There is a tremendous valley opening all the way down, from the central
summits of the ridge of the Monts Dor, quite into the undulating, and
thence into the flat country, lying westward of this mountain chain.
Where the valley commences, it is nothing more than a combination of
mountain gullies, and is like a wild and precipitous ravine; but by
degrees it widens out into spacious amphitheatres, and at times
contracts itself again so as barely to allow of a struggling river to
make its way betwixt the rocky sides. In some places, the valley makes a
straight reach four or five miles in extent, but in others, winds and
turns about in abrupt and varied curves; its descent is now gradual, and
now rapid, where the stream dashes over ledges of rock or cuts its way
through some rough and stubborn pass. Nearly all the ravines and smaller
valleys that open into it bring down their contributions of mountain
torrents; and the whole collection of waters, thus wending their way to
the ocean, form what is called the Dor. This river meets with the Dogne
lower down in its course; and, under the joint name of the two waters,
the flood rushes broad and strong through Guienne into the Gironde. The
high and bare mountain whence the Dor derives its principal source is
the Pic de Sancy, the loftiest hill in the middle of France; it is the
king of all the volcanoes of this vast igneous chain, and has its sides
deeply furrowed and excavated into immense craters or volcanic vents.
From it proceed numerous branches or arms, composed of basaltic currents
congealed into columnar masses in the early days of the world. These
stretch out league after league, away from their parent head, and
present on their tops vast plateaux of green and moory pasture-land;
while their sides are either abrupt precipices of basaltic columns, or
else are clothed with primeval forests, which have sprung up and still
flourish on the rich materials of their decomposing slopes. The valley
of the Dor is therefore shut in either by precipitous volcanic walls, or
is guarded by sombre woods. Once on the tops of the plateaux, and you
may ride a whole day on unbroken turf; or, if you penetrate within the
forest lands, you may wander for any time you please, days or weeks,
without seeing either their beginning or their end. On the summits of
the mountains around, snow is to be found in patches, even in the
hottest days of summer; and as the Pic de Sancy is more than six
thousand feet above the level of the sea, almost every gradation of
climate is to be found amongst these lonely hills. In the dog-days, the
valleys are so hot that you gladly escape to the upper lands for air and
coolness; but the winter sets in, in October, and the valley of the Dor
is then covered deep with snow for many a long month. The Dor itself is
a pleasant lively stream: it can boast of some picturesque falls here
and there, but it is commonly a "brawling brook," winding about at its
pleasure; allowing itself to be forded every now and then; and producing
plenty of small trout for those who like to waste their time in fishing.
The urchins of the peasant tribe know how to get these finny creatures
more cannily than the professed angler; you may see them on a summer's
morning wading up the stream, and hunting under every stone, and in each
little pool, for the objects of their search. As soon as they see a
trout, they drive it into little convenient nooks that they know of, and
there--how they manage it nobody knows, but the result is certain--they
catch them with their hands or knock them on the head with their sticks;
and will always produce you a respectable dish at a few hours' notice.
About a couple of leagues below the Pic de Sancy, towards the west, one
of the plateaux on the northern side of the valley assumes an
exceedingly bold and regular appearance; it is called the Plateau de
l'Angle--perhaps from its making, by an abrupt termination, the corner
of two valleys; and it towers out like a promontory at sea, soaring
some four or five hundred feet above the bed of the river. Not very far
from where this plateau is cut off--a mile or so--there is a bold
cascade dashing over its side, and carrying off the superfluous waters
of a pool and morass higher up in the bosom of the mountains. Here the
basaltic precipice is hollowed out into a circling chasm, and over its
black face rushes the impetuous stream upon a huge chaos of rocks and
debris below, foaming and roaring until it finds its way into the Dor
far down in the valley at its foot. A few hundred feet to the westward
of this cascade, and at the lowest part of the precipitous columnar
cliff, burst forth several copious fountains of hot mineral waters,
half-way to boiling heat when they leave their rocky cells, and ever
keeping up the same degree both of heat and quantity. These are the
springs which give celebrity to the place, and constitute the baths of
Mont Dor.
The Romans--those true "rerum domini"--knew of the spot, as they did of
most other good things within their wide empire; and they frequented
these springs so much that they erected over them a magnificent bathing
establishment, and adorned the spot with a beautiful temple. In the
midst of the present village stand the remains of one and the other of
their buildings; and thus the hydropathic system of the ancients is
allied with the practice of the modern Academie de Medecine. No records
of the destruction, nor indeed of the existence, of this Roman
watering-place have been preserved; probably, the buildings fell into
natural decay, and during the middle ages were allowed to remain
unrepaired and unheeded. Only foundations, broken shafts of columns,
cornices, capitals, and altars are now discernible; but they are enough
to add greatly to the interest of the locality.
At Saint Nectaire, two leagues further down the valley, and indeed at
other spots in it, thermal sources not much inferior to those of Mont
Dor are to be met with; the whole district bears intimate evidence of
its volcanic nature, and the rheumatic or dyspeptic invalid may here get
stewed or washed out to his full satisfaction and lasting benefit.
The village of Mont Dor-les-Bains is, however, that which has been
selected by the _beau monde_ of France as one of their choicest places
of resort; and here public money has been added to the efforts of
private speculation in order to render the baths at once ample and
commodious. Over the best sources is erected a large edifice, the lower
story of which is occupied by halls, and bathing-rooms for every variety
of medical purpose; while above are assembly-rooms, and the apartments
of the Government physician.
The distribution below is most convenient. The water, after issuing from
the rock, is conveyed by distinct channels into numerous baths contained
in small chambers on either side of a large central hall: while other
conduits take it to plunging and swimming baths, to douches, and to
other medical contrivances. In the small single baths you receive the
water piping hot from the rock, at about one hundred degrees of
Fahrenheit; and you may lie there, bolling away--for a constant supply
of the same natural water keeps running into and through your bath--for
hours together, upon payment of _a franc_. The water costs nothing; the
building has been erected at the public expense, and the visitor
therefore enjoys this luxury at a moderate rate. For the poorer class of
patients gratuitous baths are provided; and in fact the gifts of nature
are here grudged to no one, but every man's wants may be gratified in a
liberal manner.
By four o'clock in the morning of a summer day, you may see a train of
ghost-like beings winding along the village street, clad in the simple
attire of a chemise, a blanket, and the eternal nightcap--lean,
sallow-faced, or crippled mortals, who have had the wise precaution to
undress at home, and not being afraid of shocking the wood-nymphs from
their propriety, sally forth to court the Goddess of Health. They
congregate in a dark cellar-like chamber, round an ample and steaming
pool, and then sink into it, to forget for a while all their pains and
maladies, and to enjoy that indescribably delightful sensation of having
the joints gently unscrewed and fresh oiled. Others, whose shoulders
and backs have known the pangs of lumbago and acute rheumatism, are put
under one of the douches; and down comes on them a discharge of the hot
fluid as if from the hose of a fire-engine, or as though shot out from
some bursting steam-boiler. Away fly the pains and troubles of humanity;
the rickety machine is put in order for that day at least, and
twenty-four hours of peaceful enjoyment is the almost invariable
consequence.
Later on in the morning, the fashionable visitors crawl forth to the
baths; but not so late that nine o'clock does not see them all safely
housed again after their ablutions, shaving or curling away with might
and main to get ready for a grand _dejeuner_. For here, as at Bath, not
only is it well to remember the inscription,--
"[Greek: ariston men udor]"
but it would be advisable to add,
"[Greek: Broma de megiston]:"
seeing that the appetite which is got up by all this early rising, and
steaming, and washing, is doomed to be satisfied in a way fully worthy
of the most refined French _cuisine_.
In the village there are numerous hotels and boarding-houses, capable of
suiting the pockets and the wishes of all the middling, and even of the
lower classes of society:--but there are three or four principal
houses,--and especially two, reserved for the aristocracy; and here all
the _elite_ of the visitors congregate. We wealthy English may laugh at
the moderate expense for which this kind of thing can be done in France,
but we are not apt to grumble at it when we find it suit our pockets;
and, therefore, take with you at once the description of the kind of
fare you are likely to meet with here, and the amount of damage it will
do to your fortune. In these large hotels, then, which are commodious
houses, a vast number of bedrooms are provided for the guests, and two
good reception-rooms; besides an immense _salle-a-manger_. Some sixty or
a hundred guests can be accommodated in each house, and can sit down at
table together. Breakfast is served between nine and ten,--and a
glorious breakfast it is! All kinds of good things, which an old
_artiste_ from Paris comes down for the season to cook: ending with
fruits of many kinds and _cafe-au-lait_--that Continental beverage which
John Bull can no more imitate than he can the wines of the Rhone or the
Rhine:--in short, 'tis as good a breakfast as they could put on the
table at Verey's. Dinner is ready at six, and maintains its proper
superiority over the breakfast, both in the number of dishes and in the
length of its service. The wines are good, and the fruits delicious, for
they all come from Clermont--whence many a wagon-load of comestibles is
tugged weekly over the mountains to satisfy the exigencies of the
fastidious invalids!
Well: they give you these two glorious spreads, your room, your light,
your linen, and your attendance, for _five francs a-day_.
And how is this day passed? Why, 'tis a true castle of indolence, is
Mont Dor-les-Bains; "a pleasing land of sleepy-head," where every one
follows the bent of his own fancy, and where the only serious occupation
is, to forget all care and to do nothing. After rising from the
breakfast table, parties are immediately formed for the promenade or the
distant excursion; and, for the latter, some two or three score of boys
and girls are stationed on the Grande Place, each in charge of an animal
disguised with the name of a horse, which you hire for the whole day, to
go where, and how far you please, for the enormous sum of _two francs_.
It is true that the animal has neither symmetry nor blood, but it is the
indigenous pony of these mountains; it is a slow, sure-footed beast, and
it will carry you up and down the steepest hill-side with exemplary
patience and sagacity. Do not lose your own patience, however, if you
mount one of them. They have no trotting, nor galloping, nor any other
pace whatever in them, out of the half-amble half-walk at which they
commonly proceed. But then, they know no better food than
mountain-grass, or the occasional luxury of some chopped straw, and they
will follow you all round the village for a slice of bread held before
their noses. Nevertheless they suit the country; they accommodate the
visitors; and there is not a spare horse to be got in the village by
half-past ten, for love or money.
The day's ramble ended, and dinner duly dismissed, every body--that is
to say, every body who is any body at all--adjourns to the _salle de
reunion_, the large assembly-room built over the baths. This is really a
handsome well-arranged ball-room, full of mirrors, ottomans, and
benches; at one end is a billiard and card room, and behind are rooms
for robing. Here, upon the payment of a napoleon, you have the _entree_
for the season; and here the guests meet, more upon the terms of a large
family than as though they were strangers. Etiquette is relaxed; every
body knows every body. The elder men take to billiards and
_ecarte_,--the graver ladies form into little _coteries_; a younger one
goes to the piano, a circle is made, a romance is sung; and then, as the
strain becomes lighter, the feet beat in sympathy, and the gay quadrille
is formed. At eight or nine o'clock the room is at its fullest; the
village minstrels are called in--some half-dozen violins, a clarionet,
and a cornet; the music becomes louder, the mazy waltz is danced, and
the enjoyment of the day is at its crowning point.
Happy, happy days! still happier, still more delightful nights! No
trouble, no excess--health and cheerfulness going hand-in-hand. The most
refined society in France, and yet the most simple and most unaffected;
good-humour and politeness ruling all things: all calculated for
enjoyment, nought for disquietude and regret!
At eleven o'clock it is understood that every body vacates the room;
and, within half an hour after, not a sound is to be heard in the
village, save the dash of the cascade, and the murmuring of the silvery
Dor.