time, that is to say, all are very French.... In crossing the square the
five holiday-makers halted before the Hôtel de Ville and read with
interest a commemorative inscription on the walls. A tablet records
English generosity in 1870, when, after the carnage and devastation of
successive battles, money, roots and seeds were distributed among the
peasants by a relief committee. The inspection over, the little party
gaily sat down to dinner in an inn close by, regaling themselves with
fried English potatoes, descendants of those sent across the Manche forty
years before."
As I re-read this passage I think sadly how the tribute from such a pen
would have rejoiced the two moving spirits of that famous relief
committee--Sir John Robinson and Mr. Bullock Hall, both long since
passed, away. To the whilom editor of the _Daily News_ both
initiative and realization were mainly owing, the latter being the
laborious and devoted agent of distribution.
But an omission caused bitterness. Whilst Mr. Bullock Hall most
deservedly received the Red Ribbon, his leader was overlooked. The tens
of thousands of pounds collected by Sir John Robinson which may be said
to have kept alive starving people and vivified deserts, were gratefully
acknowledged by the French Government. By some unaccountable
misconception, the decoration here only gratified one good friend of
France.
"I should much have liked the Legion of Honour," sighed the kindly old
editor to me, a year or two before he died.
I add that my second sojourn in Alsace-Lorraine was made at Sir John's
suggestion, the series of papers dealing with Metz, Strasburg, and its
neighbourhood appearing from day to day in the _Daily News_.
English tourists must step aside and read the tablet on the Hôtel de
Ville of Gorze, reminder, by the way, of the Entente Cordiale!
III
IN GUSTAVE DORÉ'S COUNTRY
The Vosges and Alsace-Lorraine must be taken together, as the tourist is
constantly compelled to zigzag across the new frontier. Many of the most
interesting points of departure for excursionizing in the Vosges lie in
Alsace-Lorraine, while few travellers who have got so far as Gérardmer
or St. Dié will not be tempted to continue their journey, at least as far
as the beautiful valleys of Munster and St. Marie-aux-Mines, both
peopled by French people under German domination. Arrived at either of
these places, the tourist will be at a loss which route to take of the
many open to him. On the one hand are the austere sites of the Vosges,
impenetrable forests darkening the rounded mountain tops, granite
precipices silvered with perpetual cascades, awful ravines hardly less
gloomy in the noonday sun than in wintry storms, and as a relief to these
sombre features, the sunniest little homesteads perched on airy terraces
of gold-green; crystal streams making vocal the flowery meadow and the
mossy dell, and lovely little lakes shut in by rounded hills, made double
in their mirror. In Alsace-Lorraine we find a wholly different landscape,
and are at once reminded that we are in one of the fairest and most
productive districts of Europe. All the vast Alsatian plain in September
is a-bloom with fruit garden and orchard, vineyard and cornfield, whilst
as a gracious framework, a romantic background to the picture, are the
vineclad heights crested with ruined castles and fortresses worthy to be
compared to Heidelberg and Ehrenbreitstein. We had made a leisurely
journey from Gérardmer to St. Dié, bishopric and _chef-lieu_ of the
department of the Vosges, without feeling sure of our next move.
Fortunately a French acquaintance advised us to drive to
St. Marie-aux-Mines, one of the most wonderful little spots in these
regions, of which we had never before heard. A word or two, however,
concerning St. Dié itself, one of the most ancient monastic foundations
in France. The town is pleasant enough, and the big hotel not bad, as
French hotels go. But in the Vosges, the tourist gets somewhat spoiled
in the matter of hotels. Wherever we go our hosts are so much interested
in us, and make so much of us, that we feel aggrieved at sinking into
mere numbers three or four. Many of these little inns offer homely
accommodation, but the landlord and landlady themselves wait upon the
guests, unless, which often happens, the host is cook, no piece of
ill-fortune for the traveller! These good people have none of the false
shame often conspicuous among the same class in England. At Remiremont,
our hostess came bustling down at the last moment saying how she had
hurried to change her dress in order to bid us good-bye. Here the
son-in-law, a fine handsome fellow, was the cook, and when dinner was
served he used to emerge from his kitchen and chat with the guests or
play with his children in the cool evening hour. There is none of that
differentiation of labour witnessed in England, and on the whole the
stranger fares none the worse. With regard to French hotels generally
the absence of competition in large towns strikes an English mind. At
St. Dié, as in many other places, there was at the time of my visit but
one hotel, which had doubtless been handed down from generation to
generation, simply because no rival aroused a spirit of emulation.
St. Dié has a pleasant environment in the valley of the Meurthe, and may
be made the centre of many excursions. Its picturesque old Romanesque
cathedral of red sandstone, about which are grouped noble elms, grows
upon the eye; more interesting and beautiful by far are the Gothic
cloisters leading from within to the smaller church adjoining. These
delicate arcades, in part restored, form a quadrangle. Greenery fills the
open space, and wild antirrhinum and harebell brighten the grey walls.
Springing from one side is an out-of-door pulpit carved in stone, a
striking and suggestive object in the midst of the quiet scene. We should
like to know what was preached from that stone pulpit, and what manner of
man was the preacher. The bright green space, the delicate arcades of
soft grey, the bits of foliage here and there, with the two silent
churches blocking in all, make up an impressive scene.
We wanted the country, however, rather than the towns, so after a few
days at St. Dié, hired a carriage to take us to St. Marie-aux-Mines or
Markirch, on the German side of the frontier, and not accessible from
this side by rail. We enter Alsace, indeed, by a needle's eye, so narrow
the pass in which St. Marie lies. Here a word of warning to the tourist.
Be sure to examine your carriage and horses well before starting. We were
provided for our difficult drive with what Spenser calls "two unequal
beasts," namely, a trotting horse and a horse that could only canter,
with a very uncomfortable carriage, the turnout costing over a
pound--pretty well, that, for a three hours' drive. However, in spite of
discomfort, we would not have missed the journey on any account. The
site of this little cotton-spinning town is one of the most extraordinary
in the world. We first traverse a fruitful, well cultivated plain,
watered by the sluggish Meurthe, then begin to ascend a spur of the
western chain of the Vosges, formerly dividing the two French
departments of Vosges and Haut Rhin, now marking the boundaries of
France and German Elsass. Down below, amid the hanging orchards,
flower-gardens and hayfields, we were on French soil, but the flagstaff,
just discernible on yonder green pinnacles, marks the line of
demarcation between France and the conquered territory of the German
empire. For the matter of that, the Prussian helmet makes the fact
patent. As surely as we have set foot in the Reich, we see one of these
gleaming casques, so hateful still in French eyes. They seem to spring
from the ground like Jason's warriors from the dragon's teeth. This new
frontier divided in olden times the dominions of Alsace and Lorraine,
when it was the custom to say of many villages that the bread was
kneaded in one country and baked in the other.
Nothing could be more lovely than the dim violet hills far away, and the
virginal freshness of the pastoral scenery around. But only a
stout-hearted pedestrian can properly enjoy this beautiful region. We
had followed the example of another party of tourists in front of us,
and accomplished a fair climb on foot, and when we had wound and wound
our way up the lofty green mountain to the flagstaff before mentioned,
we wanted to do the rest of our journey on foot also. But alike
compassion for the beasts and energy had gone far enough, we were only
too glad to reseat ourselves, and drive, or rather be whirled, down to
St. Marie-aux-Mines in the vehicle. Do what we would there was no
persuading our driver to slacken pace enough so as to admit of a full
enjoyment of the prospect that unfolded before us.
The wonderful little town! Black pearl set in the richest casket! This
commonplace, flourishing centre of cotton spinning, woollen, and
cretonne manufacture, built in red brick, lies in the narrow, beautiful
valley of the Lièpvrette, as it is called from the babbling river of
that name. But there is really no valley at all. The congeries of
red-roofed houses, factory chimneys and church towers, Catholic and
Protestant, is hemmed round by a narrow gorge, wedged in between the
hills which are just parted so as to admit of such an intrusion, no
more. The green convolutions of the mountain sides are literally folded
round the town, a pile of green velvet spread fan-like in a draper's
window has not softer, neater folds! As we enter it from the St. Dié side
we find just room for a carriage to wind along the little river and the
narrow street. But at the other end the valley opens, and St.
Marie-aux-mines spreads itself out. Here are factories, handsome country
houses, and walks up-hill and down-hill in abundance. Just above the
town, over the widening gorge, is a deliciously cool pine-wood which
commands a vast prospect--the busy little town caught in the toils of
the green hills; the fertile valley of the Meurthe as we gaze in the
direction from which we have come; the no less fertile plains of
Lorraine before us; close under and around us, many a dell and woodland
covert with scattered homes of dalesfolk in sunny places and slanting
hills covered with pines. It is curious to reflect that St.
Marie-aux-Mines, mentioned as Markirch in ancient charts, did not become
entirely French till the eighteenth century. Originally the inhabitants
on the left bank of the Lièpvrette were subjects of the Dukes of
Lorraine, spoke French, and belonged to the Catholic persuasion, whilst
those dwelling on the right bank of the river, adhered to the seigneury
of Ribeaupaire, and formed a Protestant German-speaking community.
Alsace, as everybody knows, was annexed to France by right--rather
wrong--of conquest under Louis XIV., but it was not till a century later
that Lorraine became a part of French territory, and the fusion of
races, a task so slowly accomplished, has now to be undone, if, indeed,
such undoing is possible!
The hotel here is a mere _auberge_ adapted to the needs of the
_commis-voyageur_, but our host and hostess are charming. As is the
fashion in these parts, they serve their guests and take the greatest
possible interest in their movements and comfort. We would willingly have
spent some days at Marie-aux-Mines--no better headquarters for
excursionizing in these regions!--but too much remained for us to do and
to see in Alsace. We dared not loiter on the way.
Everywhere we find plenty of French tourists, many of them doing their
holiday travel in the most economical fashion. We are in the habit of
regarding the French as a stay-at-home nation, and it is easy to see how
such a mistake arises. English people seldom travel in out-of-the-way
France, and our neighbours seldom travel elsewhere. Thus holiday-makers
of the two nations do not come in contact. Wherever we go we encounter
bands of pedestrians or family parties thoroughly enjoying themselves.
Nothing ruffles a French mind when bent on holiday-making. The good-nature,
_bonhomie_, and accommodating spirit displayed under trying
circumstances might be imitated by certain insular tourists with advantage.
From St. Marie-aux-Mines we journeyed to Gustave Doré's favourite resort,
Barr, a close, unsavoury little town enough, but in the midst of
bewitching scenery. "An ounce of sweet is worth a pound of sour," sings
Spenser, and at Barr we get the sweet and the sour strangely mixed. The
narrow streets smell of tanneries and less wholesome nuisances, not a
breath of fresh pure air is to be had from one end of the town to the
other. But our pretty, gracious landlady, an Alsacienne, and her husband,
the master of the house and _chef de cuisine_ as well, equally
handsome and courteous, took so much pains to make us comfortable that
we stayed on and on. Not a thousand bad smells could drive us away! Yet
there is accommodation for the traveller among the vineyards outside the
town, and also near the railway station, so Barr need not be avoided on
account of its unsavouriness. No sooner are you beyond the dingy streets
than all is beauty, pastoralness and romance. Every green peak is crested
with ruined keep or tower, at the foot of the meeting hills lie peaceful
little villages, each with its lofty church spire, whilst all the air is
fragrant with pine-woods and newly turned hay.
These pine-woods and frowning ruins set like sentinels on every green
hill or rocky eminence, recall many of Doré's happiest efforts. "_Le
pauvre garçon_," our hostess said. "_Comme il était content chez
nous_!" I can fancy how Doré would enjoy the family life of our little
old-fashioned hotel, how he would play with the children, chat with
master and mistress, and make himself agreeable all round. One can also
fancy how animated conversation would become if it chanced to take a
patriotic turn. For people speak their thoughts in Alsace,--nowhere more
freely. In season and out of season, the same sentiment comes to the
surface. "_Nous sommes plus Français que les Français_." This is the
universal expression of feeling that greeted our ears throughout our
wanderings. Such, at least, was formerly the case. The men, women and
children, rich and poor, learned and simple, gave utterance to the same
expression of feeling. Barr is a town of between six and seven thousand
souls, about twenty of whom are Prussians. A pleasant position, truly,
for the twenty officials! And what we see at Barr is the case throughout
the newly acquired German dominion. Alike the highest as well as the
humblest functionary of the imperial government is completely shut off
from intercourse with his French neighbours.
Barr lies near so much romantic scenery that the tourist in these parts
had better try the little hotel amid the mines. For, in spite of the
picturesque stork's nest close by, an excellent ordinary and the most
delightful host and hostess in the world, I cannot recommend a sojourn in
the heart of the town. The best plan of all were to halt here simply for
the sake of the excursion to St. Odile--St. Odile leads nowhither--then
hire a carriage, and make leisurely way across country by the Hohwald,
and the Champ de Feu to Rothau, Oberlin's country, thence to Strasburg.
In our own case, the fascinations of our hosts overcame our repugnance to
Barr itself, so we stayed on, every day making long drives into the
fresh, quiet, beautiful country. One of the sweet spots we discovered for
the benefit of any English folks who may chance to stray in that region
is the Hohwald, a _ville giatura_ long in vogue with the inhabitants
of Strasburg and neighbouring towns, but not mentioned in any English
guide-book at the time of my visit.
We are reminded all the way of Rhineland. The same terraced vineyards,
the same limestone crags, each with its feudal tower, the same fertility
and richness everywhere. Our road winds for miles amid avenues of
fruit-trees, laden with pear and plum, whilst on every side are
stretches of flax and corn, tobacco and hemp. What plenty and
fruitfulness are suggested at every turn! Well might Goethe extol "this
magnificent Alsace." We soon reach Andlau, a picturesque, but, it must
be confessed, somewhat dirty village, lying amid vineyards and chestnut
woods, with mediaeval gables, archways, wells, dormers. All these are
to be found at Andlau, also one of the finest churches in these parts.
I followed the _curé_ and sacristan as they took a path that wound high
above the village and the little river amid the vineyards, and obtained
a beautiful picture; hill and dale, clustered village and lofty spire,
and imposingly, confronting us at every turn, the fine façade of the
castle of Andlau, built of grey granite, and flanked at either end with
massive towers. More picturesque, but less majestic are the
neighbouring ruins of Spesburg, mere tumbling walls wreathed with
greenery, and many another castled crag we see on our way. We are
indeed in the land of old romance. Nothing imaginable more weird,
fantastic and sombre, than these spectral castles and crumbling towers
past counting! The wide landscape is peopled with these. They seem to
rise as if by magic from the level landscape, and we fancy that they
will disappear magically as they have come. And here again one wild
visionary scene after another reminds us that we are in the land of
Doré's most original inspiration. There are bits of broken pine-wood,
jagged peaks and ghostly ruins that have been already made quite
familiar to us in the pages of his _Dante_ and _Don Quixote._
The pretty rivulet Andlau accompanies us far on our way, and beautiful is
the road; high above, beech- and pine-woods, and sloping down to the road
green banks starred with large blue and white campanula, with, darkling
amid the alders, the noisy little river.
The Hohwald is the creation of a woman; that is to say, the Hohwald of
holiday-makers, tourists and tired brain-workers. "Can you imagine,"
wrote M. Edmond About, forty years ago, "an inn at the world's end that
cost a hundred thousand francs in the building? I assure you the owner
will soon have recouped her outlay. She had not a centime to begin with,
this courageous lady, left a widow without resources, and a son to bring
up. The happy thought occurred to her of a summer resort in the heart of
these glorious woods, within easy reach of Strasburg." There are gardens
and reception-rooms in common, and here as at Gérardmer croquet, music
and the dance offer an extra attraction. It must be admitted that these
big family hotels, in attractive country places with prices adapted to
all travellers, have many advantages over our own seaside lodgings.
People get much more for their money, better food, better accommodation,
with agreeable society into the bargain, and a relief from the harass of
housekeeping. The children, too, find companionship, to the great relief
of parents and nursemaids.
The Hohwald proper is a tiny village numbering a few hundred souls,
situated in the midst of magnificent forests at the foot of the famous
Champ de Feu. This is a plateau on one of the loftiest summits of the
Vosges, and very curious from a geological point of view. To explore it
properly you must be a good pedestrian. Much, indeed, of the finest
scenery of these regions is beyond reach of travellers who cannot walk
five or six hours a day.
Any one, however, may drive to St. Odile, and St. Odile is the great
excursion of Alsace. Who cares a straw for the saint and her story now?
But all tourists must be grateful to the Bishop of Strasburg, who keeps a
comfortable little inn at the top of the mountain, and, beyond the
prohibition of meat on fast-days, smoking, noise and levity of manner on
all days, makes you very comfortable for next to nothing.
The fact is, this noble plateau, commanding as splendid a natural
panorama as any in Europe, at the time I write of the property of
Monseigneur of Strasburg, was once a famous shrine and a convent of
cloistered men and women vowed to sanctity and prayer. The convent was
closed at the time of the French Revolution, and the entire property,
convent, mountain and prospect, remained in the hands of private
possessors till 1853, when the prelate of that day repurchased the whole,
restored the conventual building, put in some lay brethren to cultivate
the soil, and some lay sisters, who wear the garb of nuns, but have taken
no vows upon them except of piety, to keep the little inn and make
tourists comfortable. No arrangement could be better, and I advise any
one in want of pure air, superb scenery, and complete quiet, to betake
himself to St. Odile.
Here again I must intercalate. Since these lines were jotted down, many
changes, and apparently none for the better, have taken place here.
Intending tourists must take both M. Hallays' volume and Maurice Barrès'
_Au Service d'Allemagne_ for recent accounts of this holiday resort.
The splendid natural features remain intact.
The way from Barr lies through prosperous villages, enriched by
manufactories, yet abounding in pastoral graces. There are English-like
parks and fine châteaux of rich manufacturers; but contrasted with these
nothing like abject poverty. The houses of working-folk are clean, each
with its flower-garden, the children are neatly dressed, no squalor or
look of discontent to be seen anywhere. Every hamlet has its beautiful
spire, whilst the country is the fairest, richest conceivable; in the
woods is seen every variety of fir and pine, mingled with the lighter
foliage of chestnut and acacia, whilst every orchard has its walnut and
mulberry trees, not to speak of pear and plum. One of the chief
manufactures of these parts is that of paints and colours: there are also
ribbon and cotton factories. Rich as is the country naturally, its chief
wealth arises from these industries. In every village you hear the hum of
machinery.
You may lessen the distance from Barr to St. Odile by one-half if you
make the journey on foot, winding upwards amid the vine-clad hills, at
every turn coming upon one of those grand old ruins, as plentiful here as
in Rhineland, and quite as romantic and beautiful. The drive is a slow
and toilsome ascent of three hours and a half. As soon as we quit the
villages and climb the mountain road cut amid the pines, we are in a
superb and solitary scene. No sound of millwheels or steam-hammers is
heard here, only the summer breeze stirring the lofty pine branches, the
hum of insects, and the trickling of mountain streams. The dark-leaved
henbane is in brilliant yellow flower, and the purple foxglove in
striking contrast; but the wealth of summer flowers is over.
Who would choose to live on Ararat? Yet it is something to reach a
pinnacle from whence you may survey more than one kingdom. The prospect
from St. Odile is one to gaze on for a day, and to make us dizzy in
dreams ever after. From the umbrageous terrace in front of the
convent--cool and breezy on this, one of the hottest days of a hot
season--we see, as from a balloon, a wonderful bit of the world spread
out like a map at our feet. The vast plain of Alsace, the valley of the
Rhine, the Swiss mountains, the Black Forest, Bâle, and Strasburg--all
these we dominate from our airy pinnacle close, at it seems, under the
blue vault of heaven. But though they were there, we did not see them:
for the day, as so often happens on such occasions, was misty. We had
none the less a novel and wonderful prospect. As we sit on this cool
terrace, under the shady mulberry trees, and look far beyond the
richly-wooded mountain we have scaled on our way, we gradually make
out some details of the fast panorama, one feature after another
becoming visible as stars shining faintly in a misty heaven. Villages
and little towns past counting, each with its conspicuous spire, break
the monotony of the enormous plain. Here and there, miles away, a curl
of white vapour indicates the passage of some railway train, whilst in
this upper stillness sweet sounds of church bells reach us from
hamlets close underneath the convent. Nothing can be more solid,
fresher, or more brilliant than the rich beech- and pine-woods running
sheer from our airy eminence to the level world below, nothing more
visionary, slumberous, or dimmer than that wide expanse teeming, as we
know, with busy human life, yet flat and motionless as a picture.
[Illustration]