LONS-LE-SAUNIER.
Lons-le-Saunier, capital or chef-lieu of the Department of the Jura is
charmingly situated amid undulating vine-covered hills, westward,
stretching the vast plain of La Bresse, eastward and southward, the Jura
range, dimpled heights changing the lofty mountain ranges into distance.
The town known to the Romans as _Ledo Salinarius_ and fortified under
their auspices, also a fortified town in the Middle Ages, is dominated
by four hills, conspicuously rising above its undulating environment,
and each of these offers a superb view from the top. My first walk was
to the height of Mont-ciel, _Mons Coelius_ of the Romans, north of the
town, and a delightful walk it is, leading us upward between vineyards
to a broad open space planted with fine trees, and sufficiently large to
afford camping ground for soldiers. From this summit we gain a wonderful
prospect, vineyard, hill, and valley, with villages dotted here and
there, picturesque mediaeval castles crowning many epochs, and far away
the vast plain stretching from the Jura to Burgundy, and the majestic
mountain ranges bounding on either side the east horizon. This walk is
so easy that our little companion of four years old could make it
without fatigue, and there are many others equally delightful, and not
more fatiguing. We rested for awhile on the hill top eating grapes, then
slowly descended, stopping on our way to enter the chapel of the Jesuits
and school-buildings, both commanding a splendid site on the wooded
incline. There were of course women in the confessionals, and painted
images of saints and miracle-workers in abundance, before which people
were kneeling with tiny images hugged to their breasts, like the pagans
of old. Image worship, indeed, idolatry in the purest form, is carried
on to a tremendous extent here, witness the number of images exposed for
sale in the shop-windows.
But the excursion to be made from Lons-le-Saunier is that to the
wonderful rock-shut valley and old Abbey of Baume, Baume-les-Messieurs,
as it is called, to distinguish it from the town of Baume-les-Dames,
near Besançon. This is reached by a delightful drive of an hour and a
half, or easily on foot by good pedestrians, and is on no account to be
omitted. We, of course, take the former course, having two little
fellow-travellers, aged respectively four and two and a half years old,
who, perched on our knees, are as much delighted as ourselves with the
beauty of everything. We soon reach the top of the valley, a deep,
narrow, rock-enclosed valley or gorge, and, leaving our carriage,
prepare to descend on foot. At first sight, the zig-zag path along what
appears to be the perpendicular side of these steep, lofty rocks,
appears perilous, not to say impracticable, but it is neither one nor
the other. This mountain stair-case, called the Échelles de Baume, may
be descended in all security by sure-footed people not given to
giddiness; our driver, leaving his quiet horse for a time, shoulders one
child, my companion shoulders another, I followed with the basket, and
in twenty minutes we are safely landed at the base of the cliffs we had
just quitted, not yet quite knowing how we had got there! These rocky
walls, shutting in the valley, or _combe_, as it is called, so closely
that seldom any ray of sunshine can penetrate, are very lofty, and
encircle it from end to end with majestic effect. It is, indeed, a
winding little islet of green, threaded by a silvery stream, and
rendered naturally impregnable by fortress-like rocks. We rest on the
turf for a while, whilst the children munch their cakes and admire the
noise of the mill opposite to us, and the dazzling waters of the source,
pouring little cascades from the dark mountain-side into the valley. The
grottoes and stalactite caverns of this _combe_ are curious alike within
and without, and in their inmost recesses is a small lake, the depth of
which has never yet been sounded. Both lake and stalactite caves,
however, can only be seen at certain seasons of the year, and then with
difficulty.
The tiny river issuing from the cleft is called the Seille, and very
lovely is the deep, narrow valley of emerald green through which it
murmurs so musically. The mountain gorge opens by little and little as
we proceed, showing velvety pastures where little herdsmen and
herdswomen are keeping their cows; goats, black and white, browse on the
steep rocks as securely as flies on a ceiling, and abundance of trees
grow by the road-side. The valley winds for half a mile to the
straggling village of Baume, and there the stupendous natural
fortifications of cliff and rock come to an end. Nothing finer in the
way of scenery is to be found throughout the Jura than this, and it is
quite peculiar, being unlike any other mountain conformation I have ever
seen, whilst the narrow winding valley of soft gold-green is in
beautiful contrast with the rugged grandeur, not to say savageness, of
its environment.
The buildings of this once important Abbey of Baume are now turned into
a farm-house, but enough remains to bespeak the former magnificence of
this most aristocratic monastery, [Footnote: Consult Roussel's
"Dictionnaire de Franche-Comté" on the subject. It is very voluminous,
but like any other work on Franche-Comté, may be consulted in the public
library of Lons-le-Saunier without trouble or formality.] to which none
could be admitted without furnishing proof of pure degree of nobility on
both the paternal and maternal sides. Adjoining the Abbey is the Church,
which possesses at least one _chef-d'oeuvre_ in its _retable_.
This altar-piece of wood appears to belong to the fifteenth century, and
is in the form of a triptych, the wings being enriched within and
without by paintings in excellent preservation. The interior is divided
into six compartments, in which are represented the various scenes of
the life and passion of Christ. The various figures are finely
sculptured, and covered with gold. Other paintings by the same artist
decorate the walls of the Church.
One tomb, that of an abbé of Baume, is very beautiful, being ornamented
with seven small statuettes of weeping monks, who occupy little gothic
niches. The expression and attitude of these figures are touching in the
extreme. All these monuments are highly interesting, and worthy of being
studied in detail. The Church is disfigured by not a few modern
frivolities and vulgarities.
Many objects illustrating the pre-historic and most ancient periods of
French history have been found at Baume; bronze weapons and ornaments,
Gallo-Roman relics, tombs, statuettes, &c., whilst a Roman camp, the
largest in the Jura, has been traced on the summit of the rocks. This
was destined to protect the road from Lyons to the Rhine, and occupied
the height known as Mount Sermus.
Baume shared the fate of most other ecclesiastical establishments in the
iconoclastic period of the French Revolution, and when we consider what
the pitch of popular fury was then, we are rather tempted to wonder that
anything was left, rather than that so many treasures were destroyed.
Our way home lay through the picturesque valley of the Seille, and past
many places celebrated for their wines or antiquities. Vines, maize,
buckwheat, potatoes, and hay covered the hillside and the plain, whilst
poplar and fruit trees gave abundant shadow. We pass Voiteur, with its
ruins; Château Châlon, ancient Celtic _oppidum_, renowned for its wines,
like Tokay, 'véritable Madère sec Français, généreux,' the Château du
Pin, massive donjon perched on a hill, and still habitable, where Henry
IV. sojourned, and other picturesque and interesting sites, reaching
home before dusk. In fine weather the inhabitants of Lons-le-Saunier
frequently make pic-nic parties to Baume, breakfasting in the valley,
but, alas! fine pic-nic weather is as rare in Franche-Comté as in
England this year, and autumn, always sets in early; already the
mornings and evenings are really cold, and a fire would be a luxury. We
do, however, get a fine day now and then, with a few hours of warm
sunshine, and I had one of these for a visit to my friends living in the
neighbourhood, whom I have before mentioned.
This little village in question is captivatingly situated at the foot of
the first Jura range, about a mile from Lons-le-Saunier. As I have
before said, throughout this entire journey, whenever I have spoken of a
mountain it must be understood to mean a mountain of the Jura chain,
which begins here, and only ends at Belfort, where you enter the region
of the Vosges, and all along consists of the same limestone formation,
only here and there a vein of granite being found. My friend's house is
delightful, standing in the midst of orchards, gardens, and vines, the
fine rugged peak called Mont d'Orient--of which he is the owner--rising
above. On a glorious day like this, we, of course, all set off for the
mountain-top, and a wonderfully beautiful climb it was, amid vineyards,
pastures, and groves of walnut trees. The grapes here are, alas!
attacked in many places by the blight _oïdium_, and this year the season
has been so wet and cold, that as they must be gathered after the first
white frost, they have no chance of ripening. As a natural result, the
year's wine will be sour, and sold at a considerable loss to the
growers. We stopped on our way to taste the grapes here and there, but
as yet none are ripe, though we are in the last days of September. After
steadily climbing for an hour, we reached the mountain-top, and sat down
to enjoy the view, having in sight on one side the immense plain
stretching from the Jura to the hills of the Côte d'Or, on the other, in
very clear weather, the Jura range and the top of Mont Blanc. Never
shall I forget this charming walk with my host, his son, and daughter,
all three able to give me any information I was in need of concerning
their beloved Franche-Comté. As we returned home by another way through
lovely little woods, dells, and glades, we encountered more than one
sportsman in blue blouse, who got into the covert of the wood as fast as
he could, in quest of thrushes. "A poacher," my host said, shrugging his
shoulders. "Mais que voulez-vous; il y en a tant." Poaching is carried
on so largely that very little game is to be had; the severe penalties
inflicted by the law having little deterrent effect.
My host told me much of interest concerning the peasants and their ways.
The land here belongs to the people, but the rural population is not
wealthy, as in Seine et Marne and other regions. The bad vine seasons
often ruin the farmer, and much improvidence prevails. In many places
the proprietor of a vineyard hires small patches of land to cultivate,
but that avidity in making purchases found elsewhere does not exist
here. Land is cheap, but labour very dear, and the peasant therefore
mistrusts such investments of capital, if he possesses any; and the
liability to the failure in the vine crops necessarily checks enterprise
in that direction.
On our return, we found an excellent _goûter_, as these afternoon
collations are called, substitutes, in fact, for our four o'clock tea.
We drank each other's health after the old fashion with the celebrated
Arbois wine, called _le vin de Paille_, from the process the grape goes
through, being dried in straw before fermentation. This _vin de Paille_
has an exquisite flavour and is very costly and rare, even in these
parts, being chiefly grown by amateurs for themselves. It is clear as
crystal, and yellow as gold. Sorry indeed was I to quit these kind and
charming friends with whom I would gladly have spent many a day. They
had so much to show me--antique furniture, a collection of old French
faïence, sketches in oils, the work of my host himself, books on the
history of Franche-Comté, collections, geological and archaeological,
bearing on the history of the country; last, but not least, my
hostess--admirable type of the well-bred Catholic châtelaine of former
days--was an accomplished musician, ready to delight her guest with
selections from Chopin and Schubert, and other favorite composers. But,
however reluctantly on both sides, our adieux had to be made, a promise
being exacted from me to visit Franche-Comté ere long again.
I shall carry away no more agreeable recollection of Eastern France than
this pleasant country home and its occupants in the Jura, father,
mother, young son and daughter, all vying with each other in making my
visit pleasant and profitable. It is touching to be so welcomed, so
taken leave of in the midst of a remote foreign place, all the more so
when there was no Protestantism and Republicanism, only natural liking
and a community of tastes, to bring us together! French Protestants
welcome us English folks--presumably Protestants too--as their kindred,
but let it not be supposed that even in the heart of Catholic regions
like this, we are now generally regarded with abhorrence as aliens from
the true faith--culture, high tastes, and tolerance naturally go hand in
hand.
In order to get a good idea of the scenery here the plain must be
visited as well as the mountains, and very beautiful it is as seen from
such eminences as those occupied by the Châteaux de l'Etoile and Arlay;
both excursions to be accomplished in a long afternoon, even with a halt
for _goûter_ at the former place, its owners being friends of my host
and hostess. This modern château occupies the site of the old, and
commands wide views on every side, in the far distance the valley of the
Saône and the mountains of the Côte d'Or, with the varied, richly wooded
plain at our feet. The Bresse, as this is called, is not healthy for the
most part, and the population suffer from marsh fever, but it is well
cultivated and very productive; vines grow sparsely in the plain, the
chief crops consisting of corn, maize, beetroot, hemp, &c. A curious
feature of farming in the Bresse is the number of artificial ponds which
are seen in different directions. These ponds are allowed to remain for
four years, and are then filled up, producing very rich crops. In the
meantime a good deal of fish is thus procured. The land is parcelled out
into small farms, the property of small peasant proprietors, as in the
vineyard regions of the Jura. After having admired one prospect after
another, hill and valley, wood and pine forest, far off mountain ranges
and wide purple plain, we were of course not permitted to go away
without tasting the famous wine for which the _Etoile_ is celebrated,
and other good things. Useless it is to protest upon these occasions,
not only once, but twice and even thrice you are compelled, in spite of
remonstrances, to partake, and glasses are touched after the old
fashion. We then quitted our kind host and hostess of this airy perch,
and continued our journey, still in the Plains, to Arlay, a village.
dominated by the majestic ruins of an old feudal castle, standing in the
midst of fine old trees worthy of an English park.
Arlay was built in the ninth century by Gérard de Boussillon, and now
belongs to the Prince d'Aremberg whose handsome modern château lies at
its foot. The Prince of Aremberg is one of the largest landowners in
France, and we were told had not visited this splendid possession for
ten years.
Many other no less interesting excursions are to be made from
Lons-le-Saunier, but I am a belated traveller, overtaken by autumn rains
and chills, and must hasten on my way. September and October are often
glorious months in the Jura, but it is safest to come sooner, and then
picnics innumerable can be made, and fine weather relied upon from day
to day. The town itself is cheerful, but offers little of interest to
the tourist, beyond the _salines_, or salt-works, which, however, are on
a much smaller scale than at Salins, and one or two other objects of
interest. A curious feature in its architecture are the arcades in the
streets, similar to those at Arbois, and some other old towns in
Franche-Comté, relics of the Spanish occupation. There is also an
unmistakeable Spanish element to be found in the population, witness the
black eyes, and hair, and dark rich complexions of a type common enough
here, yet quite distinct from that of the true French stock. The people
as a rule are well-made, stalwart, and good-looking, polite to
strangers, and very voluble in conversation.
If the antiquities of Lons-le-Saunier are insignificant, no one can
fail, however, to be struck with the handsome public buildings, chiefly
modern, which are on a scale quite magnificent for a town of only eleven
thousand inhabitants. The hospital, the caserne, or barracks, the lycée,
the école normale, the bank, all these are large enough and magnificent
enough, one would suppose, for any but the largest provincial towns; the
streets are spacious, and the so-called Grande Place, in the centre of
the town, is adorned by a fine statue of General Lecourbe, where
formerly stood a statue of Pichegru; this was presented by Charles X. to
the municipality in 1826, and broken by the townspeople in 1830. The
gardens of the hospital are adorned by a bust of the great anatomist,
Bichat, whose birth-place, like that of Homer, is disputed.
Bourg-en-Bresse disputes the honour with Lons-le-Saunier, and Bourg
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
side.
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 à
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 cafés 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 cafés, 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 Presbytère 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
shelter!
The same battle occurs here over Protestant interments as in other parts
of Franche-Comté. In some cases it is necessary for the préfets to send
gendarmes, and have the law carried out by force; the village mayors
being generally uneducated men, mere tools of the curés.
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 Père 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
country.