Part 4 (2/2)
Everyone knows everyone, and the dinner is a meeting of old friends.
All this will soon be changed with the new line of railway to lead from Besancon by way of St. Hippolyte and Morteau into Switzerland, and future travellers will be able to see this beautiful country with very little fatigue. As yet Franche Comte is an unknown region, and the sight of an English tourist is of rare occurrence. When we leave Pont de Rode, we once more enter the region of Protestantism, every village possessing a Protestant as well as a Catholic Church. The drive to Blamont is charming--a bit of Devons.h.i.+re, with green lanes, dells, and glades, curling streams and smooth pastures. Blamont itself is romantically situated, crossing a verdant mountain side, its twin spires (Protestant and Catholic) rising conspicuously above the scattered villages; beyond these, the low mountain range of Blamont.
We have been all this time, be it remembered, geographically speaking in the Jura, though departmentally in the Doubs, the succession of rocks and mountains pa.s.sed through forming part of the Jura range which vanishes in the green slopes of Blamont.
The next village, Glaye, is hardly less picturesque, and indeed all this neighbourhood would afford charming excursions for the pedestrian. The rest of our drive lay through an open, fairly-cultivated plain with little manufacturing colonies, thickly scattered among the rural population. In many cases the tall black chimneys spoil the pastoralness of the scene.
It was with extreme regret I took farewell of the friendly little Protestant town of Montbeliard, soon after this journey. I had entered it a few weeks before, a stranger, I quitted it amid the good wishes, hand-clasps, and affectionate farewells of a dozen kind friends. Two hours' railway journey, through a beautiful country, brought me to Besancon, where, as at Montbeliard, I received the warmest welcome, and felt at home at once.
CHAPTER VI.
BESANcON AND ITS ENVIRONS.
The hotels at Besancon have the reputation of being the worst in all France, but my kind friends would not let me try them. I found myself, therefore, all at once in the midst of all kinds of home comforts, domesticities, and distractions, with delightful cicerones in host and hostess, and charming little companions in their two children. This is the poetry of travel; thus to journey from one place to another, provided with introductory letters which open hearts and doors at every stage, and make each one the inauguration of a new friends.h.i.+p. I wish I could subjoin an ill.u.s.tration of ”How I travelled through Franche-Comte,” for my exploration of these regions was a succession of pic-nics--host, hostess, their English guest, Swiss nurse-maid, and two little fair-haired boys, being cosily packed in an open carriage; on the seat beside the driver, a huge basket, suggesting creature comforts, the neck of a wine bottle, and the spout of a tea-pot being conspicuous above the other contents. This is indeed the way I saw the beautiful valley of the Doubs, and not only the country round about Besancon, but the border-land of Switzerland and Savoy. The weather--we are in the first days of September--is perfect. The children, aged respectively eighteen months and three years and odd, are the best little travellers in the world, always going to sleep when convenient to their elders, and at other times quietly enjoying the s.h.i.+fting landscape; in fact, there is nothing to mar our enjoyment of regions as lovely as any it has ever been my good fortune to witness.
In consequence of the bad character of the Besancon hotels, even French tourists seldom break their journey here; but, on the opening of the new railway line into Switzerland, joining Besancon, Ornans, and Morteau, new and better hotels are sure to spring up. At present, wherever we go, we never, by any chance, meet the ubiquitous English traveller with his Murray, and my friends here say that, during a several years' residence in Besancon, they have never even yet seen such an apparition! Yet Franche-Comte, at present a _terra incognita_ of tourists, abounds in all kinds of beauty; the sublime, the gracious, the grandiose, and the pastoral, rock, vast panoramas, mountain and valley, all are here; and all as free from the trace of the English and American tourist as the garden of Eden before Eve's trespa.s.s!
Besides these quieter beauties are some rare natural phenomena, such as the _Glaciere de la Grace Dieu_, near Baume-les-Dames, and the famous Osselle grottoes, both of which may be reached by railway. We preferred, however, the open carriages the basket and the tea-pot, and accordingly set off for the latter one superb morning in the highest spirits, which nothing occurred to mar. Quitting this splendid environment of Besancon, we drive for three hours amid the lovely valley of the Doubs, delighted at every bend of the road with some new feature in the landscape; then choosing a sheltered slope, unpacked our basket, lunched _al fresco_, with the merriest spirits, and the heartiest appet.i.te. Never surely did the renowned Besancon _pates_ taste better, never did the wine of its warm hill-sides prove of a pleasanter flavour! The children sported on the turf like little Loves, the air was sweet with the perfume of new-made hay. The birds sang overhead, and beyond our immediate pavilion of greenery, lay the curling blue river and smiling green hills. Leaving the children to sleep under the trees, and the horse to feed at a neighbouring mill--there is no kind of wayside inn here, so we have to beg a little hay from the miller or a farmer--we follow a little lad, provided with matches and candles to the entrance of the famous grottoes. Outside the sugar-loaf hill, so marvellously channelled and cased with stalact.i.te formation, has nothing remarkable--it is a mere green height, and nothing more. Inside, however, as strange a spectacle meets our eyes as it is possible to conceive. To see these caves in detail, you must spend an hour or two in the bowels of the earth, but we were contented with half that time, for this underground promenade is a very chilly one, as in some places we were ankle deep in water. Each provided with a candle, we now follow our youthful guide, who was accompanied by a dog, as familiar as himself with the windings of these sombre subterranean palaces, for palaces they might be called. Sometimes the stalact.i.te roofs are lofty, sometimes we have to bend our heads in order to pa.s.s from one vaulted chamber to another; here we have a superb column supporting an arch; here a pillar in course of formation, everywhere the strangest, most fantastic architecture, an architecture moreover that is the work of ages; one petrifying drop after another doing its apportioned work, column, arch, and roof being formed by a process so slow that the life-time of a human being hardly counts in the calculation. There is something sublime in the contemplation of this steady persistence of Nature, this undeviating march to a goal; and as we gaze upon the embryo stages of the petrifaction, stalagmite patiently lifting itself upward, stalact.i.te as patiently bending down to the remote but inevitable union, we might almost fancy them sentient agents in the marvellous transformation. The stamens of a pa.s.sion-flower do not more eagerly, as it seems, coil upwards to embrace the pistil; the beautiful stamina flower of the _Vallisneria spiralis_ does not more determinately seek its mate than these crystal pendants covet union with their fellows below. Their perpetual bridals are accomplished after countless cycles of time, whilst meantime in the sunlit world outside, the faces of whole continents are being changed, and entire civilizations are formed and overthrown.
The feeble light projected by our four candles in these gloomy yet majestic chambers was not so feeble as to obscure the insignificant names of hundreds of individuals scrawled here and there. The great German philosopher Schopenhauer is at pains philosophically to explain the foolish propensity of travellers to perpetuate their names, or as it so seems to them. The Pyramids or Kentucky Caves do not impress their minds at all, but to see their own ill.u.s.trious names John Brown and Tom Smith cut upon them, does seem a very interesting and important fact.
The bones of the Cave bear and other gigantic animals have been formed here; but the princ.i.p.al tenants of these antique vaults are now the bats, forming huge black cl.u.s.ters in the roof. There is something eerie in their cries, but they are more alarmed than alarming; the lights disturbing them not a little.
Pleasant after even this short adventure into the regions of the nether-world, was the return to suns.h.i.+ne, green trees, the children, and the tea-pot! After calling it into requisition, we set off homewards, reaching Besancon just as the moon made its appearance, a large silver disc above the purple hills; and the next day, good luck still following us, we had a drive and pic-nic in the opposite direction, this time with a less ambitious programme. In fact, we were merely accepting a neighbour's invitation to a friendly dinner out of doors, a few miles from Besancon. This pic-nic is a fair sample of Franche-Comte hospitality; not only friends were invited but their guests, babies, servants, and ”all that was in their house,” the various parties being collected by the host in a waggonette. It was Sunday, and though I am here still in a strictly Protestant atmosphere, host and guests being Protestants, it was pleasant to find none of the Puritanism characterizing some sections of the Reformed Church in France. The Protestant pastor, indeed, to whose eloquent discourse I had listened that morning, was of the party; and it is quite a matter of course here to spend Sunday afternoons thus sociably and healthfully. The meeting-place was a rustic spot much resorted to by Bisontins on holidays, and easily reached from the little station of Roche on the railway line to Belfort. A winding path through a wood leads to the so-called Acier Springs, which, since the Roman epoch, have continued to supply Besancon with the delicious water we find here in such abundance.
We have just such bits of wood, waterfalls, and mountains in North Wales, but seldom in September such unbroken suns.h.i.+ne to make a pic-nic exactly what it should be. It was warm enough for July, and young and old could disport themselves on the turf in perfect security.
As the afternoon wore on, numerous pleasure-parties, mostly belonging to the working-cla.s.ses, found their way to the same pleasant spot, all amply provided with baskets of wine and provisions. Some went further in search of a little glade they could have to themselves, others took possession of nooks and corners in the open s.p.a.ce where we tad just before dined so merrily. It was amusing to see how little attention these good people paid to us, or any other outsiders. Two or three of the women, fearing to tear their Sunday gowns in the wood, coolly took them off, hung them on the trees near, and as coolly re-made their toilette when their woodland rambles were over.
The train to Roche certainly brought in a goodly contingent of pic-nic parties that afternoon and when about four o'clock we prepared to return home, the place was beginning to wear a very animated appearance. The moon had risen ere we reached our destination, and, seen in the tender summer twilight, the valley of the Doubs looked even more beautiful than in the glowing suns.h.i.+ne of mid-day. There is no monotony in these vine-clad hills, rugged mountain sides wooded from peak to base, close shut valleys, and bright blue winding rivers; whether seen under the dropping shadows of a s.h.i.+fting sky, or under the glow of sunset, their quiet beauties delight the eye of the mere spectator and commend themselves to the artist. Perhaps no Department in France is richer in rivers than Le Doubs, every landscape has its bit of river, rivulet or ca.n.a.l.
To get an idea of the commanding position of Besancon, we must climb one of these lofty green heights, that of _Notre Dame des Buis_, for instance, an hour's drive from the town. Having reached a sharp eminence, crowned by a chapel and covered with box-wood, we obtain a splendid view of the natural and artificial defences which make Besancon, strategically speaking, one of the strongest positions in France. Caesar, in his 'Commentaries' speaks almost with enthusiasm of the admirable [Footnote: ”Oppidum maximum Sequauorum, natura loci, sic muniebatur ut magnam ad ducendum bellum daret facultatem: propterea quod flumen Dubis ut circino circ.u.mductum, pene totum oppidum cingit; reliquum spatium [quod non est amplius pedum DC. qua flumen intermitt.i.t,] mons continet magna alt.i.tudine, ita ut radices ejus montis ex utra parte ripae fluminis continguat.” _De Bello Gallico_, Lib. I., chap, x.x.xviii. A marvellous bit of accurate description this, and to be commended to writers of guide-books.] position of Vesontio, the capital of the Sequani, and, when he became master of it, the defeat of Vercingetorix was a mere matter of time. But what would the great general have said, could be have seen his citadel thus dwarfed into insignificance by Vauban's magnificent fortifications? and what would be Vauban's amazement could he behold the stupendous works of modern strategists?
Beyond these proudly-cresting heights, every peak bristling with its defiant fort, stretches a vast panorama; the mountain chains of the Jura, the Vosges, the snow-capped Swiss Alps, the plains of Burgundy, all these lie under our eye, clearly defined in the transparent atmosphere of this summer afternoon. The campanula white and blue, with abundance of lovely tinted deep orange potentills and rich carmine dianthus, were growing at our feet, with numerous other wild flowers.
The pretty pink mallow, cultivated in gardens, grows everywhere, but not so luxuriantly here as about Morteau, and the serviceberry and barberry have almost disappeared. This is indeed a paradise for botanists, but their travels should be made earlier in the year. The walks and drives in the neighbourhood of Besancon are countless, but that to the little valley of the. World's End, ”Le Bout du Monde,” must on no account be omitted.
Again we follow the limpid waters of the winding Doubs; on one side hanging vineyards and orchards, on the other lines of poplars, above these dimpled green hills and craggy peaks are reflected in the still transparent water. We reach the pretty village of Beurre after a succession of landscapes, ”l'un plus joli que l'autre,” as our French neighbours say, and then come suddenly upon a tiny valley shut in by lofty rocks, aptly called the World's End of these parts, since here the most adventuresome pedestrian must retrace his steps--no possibility of scaling these mountain-walls, from which a cascade falls so musically; no outlet from these impregnable walls into the pastoral country on the other side. We must go back by the way we have come, first having penetrated to the heart of the valley by a winding path, and watched the silvery waters tumble down from the grey rocks that seem to touch the blue sky overhead.
The great charm of these landscapes is the abundance of water to be found everywhere, and no less delightful is the sight of springs, fountains, and pumps in every village. Besancon is noted for its handsome fountains, some of which are real works of art, but the tiniest hamlets in the neighbourhood, and, indeed, throughout the whole department of the Doubs, are as well supplied as the city itself. We know what an aristocratic luxury good water is in many an English village, and how too often the poor have no pure drinking water within reach at all; here they have close at hand enough and to spare of the purest and best, and not only their share of that, but of the good things of the earth as well, a bit of vegetable and fruit-garden, a vineyard, and, generally speaking, a little house of their own. Here, as a rule, everybody possesses something, and the working watchmakers have, most of them, their suburban gardens, to which they resort on Sundays and holidays. Besancon is very rich in suburban retreats, and nothing can be more enticing than the cottages and villas nestled so cosily along the vine-clad hills that surround it on every side. It is, above all, rich in public walks and promenades, one of these, the Promenade Chamart--a corruption of Champ de Mars--possessing some of the finest plane trees in Europe--a gigantic bit of forest on the verge of this city--of wonderful beauty and stateliness. These veteran trees vary in height from thirty to thirty-five yards. The Promenade Micaud, so called after its originator, Mayor of Besancon, in 1842, winds along the river-side, and affords lovely views at every turn. Then there are so-called ”squares” in the heart of the town, where military bands play twice a week, and nursemaids and their charges spend the afternoons.
Perhaps no city of its size in all France, Besancon numbers only sixty thousand inhabitants, is better off in this respect, whilst it is so enriched by vine-clad hills and mountains that the country peeps in everywhere.
Considered from all points of view it is a very attractive place to live in, and possesses all the resources of the capital on a small scale; an excellent theatre, free art schools, and an academy of arts, literary, scientific and artistic societies, museums, picture galleries, lastly, one of the finest public libraries in France, of which a word or two more later on. First of all something must be said of the city itself, which is especially interesting to the archaeologist and historian, and is very little frequented by English tourists. Alternately Roman, Burgundian, Arlesian, Anglo-French, and Spanish, Besancon has seen extraordinary vicissitudes. In the twelfth century it was const.i.tuted a free city or Commune, and was not incorporated into the French kingdom till the reign of Louis XIV. Traces of these various occupations remain, and as we enter in at one gate and pa.s.s out of another, we have each successive chapter of its history suggested to us in the n.o.ble Porte Noire or Roman triumphal arch; the ancient cathedral first forming a Roman basilica; the superb semi-Italian, semi-Spanish Palais Granvelle, the Hotel-de-Ville with its handsome sixteenth century facade; the Renaissance council chamber in magnificently carved oak of the Palais de Justice--all these stamp the city with the seal of different epochs, and lend majesty to the modern, handsome town into which the Besancon of former times has been transformed. The so-called _Porte Taillee_ a Roman gate hewn out of the solid rock, forms an imposing entry to the city, the triumphal arch before mentioned leading to the Cathedral only. Here most picturesquely stand the columns and other fragments of the Roman theatre excavated by the learned librarian, M. Castan, a few years back.
The Archbishop allows no one to see the art-treasures contained in the archiepiscopal palace, among which is a fine Paul Veronese; but the Cathedral is fortunately open, and there the art-lovers may rejoice in perhaps one of the most beautiful Fra Bartolomeos in the world, unfortunately hung too high to be well seen. Exteriorly the Cathedral offers little interest, but the interior is very gorgeous--a dazzling display of gold ornaments, stained gla.s.s, pictures, mosaics, and ecclesiastical riches of all kinds. The other churches of Besancon are not interesting, architecturally speaking, though picturesque, especially St. Pierre, with its clock-tower conspicuously seen from every part of the town. The archaeological museum is considered the best arranged, as also, in some respects, it is the richest in France, and contains some wonderfully beautiful things, notably the Celtic collection found at Alaise, in the Department of the Jura--supposed by some authorities to be the Alesia of Julius Caesar, whilst others have decided in favour of Alise Sainte Reine, in Auvergne, where a statue has been raised to the n.o.ble Vercingetorix. There are also Gallo-Roman objects of great interest and beauty collected from Mandeure _(Epanuoduorum)_ and other parts of Franche-Comte. Such collections must be studied in detail to be appreciated, and I only mention them as affording another ill.u.s.tration of the principle of decentralization carried on in France--each city and town being enriched and embellished, as far as possible, and made a centre artistic, scientific, and literary. The museum contains amongst other things a curious collection of old watches, the speciality of Besancon, of which more will be said hereafter. But what was my astonishment and delight, as I sauntered by the little cases under the window containing coins, medals, and antiquities of various kinds, to come suddenly upon a label bearing the inscription:--
”La Montre de Vergniaud.”
There it lay, the little gold watch of the great Girondin orator, choicest, most precious relic of the Revolution, historic memento unrivalled for interest and romantic a.s.sociations! Vergniaud's watch!
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