CHAMPAGNOLE AND MOREZ.
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 Hôtel 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
_coupé_ 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 _coupé_ 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
Evangélique." 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 _châlet_, 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 cafés, and on this Sunday afternoon,
when all the manufactories are closed, the cafés 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 _cités ouvrières_ 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 café 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 retroussé_ 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, Gruyère 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
balloon.