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Matilda Betham-Edwards - Holidays in Eastern France
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.
CHAPTER XI. ST. CLAUDE: THE BISHOPRIC IN THE MOUNTAINS.
I was prepared to be fascinated with St. Claude, to find it wholly unique and bewitching, to greet it with
enthusiasm, and bid it farewell with regret. It has been described so glowingly by different writers - alike
its history, site, and natural features are so curious and poetic, such a flavour of antiquity clings to it, that
perhaps no other town in the Jura is approached with equal expectation. Nor can any preconceived notion
of the attractiveness of St. Claude, however high, be disappointed, if visited in fine weather. It is really a
marvellous place, and takes the strangest hold on the imagination. The antique city, so superbly encased
with lofty mountains, is as proud as it is singular, depending on its own resources, and not putting on a
smile to attract the stranger. Were a magician to sweep away these humming wheels, hammering
mill-stones, gloomy warehouses, and put smiling pleasure-grounds and coquettish villas in their place,
St. Claude might become as fashionable a resort as the most favourite Swiss or Italian haunts. But in its
present condition it does not lay itself out to please, and the town is built in the only way building was
possible, up and down, on the edge of the cliffs here, in the depths of a hollow there, zig-zag, just
anyhow. High mountains hem it round, and two rivers run in their deep beds alongside the irregular
streets, a superb suspension bridge spanning the Valley of the Tacon, a depth of fifty yards. Higher up, a
handsome viaduct spans the Valley of La Bienne, on either side of these two stretch clusters of houses,
some sloping one way, some another, with picturesque effect. To find your way in these labyrinthine
streets, alleys, and terraces is no easy matter, whilst at every turn you come upon the sound of wheels,
betokening some manufactory of the well-known, widely imported St. Claude ware, consisting chiefly of
turnery, carved and inlaid toys, and fancy articles in wood, bone, ivory, stag's horn, &c. Small hanging
gardens are seen wherever a bit of soil is to be had, whilst the town also possesses a fine avenue of old
trees turned into a public promenade. St. Claude is really wonderful, and the more you see of it the more
you are fascinated. Though far from possessing the variety of artistic fountains of Salins, several here are
very pretty and ornamental - notably one surrounded with the most captivating little Loves in bronze,
riding dolphins. The sight and sound of rippling water everywhere are delicious; rivers and fountains,
fountains and rivers, everywhere! whilst the summer-like heat of mid-day makes both all the more
refreshing. St. Claude has everything - the frowning mountain-crests of Salins, the pine-clad fastnesses of
Champagnole, the romantic mountain walls of Morez, sublimity, grace, picturesqueness, grandeur, all are
here, and all at this season of the year embellished by the crimson and amber tints of autumn.
What lovely things did I see during an hour and a half's walk to the so-called Pont du Diable! Taking one
winding mountain road of many, and following the clear winding deep green river, though high above it,
I came to a scene as wild, beautiful, and solitary as the mind can picture, above bare grey cliffs, lower
down fairy-like little lawns of brightest green, deeper down still, the river making a dozen cascades over
its stony bed, and round about the glorious autumn foliage, under a cloudless sky. All the way I had
heard, mingled with the roar of the impetuous river, the sound of mill-wheels, and I passed I know not
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