities, by the way, are much encouraged throughout every stage of his journey in the franche-comté—let me advise the curious to study the beautiful interior of the church of st. anatole dominating the town, also the equestrian statue of st. maurice in the church of that name. the effect of this bit of supreme realism is almost ludicrous. the good old saint looks like some worthy countryman trotting off to market, and not at all like a holy martyr of the church.
in the museum is seen a medallion portrait of courbet, to which my cicerone pointed with an expression, of horror, as that of "the artist who pulled down the vend?me column."
my next stage was arbois, a little town travellers should see on account of its charming situation in the winding valley, or "cluse," of the cuisance. nothing can be prettier, or give a greater idea of prosperity, than these rich vine-yards sloping on all sides, the grapes purpling in spite of much bad weather; orchards with their ripening fruit; fields of maize, the seed now bursting the pod, and of buckwheat now in full flower, the delicate pink and white blossom of which is so poetically called by michelet "la neige d'été." no serenity, no grandeur here, all is verdure, dimples, smiles; abundance of rich foliage and pasture, abundance also of clear limpid water, taking every form, springs, cascades, rivulets, the little river cuisance winding in and out amid vineyards and pastures over its rocky bed. you must follow this charming babbling river along the narrow valley to its twin sources in tangled glen and rock; the road winding between woods, vine-yards, and fantastic crags. the cluse, a narrow valley, is just paradisiacal, a bit of eden made up of smooth pastures, rippling water, hanging woods, and golden glens, all this bright afternoon sparkling amid dew and sunshine. at one of these river sources, you see the tufa in course of formation in the river bed; in the other, the reverse process takes place, the tufa there being dissolved. both sites are poetic and lovely in the extreme. i was sorry to hear of the devastation committed here by the o?dium, or vine blight, and the dreaded phylloxera, which has already ruined thousands, causing a loss of just half the amount of the german war indemnity. this redoubtable foe is not many leagues off! measures are taken against the phylloxera, as against an invading army, but, at present, no remedy has been discovered; and, meantime, many once rich and happy wine-growers are reduced to beggary. it was heart-breaking to gaze on the sickly appearance of the vines already attacked by the o?dium, and to hear the harrowing accounts of the misery caused by an enemy more redoubtable still. arbois, though so charming to look at, is far from being a little eden. it is eminently a catholic place; atheism and immorality abound; bigotry among the women, scepticism among the men, a looseness in domestic morality among all classes characterize the population, whilst we need no information on the subject of dissipation generally. the numbers of cafés and cabarets speak volumes. there is, of course, in this townling, of not six thousand souls, a theatre, which is greatly resorted to. one old church has been turned into a theatre at arbois, and another into the halles, a third into the h?tel-de-ville, a desecration we protestants can but behold with aversion. protestantism is a young and tender plant as yet in arbois, the church and school, or so called culte, dating from ten years back only. the congregation consists of about fifty persons, all belonging to the poorer classes, and the position of a pastor there must be a sad one. he is constantly importuned for help, which, out of his slender income, he can ill afford to bestow, and he is surrounded by spies, detractors, and adversaries on every side. that clericalism dominates here, we need not be told. the booksellers' shops are filled with tracts about the miracles of lourdes, rosaries, and rubrics; the streets swarm with nuns, jesuits, and frères ignorantins. if you ask an intelligent lad of twelve if he can read and write, he shakes his head and says no. the town itself, which might be so attractive if a little attention were paid to hygienic and sanitary matters, is neglected and dirty. the people are talkative and amiable, and are richly endowed by nature, especially in the mathematical faculty. it is said that every peasant in these parts is a born mathematician, and curiously enough the distinguished names of arbois are those of military engineers and lawyers, notably generals david, delort, and baudrand, and the celebrated jurisconsult courvoisier. here, as in other towns of franche-comté, traces of the spanish occupation remain in the street architecture, the arcades and picture-galleries lending character. arbois, after salins, is like an april glimpse of sunshine following a black thunder-cloud, so contrasted is the grace of the one with the severity of the other. tourists never come here, and in these wayside inns the master acts as waiter and porter, the mistress as cook; they give you plenty of good food, for which they hardly like to receive anything at all, talk to you as if you were an old friend during your stay, and, at your departure, are ready to embrace you out of pure cordiality.
something must be said about the famous arbois wine, of which henry the fourth of france wrote to his friend the duke of mayenne upon their reconciliation:—"i have some arbois wine in my cellar, of which i send you two bottles, for i am sure you will not dislike it." these wines, both red and yellow, find their way to connoisseurs in paris, but are chiefly grown for home-consumption. there are several kinds, and the stranger in these regions must taste both the red and the yellow of various ages and qualities to judge of their merits. i drank some of the latter thirty years old, and certainly even to one to whom the pleasures of the palate are indifferent, it tasted much as nectar might be supposed to do on mount olympus. the grapes are dried on straw before making this yellow wine, and the process is a very delicate and elaborate one.
how wonderful it seems to find friends and welcomes in these unfrequented regions! up till the moment of my departure from arbois, a little town few english travellers have even heard of, i had been engaged in earnest friendly talk with a protestant pastor, and also with a schoolmaster and scripture reader from the heart of the jura; and no sooner did i arrive at lons-le-saunier than i found myself as much at home in two charming family circles as if i had known them all my life. amid the first of these i was compelled to accept hospitality, and at once took my place at the hospitable family board opposite two little curly heads, boy and girl; while, an hour or two after my arrival, i was sitting in the old-fashioned artistically furnished drawing-room of a franche-comté catholic family, father, mother, son and young married daughter, all welcoming me as an old friend. this was not in the cheerful little town of lons-le-saunier itself, but in a neighbouring village to which i drove at once, for i knew that i had been expected several days before. fruits, liqueurs, preserves, cakes, i know not what other good things were brought out to me, and after an hour or two delightfully spent in music and conversation, i left, promising to spend a long day with my kind friends before continuing my journey. it is impossible to give any idea of franche-comté hospitality; you are expected to taste of everything, and your pockets are crammed with the good things you cannot eat.
i had fortunately no experience of hotels here, but a glance i got at the first in the place, when calling there for letters, was far from inspiring confidence. a detachment of troops was passing through the town, and large numbers of officers were lodged in the hotel, turning it into a scene of indescribable confusion. the food is said to be first rate, but the rooms looked dirty and uninviting, and the noise was enough to drive anyone out of his wits. how refreshing to find myself in this quiet presbytère on the outskirts of the town, no noise except the occasional pattering of little feet and happy sound of children's voices, almost absolute quiet indeed from morning to night! my window looks upon a charming hill clothed with vineyards, and, immediately underneath, the large straggling garden of the presbytère. the little church adjoins the house, and the school is also under the same roof, while the schoolmaster takes his place as a guest at the family table of the pastor. all is harmony, quiet enjoyment, and peaceful domestic life.
ah! what a different thing is the existence of a catholic priest from that of a protestant pastor! on the one side, we find selfishness, sensuality, and enforced isolation from the purifying influences of home and the domestic affections; a life out of harmony with the holiest instincts of human nature, and by the force of circumstances, detrimental not only to the individual himself, but to society at large—on the other, a high standard of social and domestic virtue, a career of persistent self-denial, simplicity, and dignified obedience to the natural laws and exigencies of society, a life indeed edifying to all, and, by virtue of its unselfishness, uplifting to the individual. no one who knows french life intimately can fail to be struck by the comparison between the two, and painful it is to think how the one is the rule, and the other the exception, in this favoured land of france!
