ST. JEAN DE LOSNE.
Within the last twenty-five years so many new lines of railway have been
opened in France that there is no longer any inducement--I am inclined
to say excuse--for keeping to the main road. Yet, strangely
enough, English tourists mostly ignore such opportunities. For one
fellow-countryman we meet on the route described here, hundreds are
encountered on the time-honoured roads running straight from Paris to
Switzerland. Quit Dijon by any other way and the English-speaking world
is lost sight of, perhaps more completely than anywhere else on the
civilised globe. Again and again it has happened to myself to be
regarded in rural France as a kind of curiosity, the first subject of
Queen Victoria ever met with; again and again I have spent days, nay
weeks, on French soil, the sole reminder of my native land being the
daily paper posted in London. It is now many years since I first visited
St. Jean de Losne, in company of a French acquaintance, a notary, both
of us being bound to a country-house on the Saône. At that time the
railway did not connect it with Dijon, and in brilliant September
weather we jogged along by diligence, a pleasant five hours’ journey
enough. My companion, a native of the Côte d’Or, seemed to know everyone
we passed on the way, whenever we stopped to change horses getting out
for a gossip with this friend and that he had taken the precaution to
provide himself with a huge loaf of bread, from which he hacked off
morsels for us both from time to time. As we had started at seven
o’clock in the morning, and got no déjeûner till past noon, the doles
were acceptable. The fellow-traveller of that first journey--alas! With
how many friends of the wine country!--has long since gone to his rest.
The second time I set forth alone, taking my seat in the slow--the very
slow--train running alongside the Canal de Bourgogne. On the central
platforms of the Dijon railway station, crowds of English and American
tourists were hurrying to their trains, bound respectively for Paris and
Geneva. No sooner was I fairly off, my fellow travellers being two or
three country-folks, than the conventionalities of travel had vanished.
Surroundings as well as scenery became entirely French.
The Burgundian character is very affable, and although people may
wonder what can be your errand in remote regions, they never show their
curiosity after disagreeable fashion. They are delighted to discover
that interest in France--artistic, economic, or industrial--has led you
thither, and will afford any assistance or information in their power.
They seem to regard the wayfaring Britisher as whimsical, that is all.
A train that crawls has this advantage, we can see everything by the
way, villages, crops, and methods of cultivation. The landscape soon
changes. The familiar characteristics of the wine country disappear.
Instead of vine-clad hills, nurseries of young plants grafted on
American stocks, and vineyard after vineyard in rich maturity, we now
see hop gardens, colza fields, and wide pastures. Here and there we
obtain a glimpse of some walled-in farmhouse, recalling the granges of
our own Isle of Wight.
Alongside the railway runs the canal, that important waterway connecting
the Seine with the Saône; but the Saône itself, Mr. Hamerton’s favourite
river, is not seen till we reach our destination.
The little town of St. Jean de Losne, although unknown to English
readers, is one of the most historic of France. No other, indeed, boasts
of more honourable renown. As Jeanne d’Arc had done just two centuries
before, St. Jean de Losne saved the country in 1636. When the Imperial
forces under Galas attempted the occupation of Burgundy, the dauntless
townsfolk long held the enemy at bay and compelled final retreat. After
generations profited by this heroism. Until the great year of 1789, the
town, by royal edict, enjoyed complete immunity from taxation. On the
outbreak of the Revolution, with true patriotic spirit, the citizens
surrendered those privileges, of their own free will sharing the public
burdens.
The first sight that meets the eye on entering St. Jean de Losne is
the monument erected in commemoration of the siege. “Better late than
never,” is a proverb applicable to public as well as private affairs of
conscience.
A little farther, and we reach the church of St. Jean. It contains a
magnificent pulpit, carved from a single block of rich red marble, the
niches ornamented with charming statuettes of the apostles. Close by is
the Hôtel de Ville, in which are some interesting historic relics. As I
passed through the courtyard, I saw an odd sight. One might have fancied
that a second Imperial army threatened a siege, and that the townsfolk
were laying in stores. The pavement was piled with bread and meat,
whilst butchers and bakers were busily engaged in dividing these into
portions, authorities, municipal, military and police, looking on.
I learned that these rations were for the regiments quartered in the
town during the autumn manoeuvres. Every day such distributions take
place; in country places the troops have recourse to the peasants, very
often being treated as guests. A young friend, serving his three years,
told me that nowhere had he found country folk more hospitable than in
the Côte d’Or. No sooner did the soldiers make their appearance in a
village, than forth came the inhabitants to welcome them, officers being
carried off to châteaux, men by twos and threes to the home of curé or
small owner. “Not a peasant,” he said, “but would bring up a bottle
of good wine from his cellar, and often after dinner we would get up a
dance out of doors. On the saddle sometimes from two in the morning till
twelve at noon, the kind reception and the jollity of the evening made
up for the hardship and fatigue. We have just had several days of bad
weather, and had to sleep on straw in barns and outhouses, wherever
indeed shelter was to be had. Not one of us ever lost heart or temper;
we remained gay as larks all the time.”
An hour’s railway journey from St. Jean de Losne takes the traveller to
Lons-le-Saulnier, beautifully situated at the foot of the Jura range on
the threshold of wild and romantic scenery.
A decade had not robbed this little town of its old-world look familiar
to me, but meantime a new Lons-le-Saulnier had sprung up. Since my first
visit a handsome bathing establishment has been built, with casino,
concert-room, and all the other essentials of an inland watering-place.
The waters are especially recommended for skin affections, gout, and
rheumatism. Formerly the mineral springs of Lons, as the townsfolk
lazily call the place, were chiefly frequented by residents and near
neighbours. Improved accommodation, increased accessibility, cheapened
travel and additional attractions, have changed matters. The season
opening in May, and lasting till the end of October, is now patronised
by hundreds of visitors from all parts of eastern France. These health
resorts are much more sociable than our own. Folks drop alike social,
political, and religious differences for the time being, and cultivate
the art of being agreeable as only French people can. Excursions,
picnics, and pleasure parties are arranged; in the evening the young
folks dance whilst their elders play a rubber of whist, chat, look on,
or make marriages. Many a wedding is arranged during the _Saison des
Bains_, nor can such unions be called _mariages de convenance_, as in
holiday-time intercourse is comparatively unrestricted. Grown-up or
growing-up sons and daughters then meet as those on English or American
soil.
Lons-le-Saulnier possesses little of interest except its Museum, rich
in modern sculpture, and its quaint arcades, recalling the period of
Spanish rule in Franche Comté. The excursions lying within easy reach
are numerous and delightful. Foremost of these is a visit to the
marvellous rock-shut valley of Baume-les-Messieurs, so called to
distinguish it from Baume-les-Dames near Besançon. The descent is made
on foot, and at first sight appears not only perilous but impracticable,
the zigzag path being cut in almost perpendicular shelves of rock.
This mountain staircase, or the “Échelle des Baumes,” is not to be
recommended to those afflicted with giddiness. Little sunshine reaches
the heart of the gorge, yet below the turf is brilliant, a veritable
islet of green threaded by a tiny river. The natural walls shutting us
in have a majestic aspect, but playful and musical is the Seille as it
ripples at our feet. Travellers of an adventuresome turn can explore the
stalactite caverns and other marvels around; not the least of these is
a tiny lake, the depth of which has never been sounded. For half-a-mile
the valley winds towards the straggling village of Baume, and there the
marvels abruptly end.
Nothing finer in the way of scenery is to be found throughout eastern
France. In the ancient Abbey Church are two masterpieces, a retable in
carved wood and a tomb ornamented with exquisite statuettes.