Holidays in Eastern France
Matilda Betham-Edwards

Part 3 out of 3

possesses the splendid monument to Bichat's memory by David d'Angers.
The museum is worth visiting, less for the sake of its archaeological
collection than its sculptural gallery, chiefly consisting of works by a
contemporary native artist, Perrault.

One of the prettiest strolls in the neighbourhood of this most
"spazierlich" town, as the Germans say, _i.e._, a town to be enjoyed by
pedestrians, is the old little village of Montaigu, which is reached
after half an hour's climb among the vineyards. As we mount, we get a
magnificent panorama to our right, the plain of La Bresse, to-day blue
and dim as a summer sea; to our left, the Jura range, dark purple
shadows here and there flecking the green mountain sides; the pretty
little town of Lons-le-Saunier at our feet. On this bright September day
everything is glowing and beautiful; the air is fresh and invigorating,
and the sun still hot enough to ripen the grapes which we see on every

Montaigu, however, is not visited for the sake of these lovely prospects
so much as its celebrity as a birth-place. This little hamlet and former
fortress, perched on a mountain top, is, perhaps, little changed in
outward appearance since a soldier-poet, destined to revolutionise
France with a song, was born there a hundred years ago. The immortal,
inimitable _Marseillaise_, which electrified every French man, woman, or
child then, and stirs the calmest with profound emotion now, is, indeed,
the Revolution incorporated into poetry, and the words and music of the
young soldier, Rouget de Lisle, have played a more important part in
history than any other in any age or nation. Alas! the _Marseillaise_
has been sadly misappropriated since, and cannot be heard by those who
know French history without pain; yet it has played a glorious part,
and, doubtless, contributed to many a victory when France saw itself
beset with enemies on every side in its first and greatest struggle for
liberty. It is not to be expected in a country so priest-ridden as this,
that a statue to Rouget de Lisle should be erected in his native town;
but surely an inscription, merely stating the fact, might be placed on
the house wherein he first saw the light. There is nothing to
distinguish it from any other, except a solid iron gateway through which
we looked into a little court-yard, and upon a modest yet well-to-do
_bourgeois_ dwelling of the olden time.

The entire village street has an antiquated look, and the red roof tops,
with corner pieces for letting off the snow, which falls abundantly
here, are picturesque, if not suggestive of comfort. On our way back to
the town, we found all the beauty and fashion of Lons-le-Saunier
collected on the promenade of La Chevalerie to hear the military band,
which, as usual in French towns, plays on Sunday afternoons. This same
promenade is famous in history, for here it was, on the 31st May, 1815,
that Marshal Ney, having decided upon going over to the army of the
Emperor Napoleon, summoned his troops, and issued the famous
proclamation beginning with the words: "La cause des Bourbons est a
jamais perdue." Ney deceived himself, as well as the Royalists, and was
shot soon after the final overthrow at Waterloo. There is no lack of
pleasant walks inside the town as well as in the environs, whilst,
perhaps, no other of its size possesses so many cafes and cabarets. In
fact, Lons-le-Saunier is a place where amusement is the order of the
day, and, of course, possesses its theatre, museum, and public library;
the first, perhaps, being much more popular than the two latter. "Eat,
drink, and be merry, for to-morrow you die," is the maxim of the
light-hearted, we must even say frivolous population. While the men
amuse themselves in the cafes, the women go to the confessional, and no
matter at what hour you enter a church, you are sure to find them thus
occupied. The Jesuits have established a large training-school here,
_une maison de noviciat_, so called; and conventual institutions abound,
as at Arbois. Just beyond the pleasant garden of the Presbytere is a
large building of cloistered nuns, wretched women, belonging to the
upper ranks of society, who have shut themselves up to mortify the flesh
and practise all kinds of puerilities for the glory of the church. All
the handsome municipal institutions, large hospitals, orphanages,
asylums for the aged, &c., are in the hands of the nuns and priests, and
woe betide the unfortunate Protestant who is driven to seek such

The same battle occurs here over Protestant interments as in other parts
of Franche-Comte. In some cases it is necessary for the prefets to send
gendarmes, and have the law carried out by force; the village mayors
being generally uneducated men, mere tools of the cures.

After the idyllic pictures I have drawn of other parts of France, I am
reluctantly obliged to draw a very different picture of society here.
The army and the celibate clergy, the soldier and the priest--such are
the demoralizing elements that undermine domestic morality and family
life in garrison, priest-ridden towns like this. Drink and debauchery
fill the prisons, and the taint of immorality is not limited to one
class alone. How can it be otherwise? seeing that while the heads of
families openly profess unbelief, and deride their priests, they permit
their wives and daughters to go to confession, and confide their
children to the spiritual teachers they profess to abhor? This point was
clearly brought out by the Pere Hyacinthe in one of his recent
discourses in Paris, and his words struck home. Next to the celibate
priesthood, it is the army that brings about such a state of things.
Householders in Lons-le-Saunier will tell you that, no matter whether
their female servants be young, middle-aged, or old, they have to bar
and bolt their doors at night as if against marauding Arabs in remote
settlements of Algeria. Even when these precautions are taken, the sound
of whistling outside the kitchen door at nightfall will often indicate
the presence of loafers on their evil quest. In the rural districts
domestic morality is at a very low ebb also, and on the whole there is
much to be done here by both reformer and educationalist.

I left Lons-le-Saunier early on a bright September morning, the children
being lifted, still drowsy, out of their little beds to bid their
English friend good-bye. Several diligences start simultaneously from
the _Bureau des Messageries_ here for different places in the heart of
the Jura, so that tourists cannot do better than make this a starting
place. No matter what direction they take, they will find themselves
landed in the midst of glorious mountain scenery, and romantic little
towns and valleys, unknown to the majority of the travelling world. This
is the charm of travelling in these parts. The tourist is breaking
virgin soil wherever he goes, and if he has to rough it at every stage,
at least he receives substantial reward. My route, marked out for me
beforehand by experienced _Jurassiens_, lay by way of Champagnole and
Morez to St. Claude, the ancient little bishopric in the heart of the
Jura highlands, thence to Nantua, thus zig-zagging right through the



On quitting Lons-le-Saunier for Champagnole, our way led through rich
tracts of vineyard; but no sooner were we fairly among the mountains
than the vine disappeared altogether, and scant culture and pastures
took its place. We also soon perceive the peculiar characteristics of
the Jura range, which so essentially distinguish it from the Alps. These
mountains do not take abrupt shapes of cones and sugar-loaves, but
stretch out in vast sweeps with broad summits and lateral ridges,
features readily seized, and lending to the landscape its most salient
characteristics. Not only are we entering the region of lofty mountains
and deep valleys, but of numerous industrial centres, also the land of
mediaeval warfare and legend, whence arose the popular saying:

"Comtois, rends-toi,
Nenni, ma foi."

Our journey, of four hours, takes us through a succession of grandiose
and charming prospects, and lonely little villages, at which we pick up
letters, and drop numbers of _Le Petit Journal_, probably all the
literature they get. Gorge, crag, lake and ravine, valley, river, and
cascade, pine forests crowning sombre ridges, broad hill-sides alive
with the tinkling of cattle bells, pastoral scenes separating frowning
peaks, all these we have to rejoice the eye and much more. The beautiful
Lake of Challin, we only see in the distance, though most enticingly
inviting nearer inspection, and all this valley of the Ain might,
indeed, detain the tourist several days. The river Ain has its source
near Champagnole, and flows through a broad beautiful valley southwards,
but the only way to get an idea of the geography of the place is to
climb a mountain, maps avail little.

On alighting at the Hotel Dumont, the sight of an elegant landlady, in
spotless white morning gown, was re-assuring, and when I was conducted
to a bedroom with bells, clean floors, proper washing apparatus, and
other comforts, my heart quite leapt. There is nothing to see at
Champagnole but the saw-mills, the "click, click" of which you hear at
every turn. Saw-making by machinery is the principal industry here, and
is worth inspecting. But if the town itself is uninteresting, it offers
a variety of delicious walks and drives, and must be a very healthy
summer resort, being five hundred yards above the level of the plain. I
went a little way on the road to Les Planches, and nothing could be more
solemnly beautiful than the black pines pricking against the deep blue
sky, and the golden light playing on the ferns and pine-stems below;
before us, a vista of deep gorge and purple mountain chain, on either
side the solemn serried lines of the forest. The good pedestrian should
follow this road to Les Planches, as splendid a walk as any in the Jura.
No less delightful, though in a different way, is the winding walk by
the river. The Ain here rushes past with a torrent like thunder, and
rolls and tosses over a stony bed, having on either side green slopes
and shady ways. Those travellers, like myself, contented with a bit of
modest mountaineering, will delight in the three hours' climb of Mount
Rivol, a broad pyramidal mountain, eight hundred yards in height,
dominating the town. A very beautiful walk is this for fairly good
walkers, and though the sun is intense, the air is sharp and
penetrating. On our way, we find plenty of ripe wild mulberries with
which to refresh ourselves, and abundance of the blue-fringed gentian to
delight our eyes.

So steep are these mountain sides, that it is like scaling a wall, but
after an hour and a half we are rewarded by finding ourselves on the
top; a broad plateau covering many acres richly cultivated, with
farm-buildings in the centre. Here we enjoy one of those magnificent
panoramas so plentiful in the Jura, and which must be seen to be
realized. On one side we have the verdant valley of the Ain, the river
flowing gently through green fields and softly dimpled hills; on
another, Andelot with its bridge and the lofty rocks bristling round
Salins; on the third side, the road leading to Pontarlier amid
pine-forest and limestone crags, and above this, a sight more majestic
still, namely, the vast parallel ranges of the Jura, deepest purple,
crested in the far away distance with a silvery peak whose name takes
our very breath away. We are gazing on Mont Blanc! a sight as grandiose
and inspiring as the distant glimpse of the Pyramids from Cairo! We
would fain have lingered long before this glorious picture, but the air
was too cold to admit of a halt after our heating walk in the blazing
sun. The great drawback to travelling in the Jura, indeed, is this
terrible fickleness of climate. As a rule, even thus early in the
autumn, you are obliged to make several toilettes a day, putting on
winter clothes when you get up, and towards mid-day exchanging them for
the lightest summer attire till sunset, when again you need the warmest
clothing. Winter sets in very early here, there is no spring, properly
speaking; five months of fine warm weather have to be set against seven
of frost and snow; yet in spite of the bitterness and long duration of
these winters, little or no provision seems to be made against the cold.
There are no carpets, curtains, and generally no fire-places in the
bedrooms, all is cold, cool, and bare as in Egypt, and many are
approached from without. The people must enjoy a wonderful vigour of
health and robustness of constitution, or they could not resist such
hardships as these, and what a Jura winter is, makes one shudder to
think of. Snow lies often twelve feet deep on the road, and journeys are
performed by sledges, as in Russia.

I took the _diligence_ from Champagnole to Morez, and it is as yet the
only ill-advised thing I have done on this journey. The fact is, and
intending travellers should note it, that there are only three modes of
travelling in these parts, firstly, by hiring a private carriage and
telegraphing for relays; secondly, by accomplishing short stages on
foot, by far the most agreeable method for hardy pedestrians, or
thirdly, to give up the most interesting spots altogether. The
_diligence_ must not be taken into account as a means of locomotion at
all, for as there is no competition, and French people are much too
amiable or indifferent to make complaints, the truth must be told, that
the so-called _Messageries du Jura_ are about as badly managed as can
possibly be. Unfortunate travellers are not only so cramped that they
arrive at their destination more dead than alive, but even in the
_coupe_ they see nothing of the country. Thus the glorious bit of
country we passed through from Champagnole to Morez was entirely lost on
me, simply because the _diligence_ is not a public conveyance, but an
instrument of torture. The so-called _coupe_ was so small, warm and low,
that the three unfortunate occupants of it, a stout gentleman, a nun,
and myself, were so closely wedged in that we could not stir a limb,
whilst the narrow slice of landscape before us was hidden by the driver
and two other passengers, all three of whom smoked incessantly. There
were several equally unfortunate travellers packed in the body of the
carriage, and others outside on the top of the luggage, all arriving at
their destination feeling much as if they had been subjected to the
bastinado! Nothing could be worse, and whilst the heat was intense for
the first part of the journey, the latter part was bitterly cold, yet it
was impossible to move one's arm in order to draw on a wrap. Cold, heat,
cramp, and dejection are the portion of those who trust themselves to
the accursed _Messageries du Jura_.

My sufferings were alleviated by the nun, who managed to extract some
fruit from her basket and handed me a pear and a peach. I had said so
many hard things about nuns during my life, that I hesitated, but the
fleshly temptation was too strong, and I greedily accepted the drop of
water held out in the desert. To my great relief afterwards, I found
that my companion was not occupied in cooking up theology for the
detriment of others, but in the far more innocent task of making soups
and sauces. In fact, she was cook to the establishment to which she
belonged, and a very homely, excellent soul she seemed. She turned from
her pears and peaches to her prayer-book and rosary with equal
delectation. It was harrowing to think that during these five hours we
were passing through some of the most romantic scenery of the Jura, yet
all we could do, by occasionally stretching out our necks, was to get a
glance at the lovely lakes, pine-topped heights, deep gorges, gigantic
cliffs towering to the sky, adorable little cascades springing from
silvery mountain-sides, gold-green table-lands lying between hoary
peaks; everything delightful was there, could we but see! Meantime, we
had been climbing ever since we quitted Champagnole, and at one point
marked by a stone, were a thousand yards above the sea-level. The little
villages perched on the mountain-tops that we were passing through, are
all seats of industry; clock manufactories, _fromageries_, or
cheese-farms on a large scale, and so on.

The population indeed depends, not upon agriculture, but upon industries
for support, and many of the wares fabricated in these isolated Jura
villages find their way all over the world. From St. Laurent, where we
stopped to change horses, the traveller who is indifferent to cramps,
bruises and contortions, may exchange _diligences_, and instead of
taking the shorter and straighter road to St. Claude, may follow the
more picturesque route by way of the wonderful little lake of Grandvaux,
shut in by mountains, and peopled with fish of all kinds, water-hens,
and other wild birds. We are now in the wildest and most grandiose
region of the Jura, and whichever road we take is sure to lead us
through grand scenery. But much as I had heard of the savage beauty of
Grandvaux, further subjection to the torture we were thus enduring was
not to be thought of, so we went straight on to Morez, after the
tremendous ascent I have just described, our road curving quickly
downwards, and coming all at once on the long straggling little town,
framed in by lofty mountains on every side.

Next morning was Sunday, and I went in search of the Protestant
school-house, where I knew a kind welcome awaited me. I was delighted to
find a new handsome building, standing conspicuously in a pleasant
garden, over the doors, engraved in large letters, "Culte et Ecole
Evangelique." The sound of childrens' voices told me that some kind of
lesson or prayer was going on, so I waited in the garden till the doors
opened and a dozen neatly dressed boys and girls poured out. Then I went
in, and found the wife of the schoolmaster and scripture-reader, a sweet
young woman, who, in her husband's absence, had been holding a Bible
class. She showed me over the place, and an exquisitely clean quiet
little room she had prepared for me, but as I had arrived rather late on
the night before, I had taken a room at the hotel, which was neither
noisy nor uncomfortable. We spent the afternoon together, and as we
walked along the beautiful mountain road that superb September Sunday,
many interesting things she told me of her husband's labours in their
isolated mountain home. Protestantism is indeed here a tender plant,
exposed to the cold blast of adverse winds, but if it takes healthy
root, well will it be for the social, moral, and intellectual
advancement of the people. We must never lose sight of the fact that,
putting theology out of the question, Protestantism means morality,
hygiene, instruction, and above all, a high standard of truth and family
life; and on these grounds, if on no other, all really concerned in the
future and well-being of France must wish it God-speed.

This is not the place for a comparison between Protestantism and
Catholicism, even as social influences, but one thing I must insist
upon, namely, that it is only necessary to live among French Protestants
and compare what we find there with what we find among their Catholic
neighbours, to feel how uncompromisingly the first are the promoters of
progress, and the latter its adversaries.

The position of Morez is heavenly beautiful, but the town itself
hideous. Nature having put the finishing touch to her choice handiwork,
man has come in to mar and spoil the whole. The mountains, clothed with
brightest green, rise grandly towards the sky, but all along the narrow
gorge of the Bienne, in which Morez lies, stand closely compacted masses
of many storied manufactories and congeries of dark, unattractive
houses. There is hardly a garden, a _chalet_, or villa to redeem the
prevailing, crushing ugliness; yet, for all that, if you can once get
over the profound sadness induced by this strange contrast, nothing can
be more delightful and exhilarating than the mountain environment of
this little seat of industry. Morez, indeed, is a black diamond set in
richest gold. The place abounds in cafes, and on this Sunday afternoon,
when all the manufactories are closed, the cafes are full to
overflowing, and on the lovely suburban road, winding above the
mountains, we meet few working-men with their families enjoying a walk.
The cabaret absorbs them all.

The working hours here are terribly long; from five o'clock in the
morning till seven at night, the bulk of the population are at their
posts, men, women, and young people--children, I was going to say--but
fortunately public opinion is stepping in to prevent the abuse of
juvenile labour so prevalent, and good laws on the subject will, it is
hoped, ere long be enacted. The wages are low, three or four francs
a-day being the maximum, and as the cost of living is high here, it is
only by the conjoint labours of all the members of a household that it
can be kept together. Squalor and unthrift abound, and there are no
founders of _cites ouvrieres_ to make the workman's home what it should
be. He is badly housed as well as being badly paid, and no wonder that
the cafe and the cabaret are seized upon as the only recreations for
what leisure he gets. It is quite worth while--for those travellers who
ever stay a whole week anywhere--to stay a week here in order to see the
curious industries which feed the entire population of the town and
neighbouring villages, and are known all over the commercial world. The
chief objects of manufacture are spectacle-glasses, spits, clocks,
nails, electro-plate, drawn-wire, shop-plates in iron and enamel, files,
and dish-covers; but of these the three first are by far the most
important. Several hundred thousand spectacle glasses and clocks, and
sixty thousand spits, are fabricated here yearly, and all three branches
of industry afford curious matter for inquiry. Thus the first of
spectacle-making, or _lunetterie_, resolves itself into a scientific
study of noses! it will easily be seen that the manufacturer of
spectacles on a grand scale must take into account the physiognomies of
the different nations which import his wares. A long-nosed people will
require one shaped pair of spectacles, an aquilline-nosed another, a
_nez retrousse_ a third; and accordingly we find that spectacles nicely
adjusted to such peculiarities are fabricated, one kind supplying the
American, a second the Spanish, a third the English market, and so on.
So wonderfully quick is the process that a pair of spectacles can be
made for three-halfpence! The clocks made by machinery at Morez are
chiefly of the cheap kind, but wear well, and are to be found in almost
every cottage in France. The prices vary from ten to twenty francs, and
are thus within reach of the poorest. A more expensive kind are found in
churches, public offices, schools, railway-stations, and manufactories,
not only in France, but in remote quarters of the world. Spain largely
imports these elegant inexpensive clocks fabricated in the heart of the
Jura, and they find their way to China! Each separate part has its
separate workshop, and the whole is a marvellous exhibition of
dexterity, quickness, and apt division of labour.

A large manufactory of electrotype plate, modelled on those of England,
notably the Elkington ware, has been founded here within recent years,
and is very flourishing, exporting on a vast scale to remote countries.
There is a manufactory of electric clocks, also of recent date. All day
long, therefore, the solemn silence of these mountains is broken by the
noise of mill-wheels and rushing waters, and if it is the manufactories
that feed the people, it is the rivers that feed the manufactories. The
Jura, indeed, may be said to depend on its running streams and rivers
for its wealth, each and all a Pactolus in its way, flowing over sands
of gold. Nowhere has water power been turned to better account than at
Morez, where a very Ariel, it is forced by that all-omnipotent Prospero
man, the machine-maker, to do his behests, here turning a wheel, there
flowing into the channels prepared for it, and on every side dispensing
riches and civilization.

Delightful and refreshing it is to get beyond reach of these
never-resting mill-wheels, and follow the mountain-torrent and the
rushing streams to their home, where they are at liberty and untamed.
Innumerable delicious haunts are to be found in the neighbourhood of
Morez, also exhilarating panoramas of the Jura and Switzerland from the
mountain-tops. There is nothing to be called agriculture, for in our
gradual ascent we have alternately left behind us the vine, corn, maize,
walnuts and other fruit trees, reaching the zone of the gentian, the
box-tree, the larch, and the pine. These apparently arid limestone
slopes and summits, however, have velvety patches here and there, and
such scattered pastures are a source of almost incredible wealth. The
famous Jura cheese, Gruyere so called, is made in the isolated chalets
perched on the crest of a ravine, and nestled in the heart of a valley,
which for the seven winter months are abandoned, and throughout the
other five swarm like bee-hives with industrious workers. As soon as the
snow melts, the peasants return to the mountains, but in winter all is
silent, solitary, and enveloped in an impenetrable veil of snow. The
very high-roads are imperceptible then, and the village sacristan rings
the church bells in order to guide the belated traveller to his home.

My friend, the schoolmaster's wife, found me agreeable travelling
companions for the three hours' drive to St. Claude, which we made in a
private carriage, in order to see the country. Very nice people they
were, Catholics belonging to the _petite bourgeoisie_, and much useful
information they gave me about things and people in their native
province. The weather is perfect, with a warm south wind, a bright blue
sky, and feathery clouds subduing the dazzling heavens. We get a good
notion of the Jura in its sterner and more arid aspect during this
zig-zag drive, first mounting, then descending. Far away, the brown bare
mountain ridges rise against the clear heavens, whilst just below we see
steep wooded crags dipping into a gorge where the little river Bienne
curls on its impetuous way. There are no less than three parallel roads
at different levels from Morez to St. Claude, and curious it was from
our airy height--we had chosen the highest--to survey the others, the
one cut along the mountain flank midway, the other winding deep down
close to the river-side. These splendid roads are kept in order by the
Communes, which are often rich in this Department, possessing large
tracts of forest. I never anywhere saw roads so magnificently kept, and,
of course, this acids greatly to the comfort of travellers. Were the
roads bad, indeed, what would become of them?

After climbing for an hour we suddenly begin to descend, our road
sweeping round the mountain sides with tremendous curves for about two
hours or more, when all of a sudden we seemed to swoop down upon St.
Claude, the little bishopric in the heart of the mountains. The effect
was magical. We appeared to have been plunged from the top of the world
to the bottom! In fact, you go up and down such tremendous heights in
the Jura that I should think it must be much like travelling in a



I was prepared to be fascinated with St. Claude, to find it wholly
unique and bewitching, to greet it with enthusiasm, and bid it farewell
with regret. It has been described so glowingly by different
writers--alike its history, site, and natural features are so curious
and poetic, such a flavour of antiquity clings to it, that perhaps no
other town in the Jura is approached with equal expectation. Nor can any
preconceived notion of the attractiveness of St. Claude, however high,
be disappointed, if visited in fine weather. It is really a marvellous
place, and takes the strangest hold on the imagination. The antique
city, so superbly encased with lofty mountains, is as proud as it is
singular, depending on its own resources, and not putting on a smile to
attract the stranger. Were a magician to sweep away these humming
wheels, hammering mill-stones, gloomy warehouses, and put smiling
pleasure-grounds and coquettish villas in their place, St. Claude might
become as fashionable a resort as the most favourite Swiss or Italian
haunts. But in its present condition it does not lay itself out to
please, and the town is built in the only way building was possible, up
and down, on the edge of the cliffs here, in the depths of a hollow
there, zig-zag, just anyhow. High mountains hem it round, and two rivers
run in their deep beds alongside the irregular streets, a superb
suspension bridge spanning the Valley of the Tacon, a depth of fifty
yards. Higher up, a handsome viaduct spans the Valley of La Bienne, on
either side of these two stretch clusters of houses, some sloping one
way, some another, with picturesque effect. To find your way in these
labyrinthine streets, alleys, and terraces is no easy matter, whilst at
every turn you come upon the sound of wheels, betokening some
manufactory of the well-known, widely imported St. Claude ware,
consisting chiefly of turnery, carved and inlaid toys, and fancy
articles in wood, bone, ivory, stag's horn, &c. Small hanging gardens
are seen wherever a bit of soil is to be had, whilst the town also
possesses a fine avenue of old trees turned into a public promenade. St.
Claude is really wonderful, and the more you see of it the more you are
fascinated. Though far from possessing the variety of artistic fountains
of Salins, several here are very pretty and ornamental--notably one
surrounded with the most captivating little Loves in bronze, riding
dolphins. The sight and sound of rippling water everywhere are
delicious; rivers and fountains, fountains and rivers, everywhere!
whilst the summer-like heat of mid-day makes both all the more
refreshing. St. Claude has everything--the frowning mountain-crests of
Salins, the pine-clad fastnesses of Champagnole, the romantic mountain
walls of Morez, sublimity, grace, picturesqueness, grandeur, all are
here, and all at this season of the year embellished by the crimson and
amber tints of autumn.

What lovely things did I see during an hour and a half's walk to the
so-called Pont du Diable! Taking one winding mountain road of many, and
following the clear winding deep green river, though high above it, I
came to a scene as wild, beautiful, and solitary as the mind can
picture, above bare grey cliffs, lower down fairy-like little lawns of
brightest green, deeper down still, the river making a dozen cascades
over its stony bed, and round about the glorious autumn foliage, under a
cloudless sky. All the way I had heard, mingled with the roar of the
impetuous river, the sound of mill-wheels, and I passed I know not how
many manufactories, most of which lie so deep down in the heart of the
gorges that they do not spoil the scenery. The ugly blot is hidden, or
at least inconspicuous. As I turn back, I have on one side a vast
velvety slope, sweeping from mountain to river, terrace upon terrace of
golden-green pasture, where a dozen little girls are keeping their kine;
on the other steep limestone precipices, all a tangle of brushwood, with
only here and there a bit of scant pasturage. The air is transparent and
reviving, a south wind caresses us as we go, nothing can be more
heavenly beautiful. The blue gentian grows everywhere, and, as I pursue
my way, the peasant-folks I meet with pause to say good-day and stare.
They evidently find in me an outlandish look, and are quite unaccustomed
to the sight of strangers.

I had pleasant acquaintances provided for me here by my friend, the
schoolmaster's wife at Morez, and a very agreeable glimpse I thus
obtained of French middle-class life; Catholic life, moreover, but free
alike from bigotry and intolerance. Very light-hearted, lively, and
well-informed were these companions of my walks at St. Claude, among
them a government official, his young wife, sister, and another
relation, who delighted in showing me everything. We set off one lovely
afternoon for what turned out to be a four hours' walk, but not a moment
too long, seeing the splendour of weather and scenery, and the
amiability of my companions. We took a road that led from the back of
the Cathedral by the Valley of the Tacon, a little river that has its
rise in the mountain near, and falls into the Flumen close by. It is
necessary to take this walk to the falls of the Flumen in order to
realize fully the wonderful site of St. Claude, and the amazing variety
of the surrounding scenery. Every turn we take of the upward curling
road gives us a new and more beautiful picture. The valley grows deeper
and deeper, the mountains on either side higher and higher, little
chalets peeping amid the grey and the green, here perched on an
apparently unapproachable mountain-top, there in the inmost recess of
some rocky dell. As we get near the falls, we are reaching one of the
most romantic points of view in all the Jura, and one of the most
striking I have ever seen, so imposingly do the mountains close around
us as we enter the gorge, so lovely the scene shut in by the
impenetrable natural wall; for within the framework of rock, peak, and
precipice are little farms, gardens, and orchards--gems of dazzling
green bathed in ripest sunshine, pine-forests frowning close above these
islets of luxuriance and cultivation, dells, glades, and open, lawny
spaces between the ramparts of fantastically formed crags and solitary
peaks, a scene recalling Kabylia, in the Atlas mountains, but unlike
anything except itself. All was still, except for the roar of the tiny
river and the occasional sound of timber sliding from some mountain
slope into the valley below. The timber is thus transported in these
parts, the woodman cutting the planks on some convenient ledge of rock,
then letting it find its way to the bottom as best it can. All day long
you see the trunk-cutters at work on their airy perches, now bright
stairs of gold-green turf, soon to be enveloped in impenetrable masses
of snow, and hear the falling planks. As we climb, we are overtaken by
two timber carts, and the drivers, peasant-folks from the mountains, are
old acquaintances of my companions, and suggest that the ladies should
mount. We gladly do so, to the great satisfaction of the peasants, who
on no account would themselves add to their horses' burden. It would
have been an affront to offer these good people anything in return for
their kindness. They were delighted to chat behind with Monsieur, whilst
their horses, sure-footed as mules, made their way beside the winding
precipice. These peasants had intelligent, good countenances, and were
excellent types of the Jura mountaineer.

Having passed a tunnel cut through the rock, we soon reached the head of
the valley, the end of the world, as it seems, so high, massive, and
deep is the formidable mountain wall hemming it in, from whose sides the
little river Tacon takes a tremendous leap into the green valley below;
and not one leap, but a dozen, the several cascades uniting in a stream
that meanders towards St. Claude. Before us, high above the falls,
seeming to hang on a perpendicular chain of rocks, is a cluster of
saw-mills. It is not more the variety of form in this scene here than
the variety of colour and tone that makes it so wonderful. Everywhere
the eye rests on some different outline, colour, or combination.

Would that space permitted of a detailed account here of all else that I
saw in this ancient little bishopric in the mountains! St. Claude,
indeed, deserves a chapter, nay, a small volume to itself; there is its
history to begin with, which dates from the earliest Christian epoch in
France; then its industries, each so curious in its details; lastly, the
marvellous natural features of its position, a wholly unique little city
is this, compared by Lamartine to Zarcle in the forests of Lebanon, and
described by other Franche-Comte writers in equally glowing terms. The
famous Abbey of St. Claude was visited by Louis XI in order to fulfil a
vow still mysterious in history. This was under the _regime_ of its
eighty-sixth Abbot, Peter Morel, but, after a period of almost
unequalled glory and magnificence, fire, pillage, and other misfortunes
visited it from time to time, till the suppression of the Abbey in 1798.
I went into the Cathedral with two charming young married ladies, whose
acquaintance I had made during my stay, and, leaving them devoutly on
their knees, inspected the beautiful and quaint stalls in carved wood of
the choir; these are worth a day's study, and unfortunately are not to
be had in photography, for some reason or other no photographs being
permitted. Here the spirit of the Renaissance has had full play, and you
find comedy mixed with pathos, practical good sense with Biblical
solemnity, quaintness, beauty, grace, drollery, all in one. The middle
statues in bold relief are those of the early Kings of France and the
Abbots of St. Claude, besides many noteworthy saints and martyrs, among
these St. Denis with his head in his hand, St. Sebastian pierced with
arrows, and others. The upper series, on a smaller scale, represents
allegorical subjects, some of which are treated in a curiously homely
and practical manner, for instance, the figure of Adam holding the apple
in his hand with a look as much as to say, "This is what has ruined me;"
Eve, in the next compartment, looks somewhat nonchalant, rather a
coquette than a penitent. In some of these Biblical scenes the figures
are naively dressed in mediaeval garb, but many of them have great
beauty and pathos. The under-pieces of the seats, cornices, and sides
are decorated with all kinds of drolleries, and not a few coarse
subjects, such as a man catching hold of a pig by its tail, faces
ludicrously distorted, three heads in one, a dog setting its back at a
wild boar, &c. One corner-piece represents the first Abbots of St.
Claude building the Abbey, and comical little devils perched on trees
pelting them with stones. The whole is a wonderful piece of work, full
of originality, strength, and real artistic feeling.

The triptych, imputed to Holbein, may well be his work. The sacristan's
little son took me to the upper chapel, where it hangs quite lost upon
those below. It is as beautiful as its altarpiece in wood; the three
central compartments filled with large figures of the Abbot of St.
Claude and his Apostles; below, on a small scale, the Last Supper, and
other subjects, treated in a masterly manner. The colours are still
bright, though the whole is in a terribly dirty state, and below the
central figure is a coronal of the loveliest little cherub heads.
Unfortunately, no photograph is to be had of this triptych, and it is
hung in a very obscure place. These two works of art, each a gem in its
way, are all that remains of the once puissant and magnificent Abbey of
St. Claude. Having completed a leisurely inspection, I quietly took a
chair behind my companions, for fear of disturbing their devotions. I
found, however, that these were over long ago, and that, though in a
devout position, they were discussing fashion and gossip as a matter of
course! Twice, during my visits to the Cathedral, I had found thirty
Dominicans at vespers, and I was informed afterwards that these were
poor students who were maintained and prepared for the office of
teachers at the expense of a rich young Abbe of St. Claude. It happened
that I fell into conversation with this young Abbe in a photographic
shop, and found him very agreeable and instructed. It seems a pity he
could not find some better means of employing his fortune.

In that same photograph shop were hung photographs of the Pope and
Grambetta, side by side, the shop-keeper acting, I presume, on the
principle of one of George Eliot's characters, who had to vote "as a
family man." Doubtless, being the father of a family, this stationer
felt it expedient to be agreeable to both parties, Clerical and
Republican. St. Claude, like the other towns I have passed through in
the heart of the Jura, is eminently Republican, and a very intelligent
workman told me that Catholic parents were compelled to send their
children to the lay Communal Schools, instead of to the Freres
Ignorantins, because with the latter they learn nothing. Many of these
Freres Ignorantins I saw here, and graceless figures they are. One can
but pity them, for as lay instruction is fast superseding clerical, what
will soon be their _raison d'etre?_

There is no Protestant organization at St. Claude, but most likely it
will soon come. English Protestants must never forget that money is
sorely needed by the struggling Protestant communities in France; and
that, without money, schools, hospitals, and churches cannot be built.
At present, as I have before mentioned, trade is at a low ebb, but the
projected railway connecting St. Claude with Nantua will give new
development to its industries, and also throw open a new and beautiful
pleasure-ground to travellers. My friends entrusted me to the care of an
intelligent workman in order to see the manufactures of the "articles de
St. Claude," viz.: pipes, toys, inlaid work, and carved objects in bone,
ivory, &c. We saw small blocks of the so called _bois de bruyere_, as
they come straight from the Pyrenees, which are cut about the length of
pipes, and are worked up partly by hand and partly by machinery. Women,
girls, and children are largely employed with the turning lathes, and in
many other processes; I saw a woman polishing handles of the toys known
as cup and ball; also box-wood tops being turned, and rules and measures
being made; the thin blades of folding rules are made with marvellous
rapidity, as had need to be the case, seeing how low is the price at
which these and other goods of this kind are sold by the gross for
foreign markets. Having gone through the various workshops of a large
manufactory, my companion conducted me to see the handwork done at home.
We found a young artist, for so we must call him, at work in a clean
little room opening into a garden, and much he told us of interest. He
said that he could only earn five francs a day, and this by dint of hard
work, carving two dozen pipes a day, at the rate of two and a half
francs per dozen. These vine-leaves, flowers, arabesques, and other
patterns are done with marvellous swiftness and dexterity, and entirely
according to the fancy of the moment, and for his artistic education he
had paid high. All the best workmen, he told me, were going to Paris in
order to get better pay and shorter hours of labour. Strikes here are
out of the question, as there are no Trades' Unions and associations in
order to raise the price of labour. Meantime wages decrease, and the
cost of living augments. A gloomy picture he drew of trade prospects at
St. Claude, that is to say, from the workman's point of view. The arts
of turnery, inlaid work, carving in wood and ivory, have long been
peculiar to St. Claude, though when first they were introduced is not
exactly known. First of all, it was the box-wood of the Jura that these
rustic artists put into requisition, then buffalo and stags' horns,
lastly, ivory, vegetable ivory, and foreign woods. The part of the
box-wood used chiefly is an intermediate part between the root and the
stem called _la loupe_, or _racine de bruyere_; whilst the red wood used
for pipes is the root of a heath common in the Pyrenees, which has the
peculiar quality of resisting heat, and is free from odour or taste. So
great is the division of labour in the manufacture of the St. Claude
wares that it is said there are three thousand different processes in
turnery alone! A child's top, even though of the simplest, goes through
a great number of stages before being finished for the markets. Chaplets
are also manufactured largely, and is the earliest branch of industry,
dating from the Middle Ages. Snuff-boxes in inlaid wood, ivory, and bone
are made in great quantities, also rules and measures, spectacle cases,
napkin rings, salad spoons and forks, and other articles of the kind.
Four-fifths of the St. Claude wares are exported; an especial kind of
pipes being made expressly for the English market. It is stated that,
during the general Exhibition at Hyde Park in 1862, many Frenchmen
brought home, as English curiosities, the elegantly carved pipes of St.
Claude! The United States of America also import great quantities of
these pipes. In the last American war, there was hardly a soldier who
did not possess a pipe manufactured in the little city in the Jura
mountains. There is also another branch of industry more fascinating
still, which is peculiar to St. Claude and the neighbouring village of
Septmoncel; but, perhaps, I am indiscreet in speaking of it, so dire is
the temptation it holds out to the traveller. As you stroll along these
quiet streets, your eyes are attracted here and there by open boxes of
what appears, at first sight, to be large beads, but which are in
reality gems and precious stones; amethysts, emeralds, sapphires,
topazes, and diamonds, lie here in dazzling little heaps, and if you are
a connoisseur in such matters, and have not spent all your money on the
way, you may carry home with you one of the most delightful of all
souvenirs to be set at pleasure. Diamond polishing and gem-cutting are
largely carried on here, but form, more especially, the industry of
Septmoncel, a little village in the mountains, a few miles distant from
St. Claude. Several thousand souls depend for daily bread on this
delicate occupation, which none know how long has been peculiar to the
inhabitants of Septmoncel, and their monopoly is only rivalled by the
diamond polishers of Amsterdam. These ateliers are well worth visiting.
Besides diamonds and precious stones, rock crystal, and various kinds of
imitations, and paste jewellery are here worked up; also jasper, agate,
malachite, cornelian, lapis-lazuli, jet, &c. The work is done by the
piece, and the whole family of the lapidary is generally employed.

A journey of political propaganda had just been accomplished in these
mountain regions, and the well-known writer Jean Mace, accompanied by
some leading Republicans, among these Victor Poupin, editor of the
useful little series of works called L'Instruction Republicaine and La
Bibliotheque Democratique. At St. Claude the occasion was turned into a
general fete; the place was decorated with tri-coloured flags, a banquet
was held, and the whole proceedings passed off to the satisfaction of
all but the cures. In one of the little mountain towns, the cure
preached in the pulpit against the sous-prefet and his wife, because,
upon one of these occasions, before taking part in the Republican fete,
they did not attend mass.

Travelling in the Jura will, doubtless, one day be made easy and
pleasant, and, perhaps, become the fashion. As it is, in spite of the
glorious weather, no tourist is seen here, and the diligence to Nantua
was almost empty. It is a superb drive of five or six hours by the
valley of the Bienne and Oyonnaz, a little town which is the seat of an
important comb-manufactory. Keeping by the river, here so intensely
clear that every pebble may be seen in the water, we gradually quit the
severer characteristics of the Jura for its milder and more smiling
aspects. Traversing a savage gorge, we soon come to the marble quarries
of Chassal and Molinges, also, at the former place, ochre quarries. The
red and yellow marbles of the Jura, so richly veined and ornamental,
will, doubtless, constitute a great source of wealth in the Department
as soon as there are improved means of transport. In that rich marble
region, we find only box trees and other dwarf shrubs, with abundance of
romantic little cascades, grottoes, rivulets, and mountain springs. All
this bit of country, indeed, is most interesting, picturesquely,
industrially, and geologically, and on this perfect day, the second of
October, every feature is beautified by the weather; large cumuli
dropping violet shadows on the hills, deep ravines showing intensest
purple, golden mists veiling the verdant valleys. We are soon in a
pastoral country, and, as we pass chalets perched on some far off ridge,
little girls run down from the mountain sides with letters in their
hands, which the conductor drops into his little box attached to the
diligence. We are, in fact, the travelling post-office. How laborious
the life of the peasant-farmer is here, we may judge from the hard work
being done by the women and girls. In some cases, they guide the team
whilst the man behind holds the plough, in others they are digging up
potatoes, or gathering in their little crop of maize. All the women seem
to be out of doors and sunburnt, toil-worn looking creatures they are,
though they wear an expression of contentment, or rather resignation.
The potato crop, on which these rural populations so largely depend for
winter food, is fortunately good and abundant, and little else but
potato and maize seem to be grown here. The villages we pass through
have a dirty and neglected appearance; but beggars are nowhere
encountered, and, at the entrance of each, we see the inscription,
"Mendicity is forbidden in the Department of the Jura."



It was evening when we reached the little railway-station of La Cluse,
and exquisite indeed was the twilight drive to Nantua. The crimson
glories of sunset were still flaming in the west, and reflected in the
limpid lake, whilst a silvery crescent moon rose slowly above the dark
purple mountains framing in the picture. A delicious scene this, and
wonderfully contrasted to the sombre splendour of St. Claude, tenderest
_allegro_ after stateliest _adagio maestoso_, droppings of pearly rain
after heavy thunder-claps. Nantua must be seen from above its
interesting Romanesque old church to be appreciated. It lies at the end
of a mountain gorge, black with pines from summit to base, the
transparent fairy-like lake opening beyond, shut in with violet hills.

No less delightful is the walk to La Cluse alongside the lake, an
umbrageous avenue, the shadows of which are grateful this hot June-like
October day. Through a light screen of foliage you look across the blue
waters upon bluer hills, and still bluer sky. Nantua, in spite of its
smiling appearance, is inevitably doomed one day to destruction,
Straight over against the town impends a huge mass of loosened rock,
which, so authorities predict, must sooner or later slide down, crushing
any thing with which it comes in contact. People point to the enemy with
nonchalance, saying, "Yes, the rock will certainly fall at some time or
other, and destroy a great part of the town, but not perhaps in our
time." Be this as it may, the gigantic fragment of rock hanging so
menacingly over Nantua, is a curious object of contemplation.

I fell into conversation with two nuns belonging to the Order of St.
Charles, and I wish I could delineate the hideousness of their costumes,
and the unmitigated ugliness of their general appearance. Their dress
consisted of a plain black gown with round cape and close fitting hood,
on each side of which projected black gauze flaps extended on wires,
shading their withered, ill-favoured countenances, and making them look
indeed more like female inquisitors, ogres, or Witches of Endor than
human beings. I never saw human nature made so uninviting, and I could
fancy the terror inspired by these awful figures, with their bat-like
flaps, in the tender minds of the little children entrusted to their
care. It was edifying to hear these holy women discourse upon the Paris
Exhibition, which it is hardly necessary to say the clerical party
throughout France was bound to consider a failure. Alike the highest and
the lowest, bishop and parish priest, were determined in their own minds
that the Exhibition, as a display of rehabilitated France under a
Republican Government, should fail altogether, and come to some
conspicuously bad end. The very reverse had happened, yet here were two
women of age, experience, and some intelligence coolly talking of this
terrible failure of the Exhibition, financially and otherwise, the bad
effect upon trade generally, and so forth.

I take the railway from Bourg to La Cluse, a mile from the town, and a
marvellous piece of railway engineering is this short journey, veritable
Alpine ascent in a railway-carriage, scaling perpendicular mountain
sides by means of the steam-engine! The train curls round the mountain
as the Jura roads are made to do, high above an awful gorge, in the
midst of which runs the River Ain, emerald-green irradiated by
diamond-like flashes of cascade and torrent. When we have accomplished
this aerial bit of travel--it is very like being up in a balloon--we
suddenly lose alike mountain, river, and ravine, all the world of
enchantment in which I had been living for weeks past, to find ourselves
in the region of prose and common-place! In other words, we were in the
wide, highly cultivated plain of La Bresse. At Bourg-en-Bresse I halted,
as everyone else must do, in order to see its famous Church of Brou. The
Church was built in consequence of a vow made by Margaret of Burgundy,
that if her husband, Philibert the Second, Duke of Savoy, was healed
from injuries received in the hunt, she would erect a church and found a
monastery of the Order of St. Benoit. The Duke recovered, but his wife
died before accomplishing her work, which was, however, carried out by
her daughter-in-law, Margaret of Austria, wife of Philibert le Beau. She
summoned for this purpose all the best artists of the time to Bourg, and
the church begun in 1506 was finished in 1532, under the direction of
Loys von Berghem.

This spirited and imperious Margaret of Austria, known as Margot la
Flamande, played an important part in history, as readers of Michelet's
eloquent seventh volume know. She adored her second husband, the
handsome Philibert, and owed all her life a grudge against France, on
account of having been, as a child, promised in marriage to Charles
VIII., and afterwards supplanted for political reasons by the no less
imperious Anne of Brittany. Aunt and first instructress of Charles V.,
King of Spain and Emperor of Germany, she is regarded by Michelet as the
founder of the House of Austria, and one of the chief agents in
humiliating France by means of the Treaty of Cambrai. Margaret of
Austria, Anne of Brittany, Louise of Savoy, mother of Francis I., writes
the historian, "cousant, filant, lisant, ces trois fatales Parques ont
tissu les maux de l'Europe" (sewing, spinning, reading, these three
fatal Parcae were the misfortune of Europe), and the student of French
history will follow the career of all three with interest after the clue
here given them. Margaret, bitter, vindictive, and designing, seems to
have had one poetic thread in her life only, namely, her passion for her
husband, whose beauty lives in marble before us.

The Church of Brou--magnificent case for these gems of monumental
art--cost seven millions of francs, and the combined labours of the best
living architects and artists of the time, may be considered as the last
efflorescence of Gothic architecture, for the spirit of the Renaissance
was already making itself felt. It is less, however, the church, in
spite of its rich exterior and elegant proportions, that travellers will
come to see than the exquisite mausoleum of the choir, each deserving a
chapter to itself. You quit the quiet old-fashioned town of Bourg, and
after a walk of twenty minutes, come suddenly on the church, standing in
the suburb, or as it seems, indeed, in the open country. A sacristan is
at hand to unlock the door of the choir, but it is best to give him his
fee in advance, and tell him to return in an hour; generally speaking,
other strangers are coming and going, in which case such a precaution is
not necessary, but it is impossible to enjoy this artistic treat with a
guide hovering about you, doling out pieces of stale information, and
impatiently awaiting to be paid. The choir is screened off from the nave
by a rich, although somewhat heavy rood-loft, and great is the contrast
between the two portions of the church; in the first, all is subdued,
quiet in tone, and refreshing; in the last, the eye is troubled by too
much light, there is no stained glass to soften down the brilliant
sunshine of this fine October day, and, although the architectural
proportions of the entire building are graceful and on a vast scale, the
beholder is much less delighted than he ought to be on this account. In
fact the effect is dazzling; but how different are our sensations when
once on the other side of the richly sculptured rood-loft! Here the
impression is one of peerless beauty, without a shadow of disillusion or
the slightest drawback to aesthetic enjoyment, except one, and that very
trifling. These three mausoleums are so well defended against possible
iconoclasts that the thick, closely set iron bars almost prevent us from
seeing the lower part of the three tombs, and, in two cases, these are
as interesting as any. Surely in the present day such measures are
unnecessary! It may be mentioned that the church and tombs narrowly
escaped destruction during the great Revolution, and the world is
indebted for their safety to the public spirit of one of the civil
authorities, who filled the interior with hay, securely fastened the
doors, and put outside the conspicuous inscription: _Propriete
Nationale_. But for these prompt measures, the beautiful and unique
treasures contained in the Church of Brou would, without doubt, have
shared the fate of so many others during that awful epoch.

The three tombs are those of Philibert le Beau, Duke of Savoy, of
Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, his mother, and of Margaret of Austria,
his wife. They are chiselled in Carrara marble, and are the combined
work of Michel Colomb, Jean Perreal, called Jean de Paris, and Conrad
Meyt. [Footnote: Consult on this subject "Monographie de l'Eglise de
Brou," par MM. Didron et Dupasquier.] The central tomb is that of
Philibert, who, like his wife, is represented twice, the upper figure
that of the Duke when alive, the lower delineating death. This monument
is perhaps the most splendid of all, although there are especial
beauties to be found in the other two, and each is deserving of long and
careful study.

Above, therefore, we have the Prince in all the glory of life and pomp
of state; below, in the cold bareness and nakedness of death, a contrast
highly artistic and touching at the same time. The iron rails already
alluded to only hide the lower division of the tomb, so that we see the
upper part in all its splendour. The Prince, wearing his ducal cap and
dress, reposes on a couch, the cushion supporting his head being covered
with delicate sculptures, his feet resting on a lion recumbent, his
hands clasped, his face slightly turned towards Margaret of Austria, his
wife. On each side, little lovely naked boys, geniuses, loves,
cherubs--call them what we will--support his helmet and gloves, and
charming statuettes after the same dainty pattern stand at each corner
of the sarcophagus supporting his shield and various pieces of armour.
Underneath, on a slab of black marble, lies the figure of the dead
Prince, the finely modelled limbs only partially draped, the long hair
curling round the bare shoulder, the beautiful face turned, as in the
first instance, towards the image of his wife--pose, expression, design,
all combining to make up an exquisite whole. This second figure is a
master-piece, and no less masterly are the Sibyls and other figures
which surround it, each statuette deserving the most careful study,
each, in fact, a little gem. The frame-work of this noble monument is of
rich Gothic design, too elaborate, perhaps, to please the fastidious
critic, but deliciously imaginative, and finished as far as artistic
finish can go. To the right of the Prince is the tomb of Marguerite of
Burgundy, his mother, a hardly less sumptuous piece of work than the
first, and superbly framed in by Gothic decorative sculptures,
statuettes, arabesques, flowers, and heraldic designs. The little
mourning figures or _pleureuses_, each in its graceful niche, are
wonderfully beautiful, and for the most part veiled, whilst the artist's
fancy has been allowed to run riot in the ornamentation surrounding
them. The Princess wears her long ducal mantle and crown, and at her
feet reposes a superb greyhound. The third tomb, that of Marguerite of
Austria, the wife of Philibert, is in some respects the richest of the
three, being almost bewildering in elaborateness of detail and abundance
of ornament. It is divided into two compartments; in the upper, we have
the living figure of a beautiful woman in the flower of life, richly
dressed; in the lower, we have the same after death, the long hair
rippling in curls to her waist, the slender feet showing from under the
drapery, the expression that of majestic calm and solemnity. We have
here the simplicity and nakedness of death in close proximity with the
gorgeousness and magnificence of art--art under one of its most
sumptuous aspects, art in its fullest and most poetic moods. All
thoughtful observers must come to the conclusion that lovely and
artistic as is the frame-work of this last figure, each tiniest detail
being a marvel both of design and execution, it is, perhaps, not quite
in harmony with the rest. It is, indeed, somewhat overcharged with
ornament. Be this as it may, the mausoleums in the Church of Brou will
ever remain in the memory as one of those exquisite and unique art
experiences that form an epoch in our inner history. For what, indeed,
avails art at all, if it is a thing of minor importance in life, a half
joy, a half consolation, a second or inferior impression to be effaced
by anything new that comes in our way? It was pitiable to see parties of
two or three French tourists rush into the choir with the sacristan,
spend five minutes in glancing at the treasures before them, then hurry
away, not dreaming of what they have failed to see, only dimly conscious
of having seen something. It is curious that in 1856 the lead coffins
containing the remains of Philibert and the two Duchesses were
discovered in a crypt under that part of the choir where the mausoleums
stand. The inscriptions on all three were perfectly legible, and left no
doubt as to identity; the skeletons were placed in new coffins, and
re-interred with religious ceremony. Other crypts were discovered, but
these had evidently been spoliated.

Before quitting these mausoleums and their exquisite possessions of
_pleureuses_, geniuses, Sibyls, and the rest, it may be worth while to
remind the reader that, according to the most learned of the Romans,
there were ten Sibyls, _viz.:_--1. Persica, 2. Libyssa, 3. Delphica, 4.
Cumaea, 5. Erythraea, 6. Samia, 7. Cumana, who brought the book to
Tarquin, 8. Hellespontica, 9. Phrygia, 10. Tiburs, by name Albunea,
worshipped at Tiber as a goddess. Thus Varro categorizes the Sibyls, and
besides these we hear of a Hebrew, a Chaldaean, a Babylonian, an
Egyptian, a Sardian Sibyl, and some others. Other writers considerably
reduce this number, three being that most usually accepted, and
Salmasius, the most learned man that ever lived, summed up the various
theories concerning these mysterious beings with the words: "There is
nothing on which ancient writers more widely differ than as to the age,
number, and country of the Sibyls."

There is little to see in the Church of Brou besides these mausoleums,
and nothing in Bourg itself, except the fine bronze statue to Bichat, by
David d'Angers. The great anatomist is represented in the act of
oscultation, the patient being a child, standing between his knees. It
is a monument alike worthy of the artist and his subject, another
instance of that dignified realism for which David d'Angers was so
remarkable. There is, however, some doubt as to Bichat's birth-place;
Lons-le-Saunier, as I have before mentioned, contesting the honour with
Bourg. On the principle that two monuments to a great man are better
than none at all, each place claims the honour.

The night mail-express from Geneva whirled me in about ten hours to
Paris, and the next morning I found myself in what, after the matchless
atmosphere of the Jura, seemed murkiness, although the day was fine and
the sky cloudless. I had thus, with hardly an important deviation from
the plan originally laid down, accomplished my journey in Eastern
France, but with a success, in one respect, impossible to anticipate.
Accustomed as I am to French amiability and hospitality, I was yet
unprepared for such a reception as that accorded to me throughout every
stage of my travels. All hearts were open to me; everyone wanted to do
the honours of his beloved "patrie"--using the word in its local rather
than national sense--to be serviceable, kind, accommodating. Thus it
happened that my holiday rambles in Franche-Comte were so far novel,
that they may be said to have been accomplished without hotels or
guidebooks; for the most part, my time being spent in friends' houses,
and my itineraries being the best possible, namely, the oral information
of interested natives of every place I passed through. This is, indeed,
the way in which all countries, and especially France, should be seen,
for, without a sympathetic knowledge of her people and their ways of
life, we lose the most interesting feature in French travel. Travellers
who only see the outside of things in foreign countries, indeed, may be
compared to those who gaze upon a skeleton, instead of the living form,
warm with life, sympathy, and beauty. Old France, as studied in her
glorious monuments, whether Gallic, Merovingian, Mediaeval, or
Renaissance, pales in interest before the New, that France which alone
has taught the world the lesson of Equality, and is teaching us every
day what misfortunes may be overcome by a noble people, inspired with
true patriotism, allied to democratic feeling. In Republican France,
now, who can doubt? and I am all the more thankful here to be able to
bear witness to the unanimity, prosperity, and marvellous development
found in the different strata of French social life. There are, without
doubt, blots on this bright picture; but none can deny that the more we
learn to know France the more we admire and love her, and that, if the
richest and most beautiful country in the world, it is also the one in
which happiness and well-being are most generally diffused. We are
accustomed to regard France in the light of a parable to other nations,
but, if her sorrows and retributions have taught them much, at least her
successes and triumphs have taught them more. She has lately shown
herself greater even in the hour of her prosperity than in that of evil
fortune, the highest praise to be accorded alike to nations as to
individuals. Honour then to all who have helped in bringing about these
great results, whether in the humblest or loftiest walks of life, and
may I be the means of inducing scores of travellers to follow in my
footsteps, and judge for themselves whether I have drawn too glowing a
picture! Of one thing they may be certain--namely, that they will be
welcomed wherever they go, if led thither in a sympathetic spirit,
although, perhaps, not many may have the like good fortune with myself,
each stage of my journey being marked by delightful acquaintances and
friendships, binding me still closer to La Belle France and her glorious



For the benefit of pedestrians, and these will most enjoy the country I
have described, I adjoin some itineraries, more detailed than I was
enabled to make my own. Hardy travellers will be well satisfied, in most
instances, with the wayside inns they will find, and one advantage of
travelling in Franche-Comte--at least, up to the present time--is its
inexpensiveness. The chief outlay is in carriage hire, and those who can
endure the diligence, or, better still, can accomplish most of their
journeys on foot, where the railway is not available, will not only see
the country to the best advantage, but at a very trifling cost. The
excursions, or rather group of excursions, here mentioned, are such as
may be accomplished in a few days from the town given as a starting

I. Besancon to Alaise and the valley of Nans. Departure by way of the
_route de Beure._ The river Loue is crossed at Cleron. From Amancey
ascend the plateau above Coulans, where a view is obtained of the
_oppidum_ of Alaise (supposed by some authorities to be the Alesia of
Julius Caesar). Descend to the mill of Chiprey, follow the right bank of
the Lison to Nans. At Nans, visit the Grotte Sarrazine, the source of
the Lison, and the Pont du Diable. Ascend the fortress of St. Agne for
the sake of the panorama; ancient dwellings of the Gauls to be seen at
Chatillon, also tombs at Foure, see also the Cascade of the Gour de
Couche, the Col de la Langutine, descend by way of the Taudeur to the
plain of Myon, bounding the western side of the Alesia, _i.e._, the
Alesia of some authorities.

II. Luxeuil (Luxovium) in Haute Saone. Celebrated from the ancient times
for its ferruginous springs. Here visit the Roman remains, mediaeval
houses, the town for the sake of the view. Make excursions into the
valleys of the Vosges.

III. Vesoul and Gray, departure from Besancon by way of the charming
valley of Ognon. See the Chateau de la Roche, turned into a school of
agriculture, the sculptures in Vesoul church, its old streets, and
pretty gardens. Visit the Port sur Saone (Portus Abucinus). At Gray
visit the Hotel de Ville, the house of Simon d'Ancier, maitre-d'hotel of
the Connetable de Bourbon. Visit the Abbey of Pesmes which contains some
fine Renaissance work, the ancient Abbey of Acey, the Chateau de
Balancon, Marnay, ancient domain of the Joinvilles, Ruffey--Roman city
destroyed by the Vandals.

IV. From Besancon to Pontanier (Abiolica)--a beautiful bit of railway.
The Doubs is crossed twice, when views are obtained of Arguel and
Montferrand, and the modern chateaux of Torpes and Thoraise. The Loue is
crossed at Mouchard; fine view of the ruins of Vaugrenant. After leaving
Mouchard, the traveller enjoys a succession of vast prospects of the
vineyard region of the Jura--Aiglepierre, Marnoz, Arbois, &c. After the
vines, come the pinewoods and the splendid forest of Joux. After the
pinewoods generally come the peat-fields, or _tourbieres_, of Chaux
d'Arlier, traversed by two rivers which here meet, the Doubs and the
Drugeon. Lastly, Pontarlier is reached, eight hundred and seventy yards
above the level of the sea, anciently a confederation of nineteen
villages, called _la baroichage_.

V. From Besancon to Dole. Four routes are here open to the traveller;
1st. The Roman road leading formerly from Vesontio to Cabillorum; 2nd.
the _route de Paris_; 3rd. the railway--Dijon line; 4th. the canal, from
the Rhone to the Rhine. All these ways of communication follow the
valley of the Doubs. The great forges of Fraisans, and the Roman station
of Crusinia, are to be seen on the way. To the right of this is a huge
mass of granite in the midst of the Jurassic formation. Dole is the
second city in Franche-Comte, and houses are to be seen there. The
public library is also worth a visit.

VI. The fortress of Joux and the Swiss routes. Two fortresses protect
the Swiss frontiers, Joux and Larmont. The former merits a visit. The
cells are seen in which Toussaint l'Ouverture, Mirabeau, the poet
Kleist, and other illustrious prisoners were confined. In the
neighbourhood of Joux are high mountain peaks from which magnificent
views are to be had. Many interesting excursions to be made in this

VII. The Falls of the Doubs, Morteau, and Montbenoit. Start from
Morteau, visit the Falls and Lakes, also the _Cols de Roches_. Proceed
to Montbenoit by the river Doubs. See the splendid rock at Entreroches.
The church of Montbenoit is one of the historic monuments of France;
here are to be seen statuettes and sculptures in wood, the work of
Florentine artists in the sixteenth century, employed by the Abbe
Carondelet, friend of Raphael and Erasmus.

VIII. Baume-les-Dames. By rail and road from Besancon or Montbeliard,
passing the picturesque valley of the Doubs, rich in charming landscape
and historic associations. Ruins of the Chateaux of Montfaucon and
Vaite, to be seen on the way. At Baume-les-Daines, visit the ancient
Abbey Church, now turned into a public granary, also the valley of the
Cuisancin, last, the Glaciere de la Grace-Dieu, a natural phenomenon of
great beauty and interest.

IX. From Andelot to Orgelet. The railway takes you to Champagnole. From
thence take a carriage to the Source of the Ain, and Les Planches,
visiting by the way the church of Sirod. Drive also to Nozeroy and the
valley of Miege, and visit the parish church, which is full of
statuettes. Thence proceed to St. Laurent by way of the fall of the
Lemme, the Lake of Bonlieu, and the ruins of the Chartreuse. From Morez
ascend the fortress of the Rousses, and follow the road to Dole, by the
valley des Dappes; splendid views of Switzerland. From St. Claude is a
public conveyance to Orgelet, Roman ruins (ville d'Antres) to be seen on
the way, also the Chartreuse of Vaucleuse, and the Chateau of the
Tour-de-Meix. Railway at Orgelet.

* * * * *

These Itineraries can be varied almost _ad infinitum_, and we only give
an indication of the variety of walks and drives to be found in this
most "spazierlich" country. The knapsack tourists, of course, have
always the advantage in every way.

As a rule, no one ever reads anything when travelling, but, for the
benefit of those conscientious travellers who like to do things
systematically, I will mention one or two books that may usefully
supplement Murray or Joanne. Two of these, to be picked up on the way,
are really school-books, but are so crammed full of information, and so
entertaining, that no tourist in Franche-Comte can afford to pass them
by. The first, "La Franche-Comte et le pays de Montbeliard," is a
succinct and admirably digested little history of the country. Its
author, M. Castan, the learned librarian of Besancon, gives, in a small
compass, what is not easy to get at elsewhere, enough, indeed, of
history for all ordinary purposes. A second and no less admirable
compendium of information for travellers in the Jura, is the, so-called,
"Lectures Jurassiennes," a little work compiled for elementary schools,
but in reality "Half-hours with the best Franc-Comtois authors," who
treat of the general features, products, climate, &c., of the Jura, as
well as of the people; their legendary lore, habits of life, and general
characteristics. A delightful little volume this, giving passages from
Lamartine, who just missed being a native of the Jura himself, from
Xavier Marinier, author of "Souvenirs of Franche-Comte," and from
Charles Nodier, that gifted and charming writer, to whom the very name
of his native province was a magic spell, awakening all kinds of joyous
and glowing recollections. Those who find amusement in a popular
historical novel may consult "Le Medecin des Pauvres," in which they
will find delineations of the most romantic scenery of the Jura,
interspersed with thrilling incidents. For botanists, there is an
admirable Handbook, in two volumes, "La Flore Jurassienne," to be found
in every town by the way; lastly, for special information, "Roussel's
Dictionnaire Geographique, Historique, et Statistique;" these two last
may be consulted in any local library by the way. Students of geology
will find useful information in Joanne's little "Geographies
Departementales." Excellent maps are to be had everywhere. Real lovers
of literature, however, will content themselves with the delightful
writings of Charles Nodier, and to this fascinating story-teller I am
indebted, not only for many delightful hours in my study, but for the
pleasure of travelling in Franche-Comte myself, and afterwards
introducing it to my country-people. Of him, poet, novelist, as of a
critic, naturalist, philologist, essayist, still more illustrious writer
of our own, it might be said, "Nihil tetigit quod non ornavit."

The history of Franche-Comte, which M. Castan gives in a nutshell, may
be greatly simplified by following his division into periods. Beginning
therefore from the earliest period down to the present time. The
following are the principal facts, simplified by this historic

1st Period. Sequanian. 115-147 B.C.--The province successively called
Sequania, Haute Bourgogne, Comte de Bourgogne and Franche-Comte--of
which the larger portion actually forms the three Departments of the
Jura, Haute Saone, and the Doubs--was early recognized as one of the
most important strategical and natural divisions of ancient Gaul. The
Sequani, by way of rewarding them for their aid against the Cimbri and
Teutons, were received as friends and allies of the Roman people. When
Caesar entered upon his conquests, he found two rival parties in Gaul,
the Aedui and the Sequani, the latter, being oppressed by Ariovistus,
besought his aid. Caesar vanquished Ariovistus, and took up his
winter-quarters in the Sequanian territory, 56 B.C. The general rising
of Gaul was quelled after seven years' struggle, and the surrender of
the heroic Auvergnat chief, Vercingetorix, at Alesia--according to some
authorities, Alaise in Franche-Comte, to others, Alise la Reine, in
Auvergne. This happened in 47 B.C. (see Julius Caesar's "Gallic War.")

II. Roman Period, 47 B.C. 407 A.D. The Roman Emperors now attempted, in
so far as possible, to denationalize the ancient kingdom of the Gauls,
transforming not only laws and language, but manners and customs. Roman
gods took the place of so-called Druidic rites. Roman roads spread like
a net-work throughout the country, sumptuous edifices were erected at
Vesontio (Besancon), and Epomanduodarum (Maudeure, Doubs). The thermal
and ferruginous springs of Luxovium (Luxueil), and Salinae (Salins),
attracted the Roman world of fashion. Wines of the Jura found their way
to luxurious tables of Rome and Athens. The brave Sabinus made an
attempt to shake off the Roman yoke, and his virtuous and heroic wife,
by her devotion, shines among the heroines of her country. (See
Thierry's "Histoire des Gaulois.") Besancon was made capital of
Sequania, and embellished, under the reign of Marcus Aurelius with
amphitheatre, forum, triumphal arch, theatre, &c. Christianity made its
first appearance in the country. Two emissaries of Irenaeus, Bishop of
Lyons, suffered martyrdom in the Theatre of Besancon, 212 A.D. Sequania,
including the present Franche-Comte, was created a military province,
under the title of _Provincia Maxima Sequanorum_. Under Constantine,
Christian churches were built in many places, and the Basilica, now the
Cathedral of Besancon, begun.

III. Burgundian Period, 407-534. The Burgundians, having aided the
Romans to free the Sequanian territory from the Huns under Attila,
settled there, 435-471; the land being divided among them and its former
owners. Monasteries were first founded about this time, notably the
Abbey of Condat, now St. Claude. Gondioc, King of the Burgundians, owned
the actual countries now included in Franche-Comte; besides Burgundy, La
Bresse, Savoy, Dauphine, and Provence. The Franks seized the kingdom
from the descendants of Gondioc after a Burgundian occupation of two
hundred years.

IV. Frankish Period, 534-711. The ancient territory of Gondioc was now
divided among the descendants of Clovis, who built many monasteries and
abbeys, among these Baume-les-Dames, and that of Luxueil, Haute Saone.
On the death of Charles Martel, a new division took place, and Burgundy,
including Franche-Comte, fell to the lot of Pepin le Bref.

V. Carlovingian Period, 741-879. Under Charlemagne, the clergy rose to
pre-eminent importance, and great privileges were accorded to religious
foundations, &c.

VI. Feudal Period, 879-1038. Three hosts of invaders ravaged the
country, the Normans, the Germans, and the Huns. The kingdom of
Burgundy, including Franche-Comte, was incorporated with the German
Empire in the early part of the eleventh century.

VII. Sacerdotal Period, 1038-1148. A darker and more troublous time
hardly appears in French history. The petty sovereigns of the different
principalities into which Franche-Comte had been divided were engaged in
perpetual struggles with their spiritual chiefs. Hugh, Archbishop of
Besancon, ruled with kingly authority. Ten Cistercian Abbeys were
founded. Land was cleared in the most solitary places for the purpose of
building monasteries, notably at Morteau and Mouthe. Beatrix, heiress of
Count Raimond III, was shut up in a tower by her uncle, and liberated by
Frederic Barbarossa.

VIII. German Period, 1148-1248. Frederic Barbarossa having married
Beatrix, Franche-Comte became an appanage of the German Empire. The
Chateau of Dole was made the imperial residence and the seat of
Government. On the death of the Emperor and Beatrix, the heritage of
Franche-Comte was contested by Count Otho I. and Etienne d'Auxonne.
Successive wars between the rival families ravaged the country for many

IX. Communal Period, 1248-1330. Jean de Chalons, to whom the heritage
had accrued, granted charters of disenfranchisement to many towns,
Salins, Ornans, and others. The Commune of Besancon was definitely
founded, and it became an independent city, under the protectorate of
the German Empire. Otho IV., Emperor of Germany, made over the country
to Philippe le Bel, King of France, who, after five years, subdued the
refractory Franc-Comtois, and greatly benefited the country by the
introduction of French customs and forms of legislation. Jeanne,
daughter of Philippe le Bel, peacefully governed the province for five
years, and introduced the manufacture of cloth at Gray. In 1330,
Franche-Comte fell to the share of the eldest daughter of Jeanne,
married to the Duke of Burgundy.

X. Anglo-French Period, 1330-1384. After the treaty of Bretigny, the
_Grandes Compagniez_ ravaged Franche-Comte, but were driven back. The
nobility entered into an alliance with England, the English King wishing
to marry one of his sons with the heiress presumptive of Franche-Comte,
great-grand-daughter of the Countess Jeanne. On the negotiations being
broken off, the Comtois nobility waged war with England on the side of
the French King. It was at this time that the title of Franche-Comte
came into use, in order to distinguish the province from that of

XI. Ducal Period, 1381-1477. The Count-Dukes, being engaged in conflict
with the clergy and rival nobility, sought the favour of the
_bourgeoisie_ by according privileges and titles of nobility. The Comte
de Montbeliard passed as a dowry to the house of Wuertemberg in 1397, and
remained an appanage of that kingdom till the French Revolution. The
power of the aristocracy was considerably diminished at this time, and
feudalism broken down by the establishment of the Roman law.

XII. Austrian period, 1477-1556. On the death of Charles le Temeraire,
Louis XI. occupied Franche-Comte with a military force, also Burgundy,
under the pretext of defending the rights of Marie of Burgundy, daughter
of Charles. On the marriage of this princess with Maximilian of Austria,
the French were expelled from Franche-Comte. Louis XI., however,
re-occupied it; Vesoul, Gray, and Dole were pillaged and burnt. On the
death of that King, his successor, Charles VIII., was recognised as
sovereign of Franche-Comte by virtue of his proposed marriage with
Marguerite, daughter of Marie of Burgundy, wife of Maximilian. He
married, however, Anne of Brittany, instead, and the Franc-Comtois thus
considered themselves freed from their allegiance to the French crown.
Besancon opened its gates to Maximilian, and, in a treaty concluded
between the French King and the Emperor, Burgundy reverted to the
former, whilst Franche-Comte remained in the hands of the latter. The
territorial dowry of Marguerite passed to her brother Philip, afterwards
King of Spain (and father to the celebrated Charles the Fifth), who
died, aged twenty-eight. Marguerite then became Regent of Franche-Comte.
Under her rule, Protestantism made its first appearance in the
provinces. The peasants of Montbeliard, joining the German bands, made
raids upon religious houses. Charles the Fifth, on assuming the reins of
Government after his aunt Marguerite, continued her policy, and his
Keeper of the Seals, the princely Perronet de Granvelle, inaugurated at
Besancon, by his splendid patronage of arts and letters, what has justly
been called the "Golden Age of Franche-Comte."

XIII. Spanish Period, 1556-1674. Philip II., son of Charles the Fifth,
established the Inquisition in Franche-Comte. His reign was a long
series of calamities. Henry IV., King of France, marched a large army
into the country, but after levying contributions on Besancon, and the
smaller towns of the Jura, he signed a treaty, according neutrality to
the provinces, and retired (1595). Later, Richelieu sent three armies
respectively, into the Saone, the Doubs, and the Jura. St. Claude and
Pontarlier were burnt, and the inhabitants destroyed by fire and sword.
A great emigration took place, no less than twelve thousand families
fleeing to Rome alone. Excepting the four principal towns, Besancon,
Salins, Dole, and Gray, the country was almost depopulated. Orders were
given to mow down the unripe harvests, in order to subdue the people by
famine. At Richelieu's death, neutrality was again accorded to the
province, on condition of forty thousand crowns being paid yearly to the
crown of France, and French garrisons being maintained at Joux and other
places. In the words of a French writer of the period, "The country, at
this time, resembled a desert." On the peace of Westphalia, Besancon
lost its autonomy, being again placed under the dominion of Spain. Louis
XIV. however, having married the daughter of Philip IV. of Spain,
claimed Franche-Comte as the dowry of his wife. The great Conde was
dispatched on a mission of conquest, the King, in person, headed a
besieging army at Gray, and in fifteen days the entire province
submitted. By the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, Franche-Comte again
reverted to Spain, and again had to be conquered. On the declaration of
war against France by Spain, the German Empire, Holland, and Lorraine,
it put itself on the defensive. The armies of Louis XIV. overran the
country. Besancon capitulated, and the King celebrated a Te Deum of
victory in the Cathedral of that town in 1674.

It may not be generally known that the Porte St. Martin, in Paris, was
erected as a triumphal arch to commemorate this victory. On its
principal facade are the words: _Ludovico Magno. Vesontione Sequanisque
bis capti_.

Here the history of Franche-Comte may be said to end, henceforth being
merged in that of France. Brief as are these outlines, they will give
the reader some idea of the vicissitudes this province has undergone
from the earliest times until now; and further details can easily be
found elsewhere. From whichever point we may regard it, historically,
geographically, or artistically, Franche-Comte must be set down as one
of the most interesting portions of France, and none should undertake to
visit it without some preconceived notion of what they are going to see.

The Jura is interesting geologically, its series of rocks, of the same
age and general lithological structure as the oolitic formations of
England, being known as the Jurassic formation. The Jura range is
composed of a peculiar kind of limestone abounding in caves, containing
stalactital formations and the remains of extinct animals. The highest
peak of the Jura rises to 8000 feet. Naturally it is divided into three
regions, the plain, the mountain, and the vineyard. The climate, as in
most mountainous countries, is rude, winter lasting eight months, on an
average with enormous quantities of snow. More than a fourth of the
territory is covered with forests, that of La Chaux being one of the
finest in France. In the winter the wolves are driven by hunger to the
very doors of the villages. The flora of the Jura possesses some
singularities, and is especially rich in many districts.



Bienne, Valley of the.
Brenets, Les.

Chateau Chalon.
Cluse, La.
Cuisance, Source of the.

Doubs, Falls of the.

Ferte, La.
Flumen, The.


Lison, Source of the.
Loue, Valley of the.



Osselle, Grottoes of.

Pargots, Les.
Pont de Roide.

Russey, Le.

Saint Claude.
Saint Hippolyte.
Saint Laurent.




_for_ Philip-le-Bel _read_ Philippe-le-Bel

" custom _read_ costume

" Agedincum _read_ Agendicum

" Montbeliardins _read_ Montbeliardais

" Cerberus _read_ Charon

" Academies, _read_ Academies, Libraries,

" Monthier _read_ Mouthier

" Monthier _read_ Mouthier

" bream-tree _read_ beam-tree

" serenity _read_ severity

" Mount Rivol _read_ Mount Rivel

" Bron _read_ Brou

" Bourg to La Cluse _read_ La Cluse to Bourg

" Marguerite _read_ Margaret

" Marguerite _read_ Margaret


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