IN THE HEART OF THE VOSGES

[Illustration]

AND OTHER SKETCHES BY A "DEVIOUS TRAVELLER"

BY

MISS BETHAM-EDWARDS

OFFICIER DE L'INSTRUCTION PUBLIQUE DE FRANCE

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY SPECIAL PERMISSION_

1911

"I travel not to look for Gascons in Sicily. I have left them at home. "--Montaigne. 

PREFATORY NOTE

Some of these sketches now appear for the first time, others have beenpublished serially, whilst certain portions, curtailed or enlargedrespectively, are reprinted from a former work long since out of print. Yet again I might entitle this volume, "Scenes from Unfrequented France, "many spots being here described by an English traveller for the firsttime. 

My warmest thanks are due to M. Maurice Barrès for permission toreproduce two illustrations by M. Georges Conrad from his famous romance, _Au Service de l'Allemagne_; also to M. André Hallays for the use oftwo views from his _À Travers l'Alsace_; and to the publishers ofboth authors, MM. Fayard and Perrin, for their serviceableness in thematter. 

Nor must I omit to acknowledge my indebtedness to Messrs. Sampson Low &Co. , to whom I owe the reproduction of Gustave Doré's infantine _toursde force_; and to Messrs. Rivington, who have allowed large reprintsfrom the work published by them over twenty years ago. 

And last but not least, I thank the Rev. Albert Cadier, the son of my oldfriend, the much respected pastor of Osse, for the loan of his charmingphotographs. 

CONTENTS

CHAP. 

I GÉRARDMER AND ITS ENVIRONS

II THE CHARM OF ALSACE

III IN GUSTAVE DORÉ'S COUNTRY

IV FROM BARR TO STRASBURG

V THE "MARVELLOUS BOY" OF ALSACE

VI QUISSAC AND SAUVE

VII AN IMMORTALIZER

VIII TOULOUSE

IX MONTAUBAN, OR INGRES-VILLE

X MY PYRENEAN VALLEY AT LAST

XI AN OLIVE FARM IN THE VAR

XII PESSICARZ AND THE SUICIDES' CEMETERY

XIII GUEST OF FARMER AND MILLER

XIV LADY MERCHANTS AND SOCIALIST MAYORS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

ST. ODILE

PROVINS, GENERAL VIEW

PROVINS, THE CAPITOL

PROVINS, THE CITY WALLS

GÉRARDMER

A VOSGIAN SCENE

CIRQUE DE RETOURNEMER

THE PINNACLE OF ODILE

ETTENHEIM

COLMAR

GUSTAVE DORÉ, INFANTINE SKETCH

GUSTAVE DORÉ, DO

OSSE

NEAR THE SPANISH FRONTIER

ORCUM

ARRAS, LA PETITE PLACE

I

GÉRARDMER AND ENVIRONS

[Illustration: PROVINS, GENERAL VIEW]

The traveller bound to eastern France has a choice of many routes, noneperhaps offering more attractions than the great Strasburg line by way ofMeaux, Châlons-sur-Marne, Nancy, and Épinal. But the journey must be madeleisurely. The country between Paris and Meaux is deservedly dear toFrench artists, and although Champagne is a flat region, beautiful onlyby virtue of fertility and highly developed agriculture, it is rich inold churches and fine architectural remains. By the Troyes-Belfort route, Provins may be visited. This is, perhaps, the most perfect specimen ofthe mediaeval walled-in town in France. To my thinking, neitherCarcassonne, Semur nor Guérande surpass Hégésippe Moreau's littlebirthplace in beauty and picturesqueness. The acropolis of Brie alsopossesses a long and poetic history, being the seat of an art-lovingprince, and the haunt of troubadours. A word to the epicure as well asthe archaeologist. The bit of railway from Châlons-sur-Marne to Nancyaffords a series of gastronomic delectations. At Épernay travellers arejust allowed time to drink a glass of champagne at the buffet, half afranc only being charged. At Bar-le-Duc little neatly-packed jars of theraspberry jam for which the town is famous are brought to the doors ofthe railway carriage. Further on at Commercy, you are enticed to regaleupon unrivalled cakes called "Madeleines de Commercy, " and not a town, Ibelieve, of this favoured district is without its speciality in the shapeof delicate cates or drinks. 

Châlons-sur-Marne, moreover, possesses one of the very best hotels inprovincial France--the hotel with the queer name--another inducement forus to idle on the way. The town itself is in no way remarkable, but itabounds in magnificent old churches of various epochs--some falling intodecay, others restored, one and all deserving attention. St. Jean isespecially noteworthy, its beautiful interior showing much exquisitetracery and almost a fanciful arrangement of transepts. It is very richin good modern glass. But the gem of gems is not to be found in Châlonsitself; more interesting and beautiful than its massive cathedral andchurch of Notre Dame, than St. Jean even, is the exquisite church ofNotre Dame de l'Épine, situated in a poor hamlet a few miles beyond theoctroi gates. We have here, indeed, a veritable cathedral in awilderness, nothing to be imagined more graceful than the airy opencolonnades of its two spires, light as a handful of wheat ears looselybound together. The colour of the grey stone gives solemnity to the restof the exterior, which is massive and astonishingly rich in the grotesqueelement. We carefully studied the gargoyles round the roof, and, in spiteof defacements, made out most of them--here a grinning demon with astruggling human being in its clutch--there an odd beast, part human, part pig, clothed in a kind of jacket, playing a harp--dozens of comic, hideous, heterogeneous figures in various attitudes and travesties. 

[Illustration: Provins, The Capitol]

Notre Dame de l'Épine--originally commemorative of a famous shrine--hasbeen restored, and purists in architecture will pass it by as anachievement of Gothic art in the period of its decline, but it isextremely beautiful nevertheless. On the way from Châlons-sur-Marne toNancy we catch glimpses of other noble churches that stand out from theflat landscape as imposingly as Ely Cathedral. These are Notre Dame ofVitry le François and St. Étienne of Toul, formerly a cathedral, bothplaces to be stopped at by leisurely tourists. 

The fair, the _triste_ city of Nancy! There is an indescribable charmin the sad yet stately capital of ancient Lorraine. No life in itsquiet streets, no movement in its handsome squares, nevertheless Nancyis one of the wealthiest, most elegant cities in France! Hitherflocked rich Alsatian families after the annexation of Alsace-Lorraine, and perhaps its proximity to the lost provinces in part accounts for thesubdued, dreamy aspect of the place as a whole. A strikingly beautifulcity it is, with its splendid monuments of the house of Lorraine, andhandsome modern streets bearing evidence of much prosperity in thesedays. In half-an-hour you may get an unforgettable glimpse of the PlaceStanislas, with its bronze gates, fountains, and statue, worthy of a greatcapital; of the beautiful figure of Duke Antonio of Lorraine, onhorseback, under an archway of flamboyant Gothic; of the Ducal Palace andits airy colonnade; lastly, of the picturesque old city gate, the Portede la Craffe, one of the most striking monuments of the kind in France. 

All these things may be glanced at in an hour, but in order to enjoyNancy thoroughly a day or two should be devoted to it, and here, as atChâlons-sur-Marne, creature comforts are to be had in the hotels. In theDucal Palace are shown the rich tapestries found in the tent of Charlesle Téméraire after his defeat before Nancy, and other relics of thatHaroun-al-Raschid of his epoch, who bivouacked off gold and silver plate, and wore on the battlefield diamonds worth half a million. In a littlechurch outside the town, commemorative of this victory, are collected thecenotaphs of the Dukes of Lorraine--the _chapelle ronde_, as thesplendid little mausoleum is designated--with its imposing monuments inblack marble, and richly-decorated octagonal dome, making up a solemn andbeautiful whole. Graceful and beautiful also are the monuments in thechurch itself, and those of another church, Des Cordeliers, close to theDucal Palace. 

[Illustration: PROVINS, THE CITY WALLS]

Nancy is especially rich in monumental sculpture, but it is in thecathedral that we are to be fairly enchanted by the marble statues of thefour doctors of the church--St. Augustine, St. Grégoire, St. Léon, andSt. Jerome. These are the work of Nicolas Drouin, a native of Nancy, andformerly ornamented a tomb in the church of the Cordeliers justmentioned. The physiognomy, expression, and pose of St. Augustine arewell worthy of a sculptor's closest study, but it is rather as a wholethan in detail that this exquisite statue delights the ordinary observer. All four sculptures are noble works of art; the fine, dignified figure ofSt. Augustine somehow takes strongest hold of the imagination. We wouldfain return to it again and again, as indeed we would fain return to allelse we have seen in the fascinating city of Nancy. From Nancy by way ofÉpinal we may easily reach the heart of the Vosges. 

[Illustration: GÉRARDMER]

How sweet and pastoral are these cool resting-places in the heart of theVosges! Gérardmer and many another as yet unfrequented by the touristworld, and unsophisticated in spite of railways and bathing seasons. TheVosges has long been a favourite playground of our French neighbours, although ignored by the devotees of Cook and Gaze, and within late years, not a rustic spot possessed of a mineral spring but has becomemetamorphosed into a second Plombières. Gérardmer--"_Sans Gérardmer etun peu Nancy, que serait la Lorraine?_" says the proverb--is resortedto, however, rather for its rusticity and beauty than for any curativeproperties of its sparkling waters. Also in some degree for the sake ofurban distraction. The French mind when bent on holiday-making is socialin the extreme, and the day spent amid the forest nooks and murmuringstreams of Gérardmer winds up with music and dancing. One of the chiefattractions of the big hotel in which we are so wholesomely housed isevidently the enormous salon given up after dinner to the waltz, countrydance, and quadrille. Our hostess with much ease and tact looks in, paying her respects, to one visitor after another, and all is enjoymentand mirth till eleven o'clock, when the large family party, for so ourFrench fellowship may be called, breaks up. These socialities, giving asthey do the amiable aspect of French character, will not perhapsconstitute an extra charm of Gérardmer in the eyes of the more moroseEnglish tourist. After many hours spent in the open air most of us preferthe quiet of our own rooms. The country, too, is so fresh and deliciousthat we want nothing in the shape of social distraction. Drawing-roomamenities seem a waste of time under such circumstances. Nevertheless theglimpses of French life thus obtained are pleasant, and make us realizethe fact that we are off the beaten track, living among French folks, forthe time separated from insular ways and modes of thought. Our fellowshipis a very varied and animated one. We number among the guests a member ofthe French ministry--a writer on the staff of Figaro--a grandson of oneof the most devoted and unfortunate generals of the first Napoleon, knownas "the bravest of the brave, " with his elegant wife--the head of one ofthe largest commercial houses in eastern France--deputies, diplomats, artists, with many family parties belonging to the middle and upper ranksof society, a very strong Alsatian element predominating. Needless to addthat people make themselves agreeable to each other without anyintroduction. For the time being at least distinctions are set aside, andfraternity is the order of the day. 

I do not aver that my country-people have never heard of Gérardmer, butcertainly those who stray hither are few and far between. Fortunately forthe lover of nature no English writer has as yet popularized the Vosges. An Eden-like freshness pervades its valleys and forests, made evermusical with cascades, a pastoral simplicity characterizes itsinhabitants. Surely in no corner of beautiful France can any one worn outin body or in brain find more refreshment and tranquil pleasure!

It is only of late years that the fair broad valley of Gérardmer and itslovely little lake have been made accessible by railway. Indeed, thepopularity of the Vosges and its watering-places dates from the lateFranco-German war. Rich French valetudinarians, and tourists generally, have given up Wiesbaden and Ems from patriotic motives, and now spendtheir holidays and their money on French soil. Thus enterprise has beenstimulated in various quarters, and we find really good accommodation inout-of-the-way spots not mentioned in guide-books of a few years' date. Gérardmer is now reached by rail in two hours from Épinal, on the greatStrasburg line, but those who prefer a drive across country may approachit from Plombières, Remiremont, Colmar and Münster, and other attractiveroutes. Once arrived at Gérardmer, the traveller will certainly not careto hurry away. No site in the Vosges is better suited for excursionizingin all directions, and the place itself is full of quiet charm. There iswonderful sweetness and solace in these undulating hill-sides, clothedwith brightest green, their little tossing rivers and sunny glades allframed by solemn hills--I should rather say mountains--pitchy black withthe solemn pine. You may search far and wide for a picture so engaging asGérardmer when the sun shines, its gold-green slopes sprinkled with whitechâlets, its red-roofed village clustered about a rustic church tower, and at its feet the loveliest little lake in the world, from which risegently the fir-clad heights. 

And no monotony! You climb the inviting hills and woods day by day, weekafter week, ever to find fresh enchantment. Not a bend of road or windingmountain-path but discloses a new scene--here a fairy glen, with gracefulbirch or alder breaking the expanse of dimpled green; there a spinny oflarch or of Scotch fir cresting a verdant monticule; now we come upon alittle Arcadian home nestled on the hill-side, the spinning-wheel hushedwhilst the housewife turns her hay or cuts her patch of rye or wheatgrowing just outside her door. Now we follow the musical little riverVologne as it tosses over its stony bed amid banks golden with yellowloosestrife, or gently ripples amid fair stretches of pasture starredwith the grass of Parnassus. The perpetual music of rushing, tumbling, trickling water is delightful, and even in hot weather, if it is everindeed hot here, the mossy banks and babbling streams must give a senseof coolness. Deep down, entombed amid smiling green hills and frowningforest peaks, lies the pearl of Gérardmer, its sweet lake, a sheet ofturquoise in early morn, silvery bright when the noon-day sun flashesupon it, and on grey, sunless days gloomy as Acheron itself. 

[Illustration: A VOSGIAN SCENE]

Travellers stinted for time cannot properly enjoy the pastoral scenes, not the least charm of which is the frank, pleasant character of thepeople. Wherever we go we make friends and hear confidences. To thesepeasant folks, who live so secluded from the outer world, the annualinflux of visitors from July to September is a positive boon, moral aswell as material. The women are especially confidential, inviting us intotheir homely yet not poverty-stricken kitchens, keeping us as long asthey can whilst they chat about their own lives or ask us questions. Thebeauty, politeness, and clear direct speech of the children, areremarkable. Life here is laborious, but downright want I should say rare. As in the Jura, the forest gorges and park-like solitudes are disturbedby the sound of hammer and wheel, and a tall factory chimney notinfrequently spoils a wild landscape. The greater part of the peoplegain, their livelihood in the manufactories, very little land here beingsuitable for tillage. 

Gérardmer is famous for its cheeses; another local industry is turneryand the weaving of linen, the linen manufactories employing many hands, whilst not a mountain cottage is without its handloom for winter use. Weaving at home is chiefly resorted to as a means of livelihood inwinter, when the country is covered with snow and no out-door occupationsare possible. Embroidery is also a special fabric of the Vosges, but itsreal wealth lies in mines of salt and iron, and mineral waters. 

One chief feature in Gérardmer is the congeries of handsome buildingsbearing the inscription _"École Communale"_ and how stringently thenew educational law is enforced throughout France may be gathered fromthe spectacle of schoolboys at drill. We saw three squadrons, each underthe charge of a separate master, evidently made up from all classes ofthe community. Some of the boys were poorly, nay, miserably, clad, others wore good homely clothes, a few were really well dressed. 

Our first week at Gérardmer was wet and chilly. Fires and winter clotheswould have been acceptable, but at last came warmth and sunshine, and weset off for the Col de la Schlucht, the grandest feature of the Vosges, and the goal of every traveller in these regions. 

[Illustration: CIRQUE DE RETOURNEMER]

There is a strange contrast between the calm valley of Gérardmer, alittle haven of tranquil loveliness and repose, and the awful solitudeand austerity of the Schlucht, from which it is separated by a few hoursonly. Not even a cold grey day can turn Gérardmer into a dreary place, but in the most brilliant sunshine this mountain pass is none the lessmajestic and solemn. One obtains the sense of contrast by slow degrees, so that the mind is prepared for it and in the mood for it. The acme, theculminating point of Vosges scenery is thus reached by a graduallyascending scale of beauty and grandeur from the moment we quit Gérardmer, till we stand on the loftiest summit of the Vosges chain, dominating theSchlucht. For the first half-hour we skirt the alder-fringed banks of thetossing, foaming little river Vologne, as it winds amid lawny spaces, oneither side the fir-clad ridges rising like ramparts. Here all isgentleness and golden calm, but soon we quit this warm, sunny region, andenter the dark forest road curling upwards to the airy pinnacle to whichwe are bound. More than once we have to halt on our way. One must stop tolook at the cascade made by the Vologne, never surely fuller than now, one of the prettiest cascades in the world, masses of snow-white foamtumbling over a long, uneven stair of granite through the midst of afairy glen. The sound of these rushing waters is long in our ears as wecontinue to climb the splendid mountain road that leads to the Schlucht, and nowhere else. From a giddy terrace cut in the sides of the shelvingforest ridge we now get a prospect of the little lakes of Longuemer andRetournemer, twin gems of superlative loveliness in the wildestenvironment. Deep down they lie, the two silvery sheets of water withtheir verdant holms, making a little world of peace and beauty, a toydropped amid Titanic awfulness and splendour. The vantage ground is onthe edge of a dizzy precipice, but the picture thus sternly framed is tooexquisite to be easily abandoned. We gaze and gaze in spite of the vastheight from which we contemplate it; and when at last we tear ourselvesaway from the engaging scene, we are in a region all ruggedness andsublimity, on either side rocky scarps and gloomy forests, with remindersby the wayside that we are approaching an Alpine flora. Nothing can bewilder or more solitary than the scene. For the greater part, the foreststhrough which our road is cut are unfrequented, except by the wild boar, deer, and wild cat, and in winter time the fine mountain roads arerendered impenetrable by the accumulation of snow. 

This approach to the Col is by a tunnel cut in the granite, fit entranceto one of the wildest regions in France. The road now makes a sudden bendtowards the châlet cresting the Col, and we are able in a moment torealize its tremendous position. 

From our little châlet we look upon what seems no mere cleft in amountain chain, but in the vast globe itself. This huge hollow, broughtabout by some strange geological perturbation, is the valley of Münster, no longer a part of French territory, but of Prussian Elsass. The road wehave come by lies behind us, but another as formidable winds under theupper mountain ridge towards Münster, whilst the pedestrian may follow atiny green footpath that will lead him thither, right through the heartof the pass. Looking deep down we discern here and there scatteredchâlets amid green spaces far away. These are the homesteads or_chaumes_ of the herdsmen, all smiling cheerfulness now, butdeserted in winter. Except for such little dwellings, barelydiscernible, so distant are they, there is no break in the solitaryscene, no sign of life at all. 

The châlet is a fair hostelry for unfastidious travellers, its chiefdrawback being the propensity of tourists to get up at three o'clock inthe morning in order to behold the sunrise from the Hoheneck. Good beds, good food, and from the windows, one of the finest prospects in theworld, might well tempt many to linger here in spite of the disturbanceabove mentioned. For the lover of flowers this halting-place would bedelightful. 

Next morning the day dawned fair, and by eight o'clock we set off with aguide for the ascent of the Hoheneck, rather, I should say, for a longramble over gently undulating green and flowery ways. After climbing alittle beechwood, all was smoothness under our feet, and the long_détour_ we had to make in order to reach the summit was a series ofthe gentlest ascents, a wandering over fair meadow-land several thousandfeet above the sea-level. Here we found the large yellow gentian, used inthe fabrication of absinthe, and the bright yellow arnica, whilst insteadof the snow-white flower of the Alpine anemone, the ground was nowsilvery with its feathery seed; the dark purple pansy of the Vosges wasalso rare. We were a month too late for the season of flowers, but thefoxglove and the bright pink Epilobium still bloomed in great luxuriance. 

It was a walk to remember. The air was brisk and genial, the blue skylightly flecked with clouds, the turf fragrant with wild thyme, andbefore our eyes we had a panorama every moment gaining in extent andgrandeur. As yet indeed the scene, the features of which we tried to makeout, looked more like cloudland than solid reality. On clear days arediscerned here, far beyond the rounded summits of the Vosges chain, theRhine Valley, the Black Forest, the Jura range, and the snow-capped Alps. To-day we saw grand masses of mountains piled one above the other, andhigher still a pageantry of azure and gold that seemed to belong to theclouds. 

No morning could promise fairer, but hardly had we reached the goal ofour walk when from far below came an ominous sound of thunder, and we sawheavy rain-clouds dropping upon the heights we had left behind. 

All hope of a fine prospect was now at an end, but instead we had acompensating spectacle. For thick and fast the clouds came pouring intoone chasm after another, drifting in all directions, here a meretransparent veil drawn across the violet hills, there a golden splendouras of some smaller sun shining on a green little world. At one moment thewhole vast scene was blurred and blotted with chill winter mist; soon abreak was visible, and far away we gazed on a span of serene amethystinesky, barred with lines of bright gold. Not one, but a dozen, horizons--adozen heavens--seemed there, whilst the thunder that reached us frombelow seemed too remote to threaten. But at last the clouds gathered inform and volume, hiding the little firmaments of violet and amber; thebright blue sky, bending over the green oasis--all vanished as if bymagic. We could see no more, and nothing remained but to go back, and thequicker the better. The storm, our guide said, was too far off to reachus yet, and we might reach the châlet without being drenched to the skin, as we fortunately did. No sooner, however, were we fairly under shelterthan the rain poured down in torrents and the thunder pealed overhead. Inno part of France are thunderstorms so frequent and so destructive ashere, nowhere is the climate less to be depended on. A big umbrella, stout shoes, and a waterproof are as necessary in the Vosges as in ourown Lake district. 

We had, however, a fine afternoon for our drive back, a quick downhilljourney along the edge of a tremendous precipice, clothed withbeech-trees and brushwood. A most beautiful road it is, and the twolittle lakes looked lovely in the sunshine, encircled by gold-greenswards and a delicate screen of alder branches. Through pastures whitewith meadow-sweet the turbulent, crystal-clear little river Vologneflowed merrily, making dozens of tiny cascades, turning a dozenmill-wheels in its course. All the air was fragrant with newly-turnedhay, and never, we thought, had Gérardmer and its lake made a morecaptivating picture. 

Excursions innumerable may be made from Gérardmer. We may drive acrosscountry to Remiremont, to Plombières, to Wesserling, to Colmar, to St. Dié, whilst these places in turn make very good centres for excursions. On no account must a visit to La Bresse be omitted. This is one of themost ancient towns in the Vosges. Like some of the villages in the Morvanand in the department of La Nièvre, La Bresse remained till theRevolution an independent commune, a republic in miniature. The heads offamilies of both sexes took part in the election of magistrates, and fromthis patriarchal legislation there was seldom any appeal to the highercourt--namely, that of Nancy. La Bresse is still a rich commune byreason of its forests and industries. The sound of the mill-wheel andhammer now disturbs these mountain solitudes, and although so isolated bynatural position, this little town is no longer cut off from cosmopolitaninfluence. The little tavern is developing into a very fair inn. In thesummer tourists from all parts of France pass through it, in carriages, on foot, occasionally on horseback. Most likely it now possesses arailway station, a newspaper kiosk, and a big hotel, as at Gérardmer!

As we drop down upon La Bresse after our climb of two hours and more, weseem to be at the world's end. Our road has led us higher and higher bydense forests and wild granite parapets, tasselled with fern andfoxglove, till we suddenly wheel round upon a little straggling townmarvellously placed. Deep down it lies, amid fairy-like greenery andsilvery streams, whilst high above tower the rugged forest peaks andfar-off blue mountains, in striking contrast. 

The sloping green banks, starred with the grass of Parnassus, and musicalwith a dozen streams, the pastoral dwellings, each with its patch offlower garden and croft; the glades, dells and natural terraces are allsunny and gracious as can be; but round about and high above frowninaccessible granite peaks, and pitchy-black forest summits, impenetrableeven at this time of the year. As we look down we see that roads havebeen cut round the mountain sides, and that tiny homesteads are perchedwherever vantage ground is to be had, yet the impression is one ofisolation and wildness. The town lies in no narrow cleft, as is the casewith many little manufacturing towns in the Jura, but in a vast openingand falling back of the meeting hills and mountain tops, so that it isseen from far and wide, and long before it is approached. We had made thefirst part of our journey at a snail's pace. No sooner were we on theverge of the hills looking down upon La Bresse, than we set off at adesperate rate, spinning breathlessly round one mountain spur afteranother, till we were suddenly landed in the village street, dropped, asit seemed, from a balloon. 

A curious feature to be noted in all the places I have mentioned is theouter wooden casing of the houses. This is done as a protection againstthe cold, the Vosges possessing, with the Auvergne and the Limousin, theseverest climate in France. La Bresse, like Gérardmer and other sweetvalleys of these regions, is disfigured by huge factories, yet none canregret the fact, seeing what well-being these industries bring to thepeople. Beggars are numerous, but we are told they are strangers, whomerely invade these regions during the tourist season. 

Remiremont, our next halting-place, may be reached by a pleasant carriagedrive, but the railway is more convenient to travellers encumbered withhalf-a-dozen trunks. The railway, moreover, cuts right through thebeautiful valley of the Moselle--a prospect which is missed by road. Remiremont is charming. We do not get the creature comforts of Gérardmer, but by way of compensation we find a softer and more genial climate. Theengaging little town is indeed one of nature's sanatoriums. The streetsare kept clean by swift rivulets, and all the air is fragrant withencircling fir-woods. Like Gérardmer and La Bresse, however, Remiremontlies open to the sun. A belt of flowery dells, terraced orchards, andwide pastures, amid which meanders the clear blue Moselle, girds it roundabout, and no matter which path you take, it is sure to lead to invitingprospects. The arcades lend a Spanish look to the town, and recall thestreet architecture of Lons-le-Saunier and Arbois in the Jura. Flowergardens abound, and the general atmosphere is one of prosperity andcheerfulness. 

The historic interest of this now dead-alive little town centres aroundits lady abbesses, who for centuries held sovereign rule and state intheir abbatial palace, at the present time the Hôtel de Ville. Thesehigh-born dames, like certain temporal rulers of the sex, loved battle, and more than one _chanoinesse_, when defied by feudal neighbours, mounted the breach and directed her people. One and all were of noblebirth, and many doubtless possessed the intellectual distinction andpersonal charm of Renan's _Abbesse de Jouarre_. 

There are beautiful walks about Remiremont, and one especial path amidthe fragrant fir-woods leads to a curious relic of ancient time--a littlechapel formerly attached to a Lazar-house. It now belongs to theadjoining farm close by, a pleasant place, with flower-garden andorchard. High up in the woods dominating the broad valley in whichRemiremont is placed are some curious prehistoric stones. But moreinviting than the steep climb under a burning sun--for the weather haschanged on a sudden--is the drive to the Vallée d'Hérival, a drive socool, so soothing, so delicious, that we fancy we can never feel heated, languid, or irritated any more. 

The isolated dwellings of the dalesfolk in the midst of tremendoussolitudes--little pastoral scenes such as Corot loved to paint--andhemmed round by the sternest, most rugged nature, are one of thecharacteristics of Vosges scenery. We also find beside tossing rivers andglittering cascades a solitary linen factory or saw-mill, with themodern-looking villa of the employer, and clustered round it the cottagesof the work-people. No sooner does the road curl again than we are oncemore in a solitude as complete as if we were in some primeval forest ofthe new world. We come suddenly upon the Vallée d'Hérival, but the deepclose gorge we gaze upon is only the beginning of the valley withinvalley we have come to see. Our road makes a loop round the valley sothat we see it from two levels, and under two aspects. As we return, winding upwards on higher ground, we get glimpses of sunny dimpled swardthrough the dark stems of the majestic fir-trees towering over our head. There is every gradation of form and colour in the picture, from the ripewarm gold barring the branches of the firs, to the pale silveriness oftheir upper foliage; from the gigantic trees rising from the gorge below, each seeming to fill a chasm, to the airy, graceful birch, a mere toybeside it. Rare butterflies abound, but we see few birds. 

The hardy pedestrian is an enviable person here, for although excellentcarriages are to be had, some of the most interesting excursions must bemade on foot. 

I do not suppose that matters are very greatly changed in hotels heresince my visit so many years ago. In certain respects travellers farewell. They may feast like Lucullus on fresh trout and on the daintyaniseed cakes which are a local speciality. But hygienic arrangementswere almost prehistoric, and although politeness itself, mine host andhostess showed strange nonchalance towards their guests. Thus, whenringing and ringing again for our tea and bread and butter between sevenand eight o'clock, the chamber--not maid, but man--informed us thatMadame had gone to mass, and everything was locked up till her return. 

Even the fastidious tourist, however, will hardly care to exchange hissomewhat rough and noisy quarters at Remiremont for the cosmopolitancomforts of Plombières within such easy reach. It is a pretty drive of anhour and a half to Plombières, and all is prettiness there--its littlepark, its tiny lake, its toy town. 

It is surely one of the hottest places in the world, and like Spa, ofwhich it reminds me, must be one of the most wearisome. Just such apromenade, with a sleepy band, just such a casino, just such a routine. This favourite resort of the third Napoleon has of late years seen manyrivals springing up. Vittel, Bains, Bussang--all in the Vosges--yet itcontinues to hold up its head. The site is really charming, but so closeis the valley in which the town lies, that it is a veritable hothouse, and the reverse, we should think, of what an invalid wants. Plombièreshas always had illustrious visitors--Montaigne, who upon severaloccasions took the waters here--Maupertuis, Voltaire, Beaumarchais, theEmpress Josephine, and a host of historic personages. But the emperor maybe called the creator of Plombières. The park, the fine road toRemiremont, the handsome Bain Napoleon (now National), the church, allthese owe their existence to him, and during the imperial visits theremote spot suffered a strange transformation. The pretty country roadalong which we met a couple of carriages yesterday became as brilliantand animated as the Bois de Boulogne. It was a perpetual coming and goingof fashionable personages. The emperor used to drive over to Remiremontand dine at the little dingy commercial hotel, the best in the place, making himself agreeable to everybody. But all this is past, and nowherethroughout France is patriotism more ardent or the democratic spiritmore alert than in the Vosges. The reasons are obvious. We are here onthe borders of the lost provinces, the two fair and rich departments ofHaut-Rhin and Bas-Rhin, now effaced from the map of France. Reminders ofthat painful severance of a vast population from its nationality are toovivid for a moment to be lost sight of. Many towns of the Vosges and ofthe ancient portion of Lorraine not annexed, such as Nancy, have beenenriched by the immigration of large commercial firms from the other sideof the new frontier. The great majority of Alsatians, by force ofcircumstances and family ties, were compelled to remain--French atheart, German according to law. The bitterness and intensity of thisfeeling, reined-in yet apparent, constitutes the one painful feature ofVosges travel. Of course there is a wide difference between thesupporters of retaliation, such journals as _L'Alsacien-Lorrain_, and quiet folks who hate war, even more than a foreign domination. Butthe yearning towards the parent country is too strong to be overcome. Nowonder that as soon as the holidays begin there is a rush of Frenchtourists across the Vosges. From Strasburg, Metz, St. Marie aux Mines, they flock to Gérardmer and other family resorts. And if someFrenchwoman--maybe, sober matron--dons the pretty Alsatian dress, anddances the Alsatian dance with an exile like herself, the enthusiasm istoo great to be described. Lookers-on weep, shake hands, embrace eachother. For a brief moment the calmest are carried away by intensity ofpatriotic feeling. The social aspect of Vosges travel is one of its chiefcharms. You must here live with French people, whether you will or no. Insular reserve cannot resist the prevailing friendliness andgood-fellowship. How long such a state of things will exist, who can say?Fortunately for the lover of nature, most of the places I have mentionedare too unobtrusive ever to become popular. "Nothing to see here, andnothing to do, " would surely be the verdict of most globe-trotters evenon sweet Gérardmer itself!

II

THE CHARM OF ALSACE

The notion of here reprinting my notes of Alsatian travel was suggestedby a recent French work--_À travers l'Alsace en flânant_, from thepen of M. André Hallays. This delightful writer had already publishedseveral volumes dealing with various French provinces, more especiallyfrom an archaeological point of view. In his latest and not leastfascinating _flânerie_ he gives the experiences of several holidaytours in Germanized France. 

My own sojourns, made at intervals among French friends, _annexés_both of Alsace and Lorraine, were chiefly undertaken in order to realizethe condition of the German Emperor's French subjects. But I naturallyvisited many picturesque sites and historic monuments in both, theforfeited territories being especially rich. Whilst volume after volumeof late years have appeared devoted to French travel, holiday touristsinnumerable jotting their brief experiences of well-known regions, strangely enough no English writer has followed my own example. No workhas here appeared upon Alsace and Lorraine. On the other side of theChannel a vast literature on the subject has sprung up. Novels, travels, reminiscences, pamphlets on political and economic questions, one and allbreathing the same spirit, continue to appear in undiminished numbers. 

Ardent spirits still fan the flame of revolt. The burning thirst forre-integration remains unquenched. Garbed in crape, the marble figure ofStrasburg still holds her place on the Place de la Concorde. The Frenchlanguage, although rigidly prohibited throughout Germanized France, isstudied and upheld more sedulously than before Sedan. And after the lapseof forty years a German minister lately averred that French Alsatianswere more French than ever. _Les Noëllets_ of René Bazin, M. MauriceBarrès' impassioned series, _Les Bastions de l'Est_, enjoy immensepopularity, and within the last few months have appeared two volumeswhich fully confirm the views of their forerunners--M. Hallays'impressions of many wayfarings and _Après quarante ans_ by M. JulesClaretie, the versatile, brilliant and much respected administrator-generalof the Comédie Française. 

Whilst in these days of peace and arbitration propaganda the crime ofenforced denationalization seems more heinous than ever, there appearslittle likelihood of the country conquered by Louis XIV. , and re-conqueredby German arms a century and a half later, again waving the Tricolour. 

Let us hope, however, that some _via media_ may be found, and thatif not recovering its lost privilege, the passionately coveted Frenchname, as a federal state Alsace and Lorraine may become independent andprosperous. 

For a comprehensive study of Alsace and its characteristics, alikesocial, artistic and intellectual, readers must go to M. Hallays' volume. In every development this writer shows that a special stamp may be found. Neither Teutonic nor Gallic, art and handicrafts reveal indigenousgrowth, and the same feature may be studied in town and village, inpalace, cathedral and cottage. 

We must remember that we are here dealing with a region of very ancientcivilization. Taste has been slowly developed, artistic culture is of nomushroom growth. Alsace formed the highroad between Italy and Flanders. In M. Hallays' words, already during the Renaissance, aesthetic Alsaceblended the lessons of north and south, her genius was a product of goodsense, experience and a feeling of proportion. And he points out how inthe eighteenth century French taste influenced Alsatian faïence, wovenstuffs, ironwork, sculpture, wood-carving and furniture, even peasantinteriors being thereby modified. "Alsace, " he writes, "holds usspell-bound by the originality of culture and temperament found among herinhabitants. It has generally been taken for granted that native geniusis here a mere blend of French and German character, that Alsatiansentiment appertains to the latter stock, intellectual development to theformer, that the inhabitants think in French and imagine in German. Thereis a certain leaven of truth in these assumptions, but when we holdcontinued intercourse with all classes, listen to their speech, familiarize ourselves with their modes of life and mental outlook, wearrive again and again at one conclusion: we say to ourselves, here is anelement which is neither Teutonic nor Gallic. I cannot undertake toparticularize, I only note in my pages those instances that occur by theway. And the conviction that we are here penetrating a little worldhitherto unknown to us, such novelty being revealed in every stroll andchat, lends extraordinary interest to our peregrination. "

It is especially an artistic Alsace that M. Hallays reveals to us. Instead of visiting battlefields, he shows us that English travellers mayfind ample interest of other kind. The artist, the ecclesiologist, theart-loving have here a storehouse of unrevealed treasure. A little-readbut weighty writer, Mme. De Staël, has truly averred that the mostbeautiful lands in the world, if devoid of famous memories and if bearingno impress of great events, cannot be compared in interest to historicregions. Hardly a spot of the annexed provinces but is stamped withindelible and, alas! blood-stained, records. From the tenth century untilthe peace of Westphalia, these territories belonged to the German empire, being ruled by sovereign dukes and princes. In 1648 portions of bothprovinces were ceded to France, and a few years later, in times of peace, Strasburg was ruthlessly seized and appropriated by the arch-despot andmilitarist, Louis XIV. By the treaty of Ryswick, that of Westphalia wasratified, and thenceforward Alsace and Lorraine remained radically andpassionately French. In 1871 was witnessed an awful historic retribution, a political crime paralleling its predecessor committed by the Frenchking two centuries before. Alsace-Lorraine still awaits the fulfilment ofher destiny. Meantime, as Rachel mourning for her children, she weepssore and will not be comforted. 

Historically speaking, therefore, the annexed provinces present astrangely complex patchwork and oft-repeated palimpsest, civilizationafter civilization overlapping each other. If Alsace-Lorraine hasproduced no Titan either in literature or art, she yet shows a goodlyroll-call. 

The name heading the list stands for France herself. It was a youngsoldier of Strasburg--not, however, Alsatian born--who, in April, 1792, composed a song that saved France from the fate of Poland and changed thecurrent of civilization. By an irony of destiny the Tricolour no longerwaves over the cradle of the Marseillaise!

That witty writer, Edmond About, as well as the "Heavenly Twins" ofAlsatian fiction, was born in Lorraine, but all three so thoroughlyidentified themselves with this province that they must be regarded asher sons. Those travellers who, like myself, have visited Edmond About'swoodland retreat in Saverne can understand the bitterness with which hepenned his volume--_Alsace 1870-1_--and the concluding lines of thepreface--

"If I have here uttered an untrue syllable, I give M. De Bismarckpermission to treat my modest dwelling as if it were a villa of SaintCloud. "

The literary brethren whose pictures of Alsatian peasant life, both inwar and peace, have become world-wide classics, suffered no less thantheir brilliant contemporary, and their works written after annexationbreathe equal bitterness. The celebrated partnership which began in 1848and lasted for a quarter of a century, has been thus described by EdmondAbout: "The two friends see each other very rarely, whether in Paris orin the Vosges. When they do meet, they together elaborate the scheme ofa new work. Then Erckmann writes it. Chatrian corrects it--and sometimesputs it in the fire!" One at least of their plays enjoys equalpopularity with the novel from which it is drawn. To have witnessed_L'Ami Fritz_ at Molière's house in the last decade of the nineteenthcentury was an experience to remember. That consummate artist, Got, wasat his very best--if the superlative in such a case is applicable--asthe good old Rabbi. No less enchanting was Mlle. Reichenbach, the_doyenne_ of the Comédie Française, as Suzel. Of this charming artistSarcey wrote that, having attained her sixteenth year, there she madethe long-stop, never oldening with others. _L'Ami Fritz_ is, in reality, a German bucolic, the scene being laid in Bavaria. But it has long beenaccepted as a classic, and on the stage it becomes thoroughly French. This delightful story was written in 1864, that is to say, before anywar-cloud had arisen over the eastern frontier, and before the evocationof a fiend as terrible, the anti-Jewish crusade culminating in theDreyfus crime. 

It is painful to reflect that whilst twenty years ago the engaging oldJew of this piece was vociferously acclaimed on the first French stage, the drama of a gifted Jewish writer has this year been banned in Paris!

Edmond About and Erckmann and Chatrian belong to the same period asanother native, and more famous, genius, the precocious, superabundantlyendowed Gustave Doré. Of this "admirable Crichton" I give a sketch. 

For mere holiday-makers in search of exhilaration and beauty, Alsaceoffers attractions innumerable, sites grandiose and idyllic, picturesqueruins, superb forests, old churches of rare interest and many a splendidhistoric pile. 

There are naturally drawbacks to intense lovers of France. Throughout M. Hallays' volume he acknowledges the courtesy of German officials, a factto which I had borne testimony when first journalizing my ownexperiences. Certain aspects of enforced Germanization can but afflictall outsiders. There is firstly that obtrusive militarism from which wecannot for a moment escape. Again, a no less false note strikes us inmatters aesthetic. Modern German taste in art, architecture anddecoration do not harmonize with the ancientness and historic severity ofAlsace. The restoration of Hohkönigsburg and the new quarters ofStrasburg are instances in point. All who visited the German art sectionof the Paris Exhibition in 1900 will understand this dis-harmony. 

The reminiscences of my second and third journeys in Alsace and Lorrainehaving already appeared in volume form, still in print (_East ofParis_), are therefore omitted here. For the benefit of Englishtravellers in the annexed portion of the last-named province I cite apassage from M. Maurice Barrès' beautiful story, _Colette Baudoche_. His hero is German and his heroine French, a charming _Messine_ ornative of Metz. In company of Colette's mother and a friend or two, the_fiancés_ take part in a little festival held at Gorze, a villagenear the blood-stained fields of Gravelotte and Mars-la-Tour--

"At Gorze, church, lime-trees, dwellings and folks belong to the oldentime, that is to say, all are very French. .. . In crossing the square thefive holiday-makers halted before the Hôtel de Ville and read withinterest a commemorative inscription on the walls. A tablet recordsEnglish generosity in 1870, when, after the carnage and devastation ofsuccessive battles, money, roots and seeds were distributed among thepeasants by a relief committee. The inspection over, the little partygaily sat down to dinner in an inn close by, regaling themselves withfried English potatoes, descendants of those sent across the Manche fortyyears before. "

As I re-read this passage I think sadly how the tribute from such a penwould have rejoiced the two moving spirits of that famous reliefcommittee--Sir John Robinson and Mr. Bullock Hall, both long sincepassed, away. To the whilom editor of the _Daily News_ bothinitiative and realization were mainly owing, the latter being thelaborious and devoted agent of distribution. 

But an omission caused bitterness. Whilst Mr. Bullock Hall mostdeservedly received the Red Ribbon, his leader was overlooked. The tensof thousands of pounds collected by Sir John Robinson which may be saidto have kept alive starving people and vivified deserts, were gratefullyacknowledged by the French Government. By some unaccountablemisconception, the decoration here only gratified one good friend ofFrance. 

"I should much have liked the Legion of Honour, " sighed the kindly oldeditor to me, a year or two before he died. 

I add that my second sojourn in Alsace-Lorraine was made at Sir John'ssuggestion, the series of papers dealing with Metz, Strasburg, and itsneighbourhood appearing from day to day in the _Daily News_. 

English tourists must step aside and read the tablet on the Hôtel deVille of Gorze, reminder, by the way, of the Entente Cordiale!

III

IN GUSTAVE DORÉ'S COUNTRY

The Vosges and Alsace-Lorraine must be taken together, as the tourist isconstantly compelled to zigzag across the new frontier. Many of the mostinteresting points of departure for excursionizing in the Vosges lie inAlsace-Lorraine, while few travellers who have got so far as Gérardmeror St. Dié will not be tempted to continue their journey, at least as faras the beautiful valleys of Munster and St. Marie-aux-Mines, bothpeopled by French people under German domination. Arrived at either ofthese places, the tourist will be at a loss which route to take of themany open to him. On the one hand are the austere sites of the Vosges, impenetrable forests darkening the rounded mountain tops, graniteprecipices silvered with perpetual cascades, awful ravines hardly lessgloomy in the noonday sun than in wintry storms, and as a relief to thesesombre features, the sunniest little homesteads perched on airy terracesof gold-green; crystal streams making vocal the flowery meadow and themossy dell, and lovely little lakes shut in by rounded hills, made doublein their mirror. In Alsace-Lorraine we find a wholly different landscape, and are at once reminded that we are in one of the fairest and mostproductive districts of Europe. All the vast Alsatian plain in Septemberis a-bloom with fruit garden and orchard, vineyard and cornfield, whilstas a gracious framework, a romantic background to the picture, are thevineclad heights crested with ruined castles and fortresses worthy to becompared to Heidelberg and Ehrenbreitstein. We had made a leisurelyjourney from Gérardmer to St. Dié, bishopric and _chef-lieu_ of thedepartment of the Vosges, without feeling sure of our next move. Fortunately a French acquaintance advised us to drive toSt. Marie-aux-Mines, one of the most wonderful little spots in theseregions, of which we had never before heard. A word or two, however, concerning St. Dié itself, one of the most ancient monastic foundationsin France. The town is pleasant enough, and the big hotel not bad, asFrench hotels go. But in the Vosges, the tourist gets somewhat spoiledin the matter of hotels. Wherever we go our hosts are so much interestedin us, and make so much of us, that we feel aggrieved at sinking intomere numbers three or four. Many of these little inns offer homelyaccommodation, but the landlord and landlady themselves wait upon theguests, unless, which often happens, the host is cook, no piece ofill-fortune for the traveller! These good people have none of the falseshame often conspicuous among the same class in England. At Remiremont, our hostess came bustling down at the last moment saying how she hadhurried to change her dress in order to bid us good-bye. Here theson-in-law, a fine handsome fellow, was the cook, and when dinner wasserved he used to emerge from his kitchen and chat with the guests orplay with his children in the cool evening hour. There is none of thatdifferentiation of labour witnessed in England, and on the whole thestranger fares none the worse. With regard to French hotels generallythe absence of competition in large towns strikes an English mind. AtSt. Dié, as in many other places, there was at the time of my visit butone hotel, which had doubtless been handed down from generation togeneration, simply because no rival aroused a spirit of emulation. 

St. Dié has a pleasant environment in the valley of the Meurthe, and maybe made the centre of many excursions. Its picturesque old Romanesquecathedral of red sandstone, about which are grouped noble elms, growsupon the eye; more interesting and beautiful by far are the Gothiccloisters leading from within to the smaller church adjoining. Thesedelicate arcades, in part restored, form a quadrangle. Greenery fills theopen space, and wild antirrhinum and harebell brighten the grey walls. Springing from one side is an out-of-door pulpit carved in stone, astriking and suggestive object in the midst of the quiet scene. We shouldlike to know what was preached from that stone pulpit, and what manner ofman was the preacher. The bright green space, the delicate arcades ofsoft grey, the bits of foliage here and there, with the two silentchurches blocking in all, make up an impressive scene. 

We wanted the country, however, rather than the towns, so after a fewdays at St. Dié, hired a carriage to take us to St. Marie-aux-Mines orMarkirch, on the German side of the frontier, and not accessible fromthis side by rail. We enter Alsace, indeed, by a needle's eye, so narrowthe pass in which St. Marie lies. Here a word of warning to the tourist. Be sure to examine your carriage and horses well before starting. We wereprovided for our difficult drive with what Spenser calls "two unequalbeasts, " namely, a trotting horse and a horse that could only canter, with a very uncomfortable carriage, the turnout costing over apound--pretty well, that, for a three hours' drive. However, in spite ofdiscomfort, we would not have missed the journey on any account. Thesite of this little cotton-spinning town is one of the most extraordinaryin the world. We first traverse a fruitful, well cultivated plain, watered by the sluggish Meurthe, then begin to ascend a spur of thewestern chain of the Vosges, formerly dividing the two Frenchdepartments of Vosges and Haut Rhin, now marking the boundaries ofFrance and German Elsass. Down below, amid the hanging orchards, flower-gardens and hayfields, we were on French soil, but the flagstaff, just discernible on yonder green pinnacles, marks the line ofdemarcation between France and the conquered territory of the Germanempire. For the matter of that, the Prussian helmet makes the factpatent. As surely as we have set foot in the Reich, we see one of thesegleaming casques, so hateful still in French eyes. They seem to springfrom the ground like Jason's warriors from the dragon's teeth. This newfrontier divided in olden times the dominions of Alsace and Lorraine, when it was the custom to say of many villages that the bread waskneaded in one country and baked in the other. 

Nothing could be more lovely than the dim violet hills far away, and thevirginal freshness of the pastoral scenery around. But only astout-hearted pedestrian can properly enjoy this beautiful region. Wehad followed the example of another party of tourists in front of us, and accomplished a fair climb on foot, and when we had wound and woundour way up the lofty green mountain to the flagstaff before mentioned, we wanted to do the rest of our journey on foot also. But alikecompassion for the beasts and energy had gone far enough, we were onlytoo glad to reseat ourselves, and drive, or rather be whirled, down toSt. Marie-aux-Mines in the vehicle. Do what we would there was nopersuading our driver to slacken pace enough so as to admit of a fullenjoyment of the prospect that unfolded before us. 

The wonderful little town! Black pearl set in the richest casket! Thiscommonplace, flourishing centre of cotton spinning, woollen, andcretonne manufacture, built in red brick, lies in the narrow, beautifulvalley of the Lièpvrette, as it is called from the babbling river ofthat name. But there is really no valley at all. The congeries ofred-roofed houses, factory chimneys and church towers, Catholic andProtestant, is hemmed round by a narrow gorge, wedged in between thehills which are just parted so as to admit of such an intrusion, nomore. The green convolutions of the mountain sides are literally foldedround the town, a pile of green velvet spread fan-like in a draper'swindow has not softer, neater folds! As we enter it from the St. Dié sidewe find just room for a carriage to wind along the little river and thenarrow street. But at the other end the valley opens, and St. Marie-aux-mines spreads itself out. Here are factories, handsome countryhouses, and walks up-hill and down-hill in abundance. Just above thetown, over the widening gorge, is a deliciously cool pine-wood whichcommands a vast prospect--the busy little town caught in the toils ofthe green hills; the fertile valley of the Meurthe as we gaze in thedirection from which we have come; the no less fertile plains ofLorraine before us; close under and around us, many a dell and woodlandcovert with scattered homes of dalesfolk in sunny places and slantinghills covered with pines. It is curious to reflect that St. Marie-aux-Mines, mentioned as Markirch in ancient charts, did not becomeentirely French till the eighteenth century. Originally the inhabitantson the left bank of the Lièpvrette were subjects of the Dukes ofLorraine, spoke French, and belonged to the Catholic persuasion, whilstthose dwelling on the right bank of the river, adhered to the seigneuryof Ribeaupaire, and formed a Protestant German-speaking community. Alsace, as everybody knows, was annexed to France by right--ratherwrong--of conquest under Louis XIV. , but it was not till a century laterthat Lorraine became a part of French territory, and the fusion ofraces, a task so slowly accomplished, has now to be undone, if, indeed, such undoing is possible!

The hotel here is a mere _auberge_ adapted to the needs of the_commis-voyageur_, but our host and hostess are charming. As is thefashion in these parts, they serve their guests and take the greatestpossible interest in their movements and comfort. We would willingly havespent some days at Marie-aux-Mines--no better headquarters forexcursionizing in these regions!--but too much remained for us to do andto see in Alsace. We dared not loiter on the way. 

Everywhere we find plenty of French tourists, many of them doing theirholiday travel in the most economical fashion. We are in the habit ofregarding the French as a stay-at-home nation, and it is easy to see howsuch a mistake arises. English people seldom travel in out-of-the-wayFrance, and our neighbours seldom travel elsewhere. Thus holiday-makersof the two nations do not come in contact. Wherever we go we encounterbands of pedestrians or family parties thoroughly enjoying themselves. Nothing ruffles a French mind when bent on holiday-making. The good-nature, _bonhomie_, and accommodating spirit displayed under tryingcircumstances might be imitated by certain insular tourists with advantage. 

From St. Marie-aux-Mines we journeyed to Gustave Doré's favourite resort, Barr, a close, unsavoury little town enough, but in the midst ofbewitching scenery. "An ounce of sweet is worth a pound of sour, " singsSpenser, and at Barr we get the sweet and the sour strangely mixed. Thenarrow streets smell of tanneries and less wholesome nuisances, not abreath of fresh pure air is to be had from one end of the town to theother. But our pretty, gracious landlady, an Alsacienne, and her husband, the master of the house and _chef de cuisine_ as well, equallyhandsome and courteous, took so much pains to make us comfortable thatwe stayed on and on. Not a thousand bad smells could drive us away! Yetthere is accommodation for the traveller among the vineyards outside thetown, and also near the railway station, so Barr need not be avoided onaccount of its unsavouriness. No sooner are you beyond the dingy streetsthan all is beauty, pastoralness and romance. Every green peak is crestedwith ruined keep or tower, at the foot of the meeting hills lie peacefullittle villages, each with its lofty church spire, whilst all the air isfragrant with pine-woods and newly turned hay. 

These pine-woods and frowning ruins set like sentinels on every greenhill or rocky eminence, recall many of Doré's happiest efforts. "_Lepauvre garçon_, " our hostess said. "_Comme il était content cheznous_!" I can fancy how Doré would enjoy the family life of our littleold-fashioned hotel, how he would play with the children, chat withmaster and mistress, and make himself agreeable all round. One can alsofancy how animated conversation would become if it chanced to take apatriotic turn. For people speak their thoughts in Alsace, --nowhere morefreely. In season and out of season, the same sentiment comes to thesurface. "_Nous sommes plus Français que les Français_. " This is theuniversal expression of feeling that greeted our ears throughout ourwanderings. Such, at least, was formerly the case. The men, women andchildren, rich and poor, learned and simple, gave utterance to the sameexpression of feeling. Barr is a town of between six and seven thousandsouls, about twenty of whom are Prussians. A pleasant position, truly, for the twenty officials! And what we see at Barr is the case throughoutthe newly acquired German dominion. Alike the highest as well as thehumblest functionary of the imperial government is completely shut offfrom intercourse with his French neighbours. 

Barr lies near so much romantic scenery that the tourist in these partshad better try the little hotel amid the mines. For, in spite of thepicturesque stork's nest close by, an excellent ordinary and the mostdelightful host and hostess in the world, I cannot recommend a sojourn inthe heart of the town. The best plan of all were to halt here simply forthe sake of the excursion to St. Odile--St. Odile leads nowhither--thenhire a carriage, and make leisurely way across country by the Hohwald, and the Champ de Feu to Rothau, Oberlin's country, thence to Strasburg. In our own case, the fascinations of our hosts overcame our repugnance toBarr itself, so we stayed on, every day making long drives into thefresh, quiet, beautiful country. One of the sweet spots we discovered forthe benefit of any English folks who may chance to stray in that regionis the Hohwald, a _ville giatura_ long in vogue with the inhabitantsof Strasburg and neighbouring towns, but not mentioned in any Englishguide-book at the time of my visit. 

We are reminded all the way of Rhineland. The same terraced vineyards, the same limestone crags, each with its feudal tower, the same fertilityand richness everywhere. Our road winds for miles amid avenues offruit-trees, laden with pear and plum, whilst on every side arestretches of flax and corn, tobacco and hemp. What plenty andfruitfulness are suggested at every turn! Well might Goethe extol "thismagnificent Alsace. " We soon reach Andlau, a picturesque, but, it mustbe confessed, somewhat dirty village, lying amid vineyards and chestnutwoods, with mediaeval gables, archways, wells, dormers. All these areto be found at Andlau, also one of the finest churches in these parts. I followed the _curé_ and sacristan as they took a path that wound highabove the village and the little river amid the vineyards, and obtaineda beautiful picture; hill and dale, clustered village and lofty spire, and imposingly, confronting us at every turn, the fine façade of thecastle of Andlau, built of grey granite, and flanked at either end withmassive towers. More picturesque, but less majestic are theneighbouring ruins of Spesburg, mere tumbling walls wreathed withgreenery, and many another castled crag we see on our way. We areindeed in the land of old romance. Nothing imaginable more weird, fantastic and sombre, than these spectral castles and crumbling towerspast counting! The wide landscape is peopled with these. They seem torise as if by magic from the level landscape, and we fancy that theywill disappear magically as they have come. And here again one wildvisionary scene after another reminds us that we are in the land ofDoré's most original inspiration. There are bits of broken pine-wood, jagged peaks and ghostly ruins that have been already made quitefamiliar to us in the pages of his _Dante_ and _Don Quixote. _

The pretty rivulet Andlau accompanies us far on our way, and beautiful isthe road; high above, beech- and pine-woods, and sloping down to the roadgreen banks starred with large blue and white campanula, with, darklingamid the alders, the noisy little river. 

The Hohwald is the creation of a woman; that is to say, the Hohwald ofholiday-makers, tourists and tired brain-workers. "Can you imagine, "wrote M. Edmond About, forty years ago, "an inn at the world's end thatcost a hundred thousand francs in the building? I assure you the ownerwill soon have recouped her outlay. She had not a centime to begin with, this courageous lady, left a widow without resources, and a son to bringup. The happy thought occurred to her of a summer resort in the heart ofthese glorious woods, within easy reach of Strasburg. " There are gardensand reception-rooms in common, and here as at Gérardmer croquet, musicand the dance offer an extra attraction. It must be admitted that thesebig family hotels, in attractive country places with prices adapted toall travellers, have many advantages over our own seaside lodgings. People get much more for their money, better food, better accommodation, with agreeable society into the bargain, and a relief from the harass ofhousekeeping. The children, too, find companionship, to the great reliefof parents and nursemaids. 

The Hohwald proper is a tiny village numbering a few hundred souls, situated in the midst of magnificent forests at the foot of the famousChamp de Feu. This is a plateau on one of the loftiest summits of theVosges, and very curious from a geological point of view. To explore itproperly you must be a good pedestrian. Much, indeed, of the finestscenery of these regions is beyond reach of travellers who cannot walkfive or six hours a day. 

Any one, however, may drive to St. Odile, and St. Odile is the greatexcursion of Alsace. Who cares a straw for the saint and her story now?But all tourists must be grateful to the Bishop of Strasburg, who keeps acomfortable little inn at the top of the mountain, and, beyond theprohibition of meat on fast-days, smoking, noise and levity of manner onall days, makes you very comfortable for next to nothing. 

The fact is, this noble plateau, commanding as splendid a naturalpanorama as any in Europe, at the time I write of the property ofMonseigneur of Strasburg, was once a famous shrine and a convent ofcloistered men and women vowed to sanctity and prayer. The convent wasclosed at the time of the French Revolution, and the entire property, convent, mountain and prospect, remained in the hands of privatepossessors till 1853, when the prelate of that day repurchased the whole, restored the conventual building, put in some lay brethren to cultivatethe soil, and some lay sisters, who wear the garb of nuns, but have takenno vows upon them except of piety, to keep the little inn and maketourists comfortable. No arrangement could be better, and I advise anyone in want of pure air, superb scenery, and complete quiet, to betakehimself to St. Odile. 

Here again I must intercalate. Since these lines were jotted down, manychanges, and apparently none for the better, have taken place here. Intending tourists must take both M. Hallays' volume and Maurice Barrès'_Au Service d'Allemagne_ for recent accounts of this holiday resort. The splendid natural features remain intact. 

The way from Barr lies through prosperous villages, enriched bymanufactories, yet abounding in pastoral graces. There are English-likeparks and fine châteaux of rich manufacturers; but contrasted with thesenothing like abject poverty. The houses of working-folk are clean, eachwith its flower-garden, the children are neatly dressed, no squalor orlook of discontent to be seen anywhere. Every hamlet has its beautifulspire, whilst the country is the fairest, richest conceivable; in thewoods is seen every variety of fir and pine, mingled with the lighterfoliage of chestnut and acacia, whilst every orchard has its walnut andmulberry trees, not to speak of pear and plum. One of the chiefmanufactures of these parts is that of paints and colours: there are alsoribbon and cotton factories. Rich as is the country naturally, its chiefwealth arises from these industries. In every village you hear the hum ofmachinery. 

You may lessen the distance from Barr to St. Odile by one-half if youmake the journey on foot, winding upwards amid the vine-clad hills, atevery turn coming upon one of those grand old ruins, as plentiful here asin Rhineland, and quite as romantic and beautiful. The drive is a slowand toilsome ascent of three hours and a half. As soon as we quit thevillages and climb the mountain road cut amid the pines, we are in asuperb and solitary scene. No sound of millwheels or steam-hammers isheard here, only the summer breeze stirring the lofty pine branches, thehum of insects, and the trickling of mountain streams. The dark-leavedhenbane is in brilliant yellow flower, and the purple foxglove instriking contrast; but the wealth of summer flowers is over. 

Who would choose to live on Ararat? Yet it is something to reach apinnacle from whence you may survey more than one kingdom. The prospectfrom St. Odile is one to gaze on for a day, and to make us dizzy indreams ever after. From the umbrageous terrace in front of the convent--cool and breezy on this, one of the hottest days of a hot season--we see, as from a balloon, a wonderful bit of the world spread out like a map atour feet. The vast plain of Alsace, the valley of the Rhine, the Swissmountains, the Black Forest, Bâle, and Strasburg--all these we dominatefrom our airy pinnacle close, at it seems, under the blue vault ofheaven. But though they were there, we did not see them: for the day, asso often happens on such occasions, was misty. We had none the less anovel and wonderful prospect. As we sit on this cool terrace, under theshady mulberry trees, and look far beyond the richly-wooded mountain wehave scaled on our way, we gradually make out some details of the fastpanorama, one feature after another becoming visible as stars shiningfaintly in a misty heaven. Villages and little towns past counting, eachwith its conspicuous spire, break the monotony of the enormous plain. Here and there, miles away, a curl of white vapour indicates the passageof some railway train, whilst in this upper stillness sweet sounds ofchurch bells reach us from hamlets close underneath the convent. Nothingcan be more solid, fresher, or more brilliant than the rich beech- andpine-woods running sheer from our airy eminence to the level world below, nothing more visionary, slumberous, or dimmer than that wide expanseteeming, as we know, with busy human life, yet flat and motionless as apicture. 

[Illustration]

On clear nights the electric lights of the railway station at Strasburgare seen from this point; but far more attractive than the prospects fromSt. Odile is its prehistoric wall. Before the wall, however, came thedinner, which deserves mention. It was Friday, so in company of priests, nuns, monks and divers pious pilgrims, with a sprinkling of fashionableladies from Strasburg, and tourists generally, we sat down to a very fair_menu_ for a fast-day, to wit: rice-soup, turnips and potatoes, eggs, perch, macaroni-cheese, custard pudding, gruyère cheese, and fairvin ordinaire. Two shillings was charged per head, and I must say peoplegot their money's worth, for appetites seem keen in these parts. Themother-superior, a kindly old woman, evidently belonging to the workingclass, bustled about and shook hands with each of her guests. Afterdinner we were shown the bedrooms, which are very clean; for board andlodging you pay six francs a day, out of which, judging from the hungerof the company, the profit arising would be small except to clericalhotel-keepers. We must bear in mind that nuns work without pay, and thatall the fish, game, dairy and garden produce the bishop gets for nothing. However, all tourists must be glad of such a hostelry, and the nuns arevery obliging. One sister made us some afternoon tea very nicely (wealways carry tea and teapot on these excursions), and everybody made uswelcome. We found a delightful old Frenchman of Strasburg to conduct usto the Pagan Wall, as, for want of a better name, people designate thisfamous relic of prehistoric times. Fragments of stone fortificationssimilarly constructed have been found on other points of the Vosges notfar from the promontory on which the convent stands, but none to becompared to this one in colossal proportions and completeness. 

We dip deep down into the woods on quitting the convent gates, then climbfor a little space and come suddenly upon the edge of the plateau, whichthe wall was evidently raised to defend. Never did a spot more easilylend itself to such rude defence by virtue of natural position, althoughwhere the construction begins the summit of the promontory isinaccessible from below. We are skirting dizzy precipices, featheredwith light greenery and brightened with flowers, but awfulnotwithstanding, and in many places the stones have evidently been piledtogether rather for the sake of symmetry than from a sense of danger. Thepoints thus protected were already impregnable. When we look more nearlywe see that however much Nature may have aided these primitiveconstructors, the wall is mainly due to the agency of man. There is nodoubt that in many places the stupendous masses of conglomerate have beenhurled to their places by earthquake, but the entire girdle of stone, ofpyramidal size and strength, shows much symmetrical arrangement anddexterity. The blocks have been selected according to size and shape, andin many places mortised together. We find no trace of cement, a factdisproving the hypothesis that the wall may have been of Roman origin. Wemust doubtless go much farther back, and associate these primitivebuilders with such relics of prehistoric times as the stones of Carnacand Lokmariaker. And not to seek so wide for analogies, do we not seehere the handiwork of the same rude architects I have before alluded toin my Vosges travels, who flung a stone bridge across the forest gorgeabove Remiremont and raised in close proximity the stupendous monolith ofKirlinkin? The prehistoric stone monuments scattered about these regionsare as yet new to the English archaeologist, and form one of the mostinteresting features of Vosges and Alsatian travel. 

We may follow these lightly superimposed blocks of stone for miles, andthe _enceinte_ has been traced round the entire plateau, which wasthus defended from enemies on all sides. As we continue our walk on theinner side of the wall we get lovely views of the dim violet hills, thevast golden plain, and, close underneath, luxuriant forests. Eagles areflying hither and thither, and except for an occasional tourist or two, the scene is perfectly solitary. An hour's walk brings us to theMenelstein, a vast and lofty platform of stone, ascended by a stair, bothuntouched by the hand of man. Never was a more formidable redoubt raisedby engineering skill. Nature here helped her primitive builders well. From a terrace due to the natural formation of the rock, we obtainanother of those grand and varied panoramas so numerous in this part ofthe world, but the beauty nearer at hand is more enticing. Nothing canexceed the freshness and charm of our homeward walk. We are now no longerfollowing the wall, but free to enjoy the breezy, heather-scentedplateau, and the broken, romantic outline of St. Odile, the Wartburg ofAlsace, as the saint herself was its Holy Elizabeth, and with as romantica story for those with a taste for such legends. 

Here and there on the remoter wooded peaks are stately ruins of feudalcastles, whilst all the way our path lies amid bright foliage of youngforest trees, chestnut and oak, pine and acacia, and the ground is purplewith heather. Blocks of the conglomerate used in the construction of theso-called Pagan Wall meet us at every turn, and as we gaze down the steepsides of the promontory we can trace its massive outline. A scene notsoon to be forgotten! The still, solitary field of Carnac, with itsavenues of monoliths, is not more impressive than these Cyclopean walls, thrown as a girdle round the green slopes of St. Odile. 

We would fain have stayed here some time, but much more still remained tobe seen and accomplished in Alsace. Rothau, the district known as the Bande la Roche, where Oberlin laboured for sixty years, Thann, Wesserling, with a sojourn among French subjects of the German Empire at Mulhouse--all these things had to be done, and the bright summer days were drawingto an end. 

IV

FROM BARR TO STRASBURG, MULHOUSE AND BELFORT

The opening sentences of this chapter, written many years ago, are nolonger applicable. Were I to revisit Alsace-Lorraine at the present time, I should only hear French speech among intimate friends and in private, so strictly of late years has the law of lèse-majesté been, and is still, enforced. 

Nothing strikes the sojourner in Alsace-Lorraine more forcibly than theoutspokenness of its inhabitants regarding Prussian rule. Young and old, rich and poor, wise and simple alike unburden themselves to theirchance-made English acquaintance with a candour that is at the same timeamusing and pathetic. For the most part no heed whatever is paid topossible German listeners. At the ordinaries of country hotels, by theshop door, in the railway carriage, Alsatians will pour out theirhearts, especially the women, who, as two pretty sisters assured us, arenot interfered with, be their conversation of the most treasonable kind. We travelled with these two charming girls from Barr to Rothau, and theycorroborated what we had already heard at Barr and other places. ThePrussian inhabitants of Alsace-Lorraine--for the most part Governmentofficials--are completely shut off from all social intercourse with theFrench population, the latter, of course, still forming the vastmajority. Thus at Barr, a town consisting of over six thousandinhabitants, only a score or two are Prussians, who are employed in therailway and postal service, the police, the survey of forests, etc. Theposition of these officials is far from agreeable, although, on theother hand, there is compensation in the shape of higher pay, and muchmore material comfort, even luxury, than are to be had in theFatherland. Alsace-Lorraine, especially by comparison with Prussia, maybe called a land of Goshen, overflowing with milk and honey. The vineripens on these warm hill-sides and rocky terraces, the plain producesabundant variety of fruit and vegetables, the streams abound with troutand the forests with game. No wonder, therefore, that whilst thousandsof patriotic Alsatians have already quitted the country, thousands ofPrussians are ready to fill their places. But the Alsatian exodus is farfrom finished. At first, as was only natural, the inhabitants could notrealize the annexation. They refused to believe that the Prussianoccupation was final, so, for the most part, stayed on, hoping againsthope. The time of illusion is past. French parents of children bornsince the war had to decide whether their sons are to become Prussian orFrench citizens. After the age of sixteen a lad's fate is no longer intheir hands; he must don the uniform so odious in French eyes, andrenounce the cherished _patrie_ and _tricolor_ for ever. 

The enforced military service, necessitated, perhaps, by the new order ofthings, is the bitterest drop in the cup of the Alsatians. Only thepoorest, and those who are too much hampered by circumstances to evadeit, resign themselves to the enrolment of their sons in the German army. For this reason well-to-do parents, and even many in the humbler ranks oflife, are quitting the country in much larger numbers than is takenaccount of, whilst all who can possibly afford it send their young sonsacross the frontier for the purpose of giving them a French education. The prohibition of French in the public schools and colleges is anothergrievous condition of annexation. Alsatians of all ranks are thereforeunder the necessity of providing private masters for their children, unless they would let them grow up in ignorance of their mother tongue. And here a word of explanation may be necessary. Let no strangers inAlsace take it for granted that because a great part of the ruralpopulation speak a _patois_ made up of bad German and equally badFrench, they are any more German at heart for all that. Some of the mostpatriotic French inhabitants of Alsace can only express themselves inthis dialect, a fact that should not surprise us, seeing the amalgamationof races that has been going on for many generations. 

Physically speaking, so far the result has been satisfactory. InAlsace-Lorraine no one can help being struck with the fine appearance ofthe people. The men are tall, handsome, and well made, the womengraceful and often exceedingly lovely, French piquancy and symmetricalproportions combined with Teutonic fairness of complexion, blonde hair, and blue eyes. 

I will now continue my journey from Barr to Strasburg by way of the Bande la Roche, Oberlin's country. A railway connects Barr with Rothau, avery pleasant halting-place in the midst of sweet pastoral scenery. It isanother of those resorts in Alsace whither holiday folks flock fromStrasburg and other towns during the long vacation, in quest of health, recreation and society. 

Rothau is a very prosperous little town, with large factories, handsomechâteaux of mill-owners, and trim little cottages, having flowers in allthe windows and a trellised vine in every garden. Pomegranates andoleanders are in full bloom here and there, and the general aspect isbright and cheerful. At Rothau are several _blanchisseries_ orlaundries, on a large scale, employing many hands, besides dye-works andsaw-mills. Through the town runs the little river Bruche, and the wholedistrict, known as the Ban de la Roche, a hundred years ago one of thedreariest regions in France, is now all smiling fertility. The principalbuilding is its handsome Protestant church--for here we are amongProtestants, although of a less zealous temper than their fore-fathers, the fervid Anabaptists. I attended morning service, and although aneloquent preacher from Paris officiated, the audience was small, and thegeneral impression that of coldness and want of animation. 

From the sweet, fragrant valley of Rothau a road winds amid green hillsand by the tumbling river to the little old-world village of Foudai, where Oberlin lies buried. The tiny church and shady churchyard lie abovethe village, and a more out-of-the-way spot than Foudai itself can hardlybe imagined. Yet many a pious pilgrim finds it out and comes hither topay a tribute to the memory of "Papa Oberlin, " as he was artlesslycalled by the country folk. This is the inscription at the head of theplain stone slab marking his resting-place; and very suggestive it is ofthe relation between the pastor and his flock. Oberlin's career of sixtyyears among the primitive people of the Ban de la Roche was rather thatof a missionary among an uncivilized race than of a country priest amonghis parishioners. How he toiled, and how he induced others to toil, inorder to raise the material as well as moral and spiritual conditions ofhis charges, is pretty well known. His story reads like the Germannarrative, _Des Goldmachers Dorf_. Nor does it require any livelyfancy to picture what this region must have been like before Oberlin andhis fellow-workers made the wilderness to blossom as the rose. The soilis rocky and barren, the hill-sides whitened with mountain streams, themore fertile spots isolated and difficult of access. An elaborate systemof irrigation has now clothed the valleys with rich pastures, the riverturns a dozen wheels, and every available inch of soil has been turned toaccount. The cottages with orchards and flower-gardens are trim andcomfortable. The place in verity is a veritable little Arcadia. No lessso is Waldersbach, which was Oberlin's home. The little river windingamid hayfields and fruit-trees leads us thither from Foudai inhalf-an-hour. It is Sunday afternoon, and a fête day. Young and old inSunday garb are keeping holiday, the lads and lasses waltzing, thechildren enjoying swings and peep-shows. No acerbity has lingered amongthese descendants of the austere parishioners of Oberlin. Here, as atFoudai, the entire population is Protestant. The church and parsonagelie at the back of the village, and we were warmly welcomed by thepastor and his wife, a great-great-granddaughter of Oberlin. Their sixpretty children were playing in the garden with two young girls in thecostume of Alsace, forming a pleasant domestic picture. Our hostsshowed us many relics of Oberlin, the handsome cabinets and presses ofcarved oak, in which were stored the family wardrobe and othertreasures, and in the study the table on which he habitually wrote. This is a charming upper room with wide views over the green hills andsunny, peaceful valley. 

We were offered hospitality for days, nay, weeks, if we chose to stay, and even the use of Oberlin's study to sit and write in! A summer mightbe pleasantly spent here, with quiet mornings in this cheerful chamber, full of pious memories, and in the afternoon long rambles with thechildren over the peaceful hills. From Foudai, too, you may climb thewild rocky plateau known as the Champ de Feu--no spot in the Vosges chainis more interesting from a geological point of view. 

After much pleasant talk we took leave of our kind hosts, not going away, however, without visiting the church. A tablet with medallion portrait ofOberlin bears the touching inscription that for fifty-nine years he was"the father of this parish. " Then we drove back as we had come, stoppingat Foudai to rest the horse and drink tea. We were served in a coollittle parlour opening on to a garden, and, so tempting looked the tinyinn that we regretted we could not stay there a week. A pleasant pastoralcountry rather than romantic or picturesque is the Ban de la Roche, butclose at hand is the lofty Donon, which may be climbed from Rothau orFoudai, and there are many other excursions within reach. 

Here, for the present, the romance of Alsace travel ends, and all isprose of a somewhat painful kind. The first object that attracted ourattention on reaching Strasburg was the new railway station, of which wehad already heard so much. This handsome structure, erected by the GermanGovernment at an enormous cost, had only been recently opened, and sogreat was the soreness of feeling excited by certain allegoricalbas-reliefs decorating the façade that for many days after the openingof the station police-officers in plain clothes carefully watched thecrowd of spectators, carrying off the more seditious to prison. To saythe least of it, these mural decorations are not in the best of taste, and at any rate it would have been better to have withheld them for atime. The two small bas-reliefs in question bear respectively theinscription, "_Im alten, und im neuen Reich_" ("In the old and newEmpire"), improved by a stander-by, to the great relish of others, thus, "_Im alten, reich, im neuen, arm_" ("In the old, rich, in the new, poor"). They give a somewhat ideal representation of the surrender ofStrasburg to the German Emperor. But the bombardment of their city, thedestruction of public monuments and the loss of life and propertythereby occasioned, were as yet fresh in the memories of theinhabitants, and they needed no such reminder of the new state ofthings. Their better feelings towards Germany had been bombarded out ofthem, as an Alsacienne wittily observed to the Duchess of Baden afterthe surrender. The duchess, daughter to the Emperor William, made theround of the hospitals, and not a single Alsatian soldier but turned hisface to the wall, whereupon she expressed her astonishment at notfinding a better sentiment. Nor can the lover of art help drawing apainful contrast between the Strasburg of the old and the new _régime_. There was very little to see at Strasburg except the cathedral at thistime. The Library, with its 300, 000 volumes and 1, 500 manuscripts--thepriceless _Hortus Deliciarium_ of the twelfth century, richlyilluminated and ornamented with miniatures invaluable to the student ofmen and manners of the Middle Ages, the missal of Louis XII. , bearinghis arms, the _Recueil de Prières_ of the eighth century--all these hadbeen completely destroyed by the ruthless Prussian bombardment. TheMuseum, rich in _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the French school, both of sculptureand painting, the handsome Protestant church, the theatre, the Palais deJustice, all shared the same fate, not to speak of buildings of lesserimportance, including four hundred private dwellings, and of the fifteenhundred civilians, men, women and children, killed and wounded by theshells. The fine church of St. Thomas suffered greatly. Nor was thecathedral spared, and it would doubtless have perished altogether, too, but for the enforced surrender of the heroic city. On my second visitten years later I found immense changes, new German architecture to beseen everywhere. 

Strasburg is said to contain a much larger German element than any othercity of Alsace-Lorraine, but the most casual observer soon finds out howit stands with the bulk of the people. The first thing that attracted ournotice in a shop window was a coloured illustration representing thefuneral procession of Gambetta, as it wound slowly past the veiled statueof Strasburg on the Place de la Concorde. These displays of patrioticfeeling are forbidden, but they come to the fore all the same. Here, aselsewhere, the clinging to the old country is pathetically--sometimescomically--apparent. A rough peasant girl, employed as chambermaid in thehotel at which we stayed, amused me not a little by her tirades againstthe Prussians, spoken in a language that was neither German nor French, but a mixture of both--the delectable tongue of Alsace!

Strasburg is now a vast camp, with that perpetual noisy military paradeso wearisome in Berlin and other German cities, and, as I have said, there was very little to see. It was a relief to get to Mulhouse, thecomparatively quiet and thoroughly French city of Mulhouse, in spite ofall attempts to make it German. But for the imperial eagle placed overpublic offices and the sprinkling of Prussian helmets and Prussianphysiognomies, we could hardly suppose ourselves outside the Frenchborder. The shops are French. French is the language of the betterclasses, and French and Jews make up the bulk of the population. The Jewsfrom time immemorial have swarmed in Alsace, where, I am sorry to say, they seemed to be little liked. 

This thoroughly French appearance of Mulhouse, to be accounted for, moreover, by an intensely patriotic clinging to the mother country, naturally occasions great vexation to the German authorities. It is, perhaps, hardly to be wondered at that undignified provocations andreprisals should be the consequence. Thus the law forbids the putting upof French signboards or names over shop doors in any but the Germanlanguage. This is evaded by withholding all else except the surname ofthe individual, which is of course the same in both languages. 

One instance more I give of the small annoyances to which the Frenchresidents of Mulhouse are subject, a trifling one, yet sufficient toirritate. Eight months after the annexation, orders were sent round tothe pastors and clergy generally to offer up prayers for the EmperorWilliam every Sunday. The order was obeyed, for refusal would have beenassuredly followed by dismissal, but the prayer is ungraciouslyperformed. The French pastors invoke the blessing of Heaven on"_l'Empereur qui nous gouverne_". The pastors who perform theservice in German, pray not for "our Emperor, " as is the apparently loyalfashion in the Fatherland, but for "the Emperor. " These things aretrifling grievances, but, on the other hand, the Prussians have theirsalso. Not even the officials of highest rank are received into any kindof society whatever. Mulhouse possesses a charming zoological garden, free to subscribers only, who have to be balloted for. Twenty years afterthe annexation not a single Prussian has ever been able to obtain accessto this garden. 

Even the very poorest contrive to show their intense patriotism. It isthe rule of the German government to give twenty-five marks to any poorwoman giving birth to twins. The wife of a French workman during mysojourn at Mulhouse had three sons at a birth, but though in very poorcircumstances, refused to claim the donation. "My sons shall never bePrussian, " she said, "and that gift would make them so. "

The real thorn in the flesh of the annexed Alsatians is, however, as Ihave before pointed out, military service, and the enforced Germaneducation. All who have read Alphonse Daudet's charming little story, _La dernière leçon de Français_, will be able to realize thepainfulness of the truth, somewhat rudely brought home to French parents. Their children must henceforth receive a German education, or none atall, for this is what the law amounts to in the great majority of cases. Rich people, of course, and those who are only well-to-do, can send theirsons to the Lycée, opened at Belfort since the annexation, but the resthave to submit, or, by dint of great sacrifice, obtain private Frenchteaching. And, whilst even Alsatians are quite ready to render justice tothe forbearance and tact often shown by officials, an inquisitorial andprying system is pursued, as vexatious to the patriotic as enforcedvaccination to the Peculiar People or school attendance to the poor. Onelady was visited at seven o'clock in the morning by the functionarycharged with the unpleasant mission of finding out where her boy waseducated. "Tell those who sent you, " said the indignant mother, "that myson shall never belong to you. We will give up our home, our prospects, everything; but our children shall never be Prussians. " True enough, thefamily have since emigrated. No one who has not stayed in Alsace amongAlsatians can realize the intense clinging to France among the people, nor the sacrifices made to retain their nationality. And it is well thetrue state of feeling throughout the annexed territory should be knownoutside its limits. With a considerable knowledge of French life andcharacter, I confess I went to Mulhouse little prepared to find there aferment of feeling which years have not sufficed to calm down. 

[Illustration: ETTENHEIM]

"Nous ne sommes pas heureux à Mulhouse" were almost the first wordsaddressed to me by that veteran patriot and true philanthropist, JeanDollfus. 

And how could it be otherwise? M. Dollfus, as well as otherrepresentatives of the French subjects of Prussia in the Reichstag, hadprotested against the annexation of Alsace in vain. They pointed out theheavy cost to the German empire of these provinces, in consequence of thevast military force required to maintain them, the undying bitternessaroused, the moral, intellectual, and material interests at stake. I usethe word intellectual advisedly, for, amongst other instances in point, Iwas assured that the book trade in Mulhouse had greatly declined sincethe annexation. The student class has diminished, many reading peoplehave gone, and those who remain feel too uncertain about the future toaccumulate libraries. Moreover, the ordeal that all have gone through hasdepressed intellectual as well as social life. Mulhouse has been too muchsaddened to recover herself as yet, although eminently a literary place, and a sociable one in the old happy French days. The balls, soirées andreunions, that formerly made Mulhouse one of the friendliest as well asthe busiest towns in the world, have almost ceased. People take theirpleasures very soberly. 

It is hardly possible to write of Mulhouse without consecrating a pageor two to M. Jean Dollfus, a name already familiar to some Englishreaders. The career of such a man forms part of contemporary history, and for sixty years the great cotton-printer of Mulhouse, theindefatigable philanthropist--the fellow-worker with Cobden, Arles-Dufour, and others in the cause of Free Trade--and the ardentpatriot, had been before the world. 

The year before my visit was celebrated, with a splendour that would beridiculed in a novel, the diamond wedding of the head of the numeroushouse of Dollfus, the silver and the golden having been already kept indue form. 

Mulhouse might well be proud of such a fête, for it was unique, and thefirst gala-day since the annexation. When M. Dollfus looked out of hiswindow in the morning, he found the familiar street transformed as if bymagic into a bright green avenue abundantly adorned with flowers. Thechange had been effected in the night by means of young fir-treestransplanted from the forest. The day was kept as a general holiday. From an early hour the improvised avenue was thronged with visitors ofall ranks bearing cards, letters of congratulation or flowers. The greatDollfus works were closed, and the five thousand workmen with theirwives, children and superannuated parents, were not only feasted butenriched. After the banquet every man, woman and child received a presentin money, the oldest and those who had remained longest in the employ ofM. Dollfus being presented with forty francs. But the crowning sight ofthe day was the board spread for the Dollfus family and the gathering ofthe clan, as it may indeed be called. There was the head of the house, firm as a rock still, in spite of his eighty-two years; beside him thepartner of sixty of those years, his devoted wife; next according to age, their numerous sons and daughters, sons-in-law and daughters-in-law; dulyfollowing came the grandsons and grand-daughters, then thegreat-grandsons and great-granddaughters, and lastly, the babies of theirfifth generation, all accompanied by their nurses in the picturesquecostume of Alsace and Lorraine. This patriarchal assemblage numberedbetween one and two hundred guests. On the table were represented, in theartistic confectionery for which Mulhouse is famous, some of the leadingevents of M. Dollfus's busy life. Here in sugar was a model of theachievement which will ever do honour to the name of Jean Dollfus, namely, the _cités ouvrières_, and what was no less a triumph of theconfectioner's skill, a group representing the romantic ride of M. AndMme. Dollfus on camels towards the Algerian Sahara when visiting theAfrican colony some twenty years before. 

This patriarchal festival is said to have cost M. Dollfus half a millionof francs, a bagatelle in a career devoted to giving! The bare conceptionof what this good man has bestowed takes one's breath away! Not that hewas alone; never was a city more prolific of generous men than Mulhouse, but Jean Dollfus, _"Le Père Jean, "_ as he is called, stood at thehead. He received with one hand to bestow with the other, and not only onbehalf of the national, intellectual and spiritual wants of his ownworkmen and his own community--the Dollfus family are Protestant--butindiscriminately benefiting Protestant, Catholic, Jew; founding schools, hospitals, libraries, refuges, churches, for all. 

We see at a glance after what fashion the great manufacturers set to workhere to solve the problem before them. The life of ease and the life oftoil are seen side by side, and all the brighter influences of the onebrought to bear on the other. The tall factory chimneys are unsightlyhere as elsewhere, and nothing can be uglier than the steam tramways, noisily running through the streets. But close to the factories andworkshops are the cheerful villas and gardens of their owners, whilstnear at hand the workmen's dwellings offer an exterior equallyattractive. These _cités ouvrières_ form indeed a suburb inthemselves, and a very pleasant suburb too. Many middle-class families inEngland might be glad to own such a home, a semi-detached cottage orvilla standing in a pretty garden with flowers and trees and plots ofturf. Some of the cottages are models of trimness and taste, others ofcourse are less well kept, a few have a neglected appearance. The generalaspect, however, is one of thrift and prosperity, and it must be borne inmind that each dwelling and plot of ground are the property of the owner, gradually acquired by him out of his earnings, thanks to the initiativeof M. Dollfus and his fellow-workers. "It is by such means as these thatwe have combated Socialism, " said M. Dollfus to me; and the gradualtransformation of the workman into an owner of property, is but one ofthe numerous efforts made at Mulhouse to lighten, in so far as ispracticable, the burden of toil. 

These pleasant avenues are very animated on Sundays, especially when auniversal christening of babies is going on. The workmen at Mulhouse arepaid once a fortnight, in some cases monthly, and it is usually afterpay-day that such celebrations occur. We saw one Sunday afternoon quitea procession of carriages returning from the church to the _citéouvrière_, for upon these occasions nobody goes on foot. There werecertainly a dozen christening parties, all well dressed, and the babiesin the finest white muslin and embroidery. A very large proportion of theartisans here are Catholics, and as one instance among others of theliberality prevailing here, I mention that one of the latest donations ofM. Dollfus is the piece of ground, close to the _cité ouvrière_, onwhich now stands the new, florid Catholic church. 

There are free libraries for all, and a very handsome museum has beenopened within the last few years, containing some fine modern Frenchpictures, all gifts of the Dollfrees, Engels, and Köchlins, to theirnative town. The museum, like everything else at Mulhouse, is as Frenchas French can be, no German element visible anywhere. Conspicuous amongthe pictures are portraits of Thiers and Gambetta, and a fine subject ofDe Neuville, representing one of those desperate battle-scenes of 1870-71that still have such a painful hold on the minds of French people. It waswithheld for some time, and had only been recently exhibited. Thebombardment of Strasburg is also a popular subject in Mulhouse. 

I have mentioned the flower-gardens of the city, but the realpleasure-ground of both rich and poor lies outside the suburbs, and acharming one it is, and full of animation on Sundays. This is theTannenwald, a fine bit of forest on high ground above the vineyards andsuburban gardens of the richer citizens. A garden is a necessity ofexistence here, and all who are without one in the town hire or purchasea plot of suburban ground. Here is also the beautiful subscription gardenI have before alluded to, with fine views over the Rhine valley and theBlack Forest. 

Nor is Mulhouse without its excursions. Colmar and the romantic site ofNotre Dame des Trois Épis may be visited in a day. Then there is Thann, with its perfect Gothic church, a veritable cathedral in miniature, andthe charming, prosperous valley of Wesserling. From Thann the ascent ofthe Ballon d'Alsace may be made, but the place itself must on no accountbe missed. No more exquisite church in the region, and most beautifullyis it placed amid sloping green hills! It may be said to consist of naveand apse only. There are but two lateral, chapels, evidently of a laterperiod than the rest of the building. The interior is of great beauty, and no less so the façade and side porch, both very richly decorated. One's first feeling is of amazement to find such a church in such aplace; but this dingy, sleepy little town was once of some importanceand still does a good deal of trade. There is a very large Jewishcommunity here, as in many other towns of Alsace. Whether they deservetheir unpopularity is a painful question not lightly to be taken up. 

[Illustration: COLMAR]

Leisurely travellers bound homeward from Mulhouse will do well to divergefrom the direct Paris line and join it at Dijon, by way of Belfort--theheroic city of Belfort, with its colossal lion, hewn out of the solidrock--the little Protestant town of Montbéliard, and Besançon. Belfort iswell worth seeing, and the "Territoire de Belfort" is to all intents andpurposes a new department, formed from that remnant of the Haut Rhinsaved to France after the war of 1870-71. The "Territoire de Belfort"comprises upwards of sixty thousand hectares, and a population, chieflyindustrial, of nearly seventy thousand inhabitants, spread over manycommunes and hamlets. There is a picturesque and romantic bit of countrybetween Montbéliard and Besançon, well worth seeing, if only from therailway windows. But the tourist who wants to make no friendly calls onthe way, whose chief aim is to get over the ground quickly, must avoidthe _détour_ by all means, as the trains are slow and the stoppagesmany. 

[Illustration: SKETCH BY GUSTAVE DORÉ, AETAT EIGHT YEARS]

V

THE 'MARVELLOUS BOY' OF ALSACE

I

It is especially at Strasburg that travellers are reminded of another"marvellous boy, " who, if he did not "perish in his pride, " certainlyshortened his days by overreaching ambition and the brooding bitternesswaiting upon shattered hopes. 

Gustave Doré was born and reared under the shadow of StrasburgCathedral. The majestic spire, a world in itself, became indeed a worldto this imaginative prodigy. He may be said to have learned the minsterof minsters by heart, as before him Victor Hugo had familiarized himselfwith Notre Dame. The unbreeched artist of four summers never tired ofscrutinizing the statues, monsters, gargoyles and other outerornamentations, while the story of the pious architect Erwin and of hisinspirer, Sabine, was equally dear. Never did genius more clearlyexhibit the influence of early environment. True child of Alsace, herevelled in local folklore and legend. The eerie and the fantastic hadthe same fascination for him as sacred story, and the lives of thesaints, gnomes, elves, werewolves and sorcerers bewitched no less thanmartyrs, miracle-workers and angels. 

His play-hours would be spent within the precincts of the cathedral, whilst the long winter evenings were beguiled with fairy-tales andfables, his mother and nurse reading or reciting these, their littlelistener being always busy with pen or pencil. Something much more thanmere precocity is shown in these almost infantine sketches. Exorbitantfancy is here much less striking than sureness of touch, outlinedfigures drawn between the age of five and ten displaying remarkableprecision and point, each line of the silhouette telling. At six hecelebrated his first school prize with an illustrated letter, twoportraits and a mannikin surmounting the text. 

[Footnote: See his life by Blanch Roosevelt, Sampson Low & Co. 1885;also the French translation of the same, 1886. ]

His groups of peasants and portraits, made three or four years later, possess almost a Rembrandt strength, unfortunately passion for thegrotesque and the fanciful often lending a touch of caricature. Downright ugliness must have had an especial charm for the futureillustrator of the _Inferno_, his unconscious models sketched by theway being uncomely as the immortal Pickwick and his fellows of Phiz. Adevotee of Gothic art, he reproduced the mediæval monstrosities adorningcornice and pinnacle in human types. Equally devoted to nature out ofdoors, the same taste predominated. What he loved and sought was everthe savage, the legend-haunted, the ghoulish, seats and ambuscades ofkelpie, hobgoblin, brownie and their kind. 

[Illustration: SKETCH BY GUSTAVE DORÉ, ÆTAT EIGHT YEARS]

From the nursery upwards, if the term can be applied to French children, his life was a succession of artistic abnormalities and _tours deforce_. The bantling in petticoats who could astound his elders withwonderfully accurate silhouettes, continued to surprise them in otherways. His memory was no less amazing than his draughtsmanship. Whenseven years of age, he was taken to the opera and witnessed _Robert leDiable_. On returning home he accurately narrated every scene. 

At eight he broke his right arm, but became as if by magic ambidextrous, whilst confined to bed, cheerily drawing all day long with the lefthand. At ten he witnessed a grand public ceremony. In 1840 Strasburgcelebrated the inauguration of a monument to Gutenberg, the festivalbeing one of extraordinary splendour. Fifteen cars represented theindustrial corporations of the city, each symbolically adorned, and ineach riding figures suitably travestied and occupied, men, women andchildren wearing the costumes of the period represented. Among thecorporations figured the _Peintres-verriers_, or painters on stainedglass, their car proving especially attractive to one small looker-on. 

Intoxicated by the colour and movement of the fête, garlanded andbeflagged streets, the symbolic carriages, the bands, civic andmilitary, and the prevailing enthusiasm, the child determined to get upan apotheosis of his own: in other words, to repeat the performance on asmaller scale. Which he did. Cars, costumes, banners and decorationswere all designed by this imp of ten. With the approval of hisprofessors and the collaboration of his school-fellows, the Doréprocession, consisting of four highly decorated cars, drawn by boys, defiled before the college authorities and made the round of thecathedral, the youthful impresario at its head. The car of the painterson glass was conspicuously elaborate, a star copied from a Cathedralwindow showing the superscription, _G. Doré, fecit_. Small wonder is itthat the adoring mother of an equally adoring son should have believedin him from the first, and seen in these beginnings the dawn of genius, the advent, indeed, of a second Michael Angelo or Titian. 

The more practical father might chide such overreaching vaticinations, might reiterate--

"Do not fill the boy's head with nonsense. "

The answer would be--

"I know it. Our son is a genius. "

And Doré _père_ gave way, under circumstances curious enough. 

II

In 1847 the family visited Paris, there to Gustave's delight spendingfour months. Loitering one day in the neighbourhood of the Bourse, hiseye lighted upon comic papers with cuts published by MM. Auber andPhilipon. Their shop windows were full of caricatures, and after a longand intent gaze the boy returned home, in two or three days presentinghimself before the proprietors with half-a-dozen drawings much in thestyle of those witnessed. The benevolent but businesslike M. Philiponexamined the sketches attentively, put several questions to his youngvisitor, and, finding that the step had been taken surreptitiously, immediately sat down and wrote to M. And Mme. Doré. He urged them withall the inducements he could command to allow their son the free choiceof a career, assuring them of his future. 

A few days later an agreement was signed by father and publisher to thiseffect: During three years the latter was to receive upon certain termsa weekly cartoon from the sixteen-year-old artist, who, on his side, bound himself to offer no sketches elsewhere. 

[Footnote: This document was reproduced in _Le Figaro_ ofDecember 4, 1848. ]

Meanwhile, Gustave would pursue his studies at the Lycée Charlemagne, his patron promising to look after his health and well-being. Thearrangement answered, and in _Le Journal pour rire_ the weeklycaricature signed by Doré soon noised his fame abroad. Ugly, evenhideous, as were many of these caricatures, they did double duty, payingthe lad's school expenses, and paving the way to better things. Ofcaricature Doré soon tired, and after this early period never returnedto it. Is it any wonder that facile success and excessive laudationshould turn the stripling's head? Professionally, if not artisticallyspeaking, Doré passed straight from child to man; in one sense of theword he had no boyhood, the term tyro remained inapplicable. Thisundersized, fragile lad, looking years younger than he really was, soonfound himself on what must have appeared a pinnacle of fame and fortune. 

Shortly after his agreement with Philipon, his father died, and Mme. Doré with her family removed to Paris, settling in a picturesque andhistoric hôtel of the Rue St. Dominique. Here Doré lived for the rest ofhis too short life. 

The house had belonged to the family of Saint Simon, that terribleobserver under whose gaze even Louis XIV. Is said to have quailed. Soaver historians of the period. The associations of his home immediatelyquickened Doré's inventive faculties. He at once set to work andorganized a brilliant set of _tableaux vivants_, illustrating scenesfrom the immortal Mémoires. The undertaking proved a great socialsuccess, and henceforth we hear of galas, soirées, theatricals and otherentertainments increasing in splendour with the young artist'svogue--and means. 

The history of the next twenty years reads like a page from the _ArabianNights_. Although dazzling is the record from first to last, and despitethe millions of francs earned during those two decades, the artist'sambition was never satisfied. We are always conscious of bitterness anddisillusion. As an illustrator, no longer of cheap comic papers but ofliterary masterpieces brought out in costly fashion, Doré reached thefirst rank at twenty, his _Rabelais_ setting the seal on his renown. Soimmense was the success of this truly colossal undertaking and of itssuccessors, the _Don Quixote_, the _Contes de fées_ of Perraultand the rest, that he meditated nothing less than the illustration ofcosmopolitan _chefs 'd' oeuvre, en bloc_, a series which should includeevery great imaginative work of the Western world! Thus in 1855 we findhim noting the following projects, to be carried out in ten years'time:--illustrations of Æschylus, Lucan, Ovid, Shakespeare, Goethe_(Faust)_, Lamartine _(Méditations)_, Racine, Corneille, Schiller, Boccaccio, Montaigne, Plutarch's Lives--these names among others. Thejottings in question were written for a friend who had undertaken towrite the artist's biography. 

The _Rabelais, Don Quixote, The Inferno_, and several more of thesesumptuous volumes were brought out in England. Forty years ago Doré'sbold and richly imaginative work was in great favour here; indeed, throughout his life he was much more appreciated by ourselves than byhis countrymen. All the drawings were done straight upon wood. Lavish indaily life, generous of the generous, Doré showed the same lavishness inhis procedure. Some curious particulars are given upon this head. Fabulous sums were spent upon his blocks, even small ones costing asmuch as four pounds apiece. He must always have the very best wood, nomatter the cost, and it was only the whitest, smoothest and glossiestboxwood that satisfied him. Enormous sums were spent upon this material, and to his honour be it recorded, that no matter the destination of ablock, the same cost, thought and minute manipulation were expended upona trifling commission as upon one involving thousands of pounds. Thepenny paper was treated precisely the same as the volume to be broughtout at two guineas. In the zenith of his fame as an illustrator, at atime when tip-top authors and editors were all clamouring for hisdrawings, he did not despise humbler admirers and clients. His delightin his work was only equalled by quite abnormal physical and mentalpowers. Sleep, food, fresh air, everything was forgotten in theengrossment of work. At this time he would often give himself threehours of sleep only. 

Doré's ambition--rather, one of his ambitions--was to perfect woodengraving as an art, hence his indifference to the cost of production. Hence, doubtless, his persistence in drawing on wood without preliminarysketch or copy. 

Perhaps such obsession was natural. How could he foresee the variety ofnew methods that were so soon to transform book illustration? Anyhow, herein partly lies the explanation of the following notice in asecond-hand book catalogue, 1911--

"No. 355. Gustave Doré: _Dante's Inferno_, with 76 full-pageillustrations by Doré. 4to, gilt top, binding soiled, but otherwise goodcopy. _42s. _ for _3s. 6d. _ London, n. D. "

A leading London publisher consulted by me on the subject, writesas follows--

"Doré's works are no longer in vogue. One of the reasons lies in thefact that his pictures were done by the old engraved process. He drewthem straight on wood, and there are, accordingly, no original drawingsto be reproduced by modern methods. "

The words "fatal facility" cannot be applied to so consummate adraughtsman as the illustrator of Dante, Cervantes and Victor Hugo. ButDoré's almost superhuman memory was no less of a pitfall than manualdexterity. The following story will partly explain his dislike offacsimile and duplication. 

An intimate friend, named Bourdelin, relates how one day during thesiege of Paris, the pair found themselves by the Courbevoie bridge. Oneside of this bridge was guarded by French gendarmes, the other byGerman officers, Prussians, Saxons, Bavarians, a dozen in all. For aquarter of an hour the two Frenchmen lingered, Doré intently gazing onthe group opposite. On returning home some hours later he produced asketch-book and in Bourdelin's presence swiftly outlined the twelvefigures, exactly reproducing not only physiognomic divergences butevery detail of costume! Poor Doré! In those ardently patriotic days heentirely relied upon victory and drew an anticipatory picture of Francetriumphant, entitled, "Le Passage du Rhin. " But the French nevercrossed the Rhine, and the drawing was given to this friend with thewords: "My sketch has no longer any _raison d'être_. Keep it in memoryof our fallacious hopes. "

III

In an evil hour for his peace of mind and his fame, Doré decided toleave illustration and become a historic painter. He evidently regardedgenius as a Pandora's gift, an all-embracing finality, an endowment thatcould neither be worsened nor bettered, being complete in itself. 

A reader of Ariosto, he had not taken to heart one of his most memorableverses, those mellifluous lines in which the poet dwells upon thelaboriousness of intellectual achievement. Nor when illustrating the_Arabian Nights_ had the wonderful story of Hasan of El-Basrahevidently brought home to him the same moral. 

Between a Doré and his object--so he deemed--existed neither "sevenvalleys nor seven seas, nor seven mountains of vast magnitude. " A Doréneeded no assistance of the flying Jinn and the wandering stars on hisway, no flying horse, "which when he went along flew, and when he flewthe dust overtook him not. "

Without the equipment of training, without recognition of such ahandicap, he entered upon his new career. 

In 1854 for the first time two pictures signed by Doré appeared on thewalls of the Salon. But the canvases passed unnoticed. The Parisianswould not take the would-be painter seriously, and the following year'sexperience proved hardly less disheartening. Of four pictures sent in, three were accepted, one of these being a historic subject, the othertwo being landscapes. The first, "La Bataille de l'Alma, " evokedconsiderable criticism. The rural scenes were hung, as Edmond Aboutexpressed it, so high as to need a telescope. 

Both About and Th. Gautier believed in their friend's newly-developedtalent, but art-critics and the public held aloof. No medal was decreedby the jury, and, accustomed as he had been to triumph after triumph, his fondest hopes for the second time deceived, Doré grew bitter andacrimonious. That his failure had anything to do with the real questionat issue, namely, his genius as a historic painter, he would never for amoment admit. Jealousy, cabals, prejudice only were accountable. 

The half dozen years following were divided between delightfully gay andvaried sociabilities, feverishly prolonged working hours and foreigntravel. The millions of francs earned by his illustrations gave himeverything he wanted but one, that one, in his eyes, worth all the rest. 

Travel, a splendid studio, largesses--he was generosity itself--allthese were within his reach. The craved-for renown remained ungraspable. 

Even visits to his favourite resort, Barr, brought disenchantment. Hefound old acquaintances and the country folks generally wanting inappreciation. With greater and lesser men, he subacidly said to himselfthat a man was no prophet in his own country. 

Ten years after the fiasco of his first canvases in the Salon came aninvitation to England and the alluring project of a Doré gallery. TheDoré Bible and Tennyson, with other works, had paved the way for a rightroyal reception. The streets of London, as he could well believe, werepaved with gold. But many were the _contra_. "I feel the presentiment, "he wrote to a friend, "that if I betake myself to England, I shall breakwith my own country and lose prestige and influence in France. I cannotexist without my friends, my habits and my _pot-au-feu_. Folks tell methat England is a land of fogs, that the sun never shines there, thatthe inhabitants are cold, and that I should most likely suffer fromsea-sickness in crossing the Manche. To sum up, England is a long wayoff, and I have a great mind to give up the project. "

Friendly persuasion, self-interest, wounded self-love carried the day. Reluctantly he decided upon the redoubtable sea-voyage. Whether hesuffered from sea-sickness or no we are not told. In any case the visitwas repeated, John Bull according the great Alsatian, as he was called, what France had so persistently withheld. 

Doré was here accorded the first rank among historic painters. Hisgallery in Bond Street became one of the London sights; in fashionablesociety, if not in the close ring of the great Victorian artists, hemade a leading figure. Royalty patronized and welcomed him. The Queenbought one of his pictures ("Le Psalterion, " now at Windsor), and invitedhim to Balmoral. The heir-apparent, the late King, admired his talentand relished his society. By the clerical world he was especiallyesteemed, being looked upon as a second Leonardo da Vinci. And, in fine, Doré must be regarded as an anticipator of the Entente cordiale. "Gustave Doré, " his compatriots would say, "he is half an Englishman!"Forty years ago our popular favourite might indeed have believed in thefulfilment of his dream. The Thorwaldsen Gallery of Copenhagen had everdazzled his imagination. Bond Street was not Paris, certainly, but inthe greatest metropolis of the world his memory would be for everperpetuated. Turning to the dithyrambic utterances of the London Pressat the time we can hardly wonder at the hallucination. 

Here are one or two passages culled from leading dailies and weeklies--

"In gravity and magnitude of purpose, no less than in the scope andpower of his imagination, he towers like a Colossus among hiscontemporaries. Compared with such a work as 'Christ leaving thePrætorium, ' the pictures in Burlington House look like the production ofa race of dwarfs whose mental faculties are as diminutive as theirstature. And it is not alone the efforts of the English School ofPainting that appear puny in presence of so great and gigantic anundertaking; the work of all the existing schools of Europe sinks intoequal insignificance, and we must go back to the Italian painters of thesixteenth century to find a picture worthy of being classed with thislatest and most stupendous achievement of the great French master. "

Elsewhere we read--

"The most marvellous picture of the present age is to be seen at 35, NewBond Street. The subject is 'Christ leaving the Prætorium, ' The painteris the world-renowned Gustave Doré. "

A journal devoted to art-criticism wrote--

"In 'The Christian Martyrs' we have a striking, thrilling andennobling picture. "

And so on, and so on. Yet at this time among "the dwarfs" of BurlingtonHouse then exhibiting was Millais, and contemporaneously with Doré inour midst, 1870-1, was Daubigny, whose tiniest canvases now fetch theirthousands!

It was during Doré's apogee in England that a well-known French amateur, also visiting our shores, was thus addressed by an English friend: "Comewith me to Bond Street, you will there see the work of your greatestliving painter. "

"_Our_ greatest painter!" exclaimed the other. "You mean your own. Doréis our first draughtsman of France, yes, but painter, never, neither thegreatest nor great; at least we were ignorant of the fact till informedof it by yourself and your country-people. "

Doré knew well how matters stood, and bitterly resented the attitude ofhis own nation. Accorded a princely welcome across the Manche, his workworth its weight in gold on the other side of the Atlantic, in France hewas looked at askance, even as a painter ignored. He regarded himself asshut out from his rightful heritage, and the victim, if not of aconspiracy, of a cabal. His school playmates and close friends, Taine, Edmond About and Th. Gautier, might be on his side; perhaps, withreservations, Rossini and a few other eminent associates also. But theprescient, unerring verdict of the collective "man in the street"--

"The people's voice, the proof and echo of all human fame"--

he missed; resentment preyed upon his spirits, undermined his vitality, and doubtless had something to do with his premature breakdown. 

The Doré gallery indeed proved his Capua, the long-stop to his fame. 

IV

As a personality the would-be Titian, Dürer, Thorwaldsen and BenvenutoCellini in one presents an engaging figure. His domestic life makes verypleasant reading. We find no dark holes and corners in the career of onewho may be said to have remained a boy to the end, at fifty as at fivefull of freak and initiative, clingingly attached to a devoted andrichly-endowed mother, and the ebullient spirit of a happy home. Withhis rapidly increasing fortune, the historic house in the Rue Dominiquebecame an artistic, musical and dramatic centre. His fêtes were worthyof a millionaire, and, alike in those private theatricals, _tableauxvivants_ or concerts, he ever took a leading part. An accomplishedviolinist, Doré found in music a never-failing stimulant andrefreshment. Rossini was one of his circle, among others were the twoGautiers, the two Dumas, Carolus Duran, Liszt, Gounod, Patti, Alboni andNilsson, Mme. Doré, still handsome and alert in her old age, proudlydoing the honours of what was now called the Hôtel Doré. By his literaryand artistic brethren the many-faceted genius and exhilarating host wasfully appreciated. Generosities he ever freely indulged in, the wealthof such rapid attainment being dispensed with an ungrudgeful hand. Toworks of charity the great illustrator gave largely, but we hear of nountoward misreckonings, nor bills drawn upon time, health or talents. With him, as with the average Frenchman, solvency was an eleventhcommandment. 

Meantime, as the years wore on, again and again he bid desperately forthe suffrages withheld, his legitimately won renown held by him of smallaccount. To his American biographer he said, on showing her some of hispictures: "I illustrate books in order to pay for my colours andpaint-brushes. I was born a painter. "

On the lady's companion, an American officer, naively asking ifcertain canvases were designed for London or Paris, he answered withbitter irony--

"Paris, forsooth! I do not paint well enough for Paris. " As he spoke hisface became clouded. The gay, jovial host of a few minutes before sigheddeeply, and during their visit could not shake off depression. 

Two crowning humiliations came before the one real sorrow of his life, the loss of that gifted mother who was alike his boon companion, closestconfidante and enthusiastic Egeria. Perpetually seeking laurels in newfields, in 1877 he made his _début_ as a sculptor. The marble group, "LaParque et l'Amour, " signed G. Doré, won a _succès d'estime_, no more. In the following year was opened the great international exhibition on theChamp de Mars, Doré's enormous monumental vase being conspicuouslyplaced over one of the porticoes. This astounding achievement in bronze, appropriately named the "Poème de la Vigne, " created quite a sensationat the time. Reproductions appeared in papers of all countriescontaining a printing press or photographic machine. But for theartist's name, doubtless his work would have attained the gold medal andother honours. The Brobdingnagian vase, so wonderfully decorated withflowers, animals and arabesques, was passed over by the jury. 

Equally mortifying was the fate of his marble group in the same year'sSalon. This subject, "La Gloire, " had a place of honour in the sculpturegallery and won universal suffrages. The critics echoed popularapproval. The jury remained passive. It was in the midst of theseunnecessarily crushing defeats--for why, indeed, should any mortal havecraved more than mortal success?--that Mme. Doré's forces gave way. Fromthat time till her death, which occurred two years later, her son'splace was by her side, floutings, projects, health and pleasure, forgotten, his entire thoughts being given to the invalid. No morebeautiful picture of filial devotion could suggest itself to the painterof domestic subjects than this, Doré with table and sketching materialsseated in his mother's sick-room, or at night ministering to her inwakeful moments. At dawn he would snatch a few hours' sleep, but thatwas all. No wonder that his own health should give way so soon after thedeath-blow of her loss. 

"My friend, " he wrote to an English boon companion, on March 16, 1881, "she is no more. I am alone. You are a clergyman, I entreat you to prayfor the repose of her beloved soul and the preservation of my reason. "

A few days later he wrote to the same friend of his "frightfulsolitude, " adding his regret at not having anticipated such a blank andmade for himself a home--in other words, taken a wife. 

Some kind matchmaking friends set to work and found, so at least theyfancied, a bride exactly calculated to render him happy. 

But on January 23, 1883, Doré died, prematurely aged and brokendown by grief, corroding disappointment and quite frenzied overworkand ambition. 

He never attained recognition as a historic painter among hiscountry-folks. One canvas, however, "Tobit and the Angel, " is placed inthe Luxembourg, and his monument to Dumas ornaments the capital. Hisrenown as an illustrator remains high as ever in France. And one, thatone, the passionately desired prize of every Frenchman, became his: in1861 he was decorated with the Red Ribbon. Six of Doré's great religioussubjects retain their place in the Bond Street Gallery, but for reasonsgiven above his wonderfully imaginative illustrations are hereforgotten. 

The superb edition of the _Enid_ (Moxon, 1868), a folio bound in royalpurple and gold, and printed on paper thick as vellum, the volumeweighing four pounds, awakens melancholy reflections. What would havebeen poor Doré's feelings had he lived to see such a guinea's worth, andcheap at the price, gladly sold, rather got rid of, for three shillings!

Doré's last work, the unconventional monument to the elder Dumas, wasleft unfinished. 

Completed by another hand, the group now forms a conspicuous object inthe Avenue Villiers, Paris. 

The striking figure of the great quadroon, with his short crispedlocks, suggests a closer relationship to the race thus apostrophized byWalt Whitman--

 "You, dim descended, black, divine souled African. .. . "

He surmounts a lofty pedestal, on the base being seated a homely group, three working folks, a mob-capped woman reading a Dumas novel to twocompanions, evidently her father and husband, sons of the soil, drinkingin every word, their attitude of the most complete absorption. Classicists and purists in art doubtless look askance at a work whichwould certainly have enchanted the sovereign romancer. 

"Will folks read my stories when I am gone, doctor?" he asked as he laya-dying. The good physician easily reassured his patient. "When we havepatients awaiting some much-dreaded operation in hospital, " he replied, "we have only to give them one of your novels. Straightway they forgeteverything else. " And Dumas--"the great, the humane, " as a charming poethas called him--died happy. As well he might, in so far as his fame wasconcerned. _La Tulipe Noire_ would alone have assured his future. 

VI

QUISSAC AND SAUVE

One should always go round the sun to meet the moon in France, that isto say, one should ever circumambulate, never make straight for thelodestar ahead. The way to almost any place of renown, natural, historicor artistic, is sure to teem with as much interest as that to which weare bound. So rich a palimpsest is French civilization, so varied isFrench scenery, so multifarious the points of view called up at everytown, that hurry and scurry leave us hardly better informed than when weset out. Thus it has ever been my rule to indulge in the mostpreposterous peregrination, taking no account whatever of days, seasonsor possible cons, hearkening only to the pros, and never so much asglancing at the calendar. Such protracted zigzaggeries have been madeeasy to the "devious traveller" by one unusual advantage. Just aspioneers in Australasia find Salvation Army shelters scatteredthroughout remotest regions, so, fortunately, have I ever been able tocount upon "harbour and good company" during my thirty-five years ofFrench sojourn and travel. 

To reach a certain Pyrenean valley in which I was to spend a holidaywould only have meant a night's dash by express from Paris. Instead, Ifollowed the south-eastern route, halting at--Heaven knows howmany!--already familiar and delightful places between Paris and Dijon, Dijon and Lyons, Lyons and Nîmes; from the latter city being bound foralmost as many more before reaching my destination. 

Quite naturally I would often find myself on the track of that "wise andhonest traveller, " so John Morley calls Arthur Young. 

Half-way between Nîmes and Le Vigan lies the little town of Sauve, atwhich the Suffolk farmer halted in July 1787. "Pass six leagues of adisagreeable country, " he wrote. "Vines and olives. "

But why a disagreeable country? Beautiful I thought the landscape as Iwent over the same ground on a warm September afternoon a century andodd years later, on alighting to be greeted with a cheery--

"Here I am!"

As a rule I am entirely of Montaigne's opinion. "When I travel inSicily, " said the philosopher of Gascony, "it is not to find Gascons. "Dearly as we love home and home-folk, the gist of travel lies inoppositeness and surprises. We do not visit the uttermost ends of theglobe in search of next-door neighbours. That cordial "Here I am!"however, had an unmistakable accent, just a delightful suspicion ofFrench. My host was a gallant naval officer long since retired fromservice, with his English wife and two daughters, spending the longvacation in his country home. 

High above the little village of Quissac rises the residence ofbeneficent owners, master and mistress, alas! long since gone to theirrest. From its terrace the eye commands a vast and beautiful panorama, arichly cultivated plain dotted with villages and framed by the blueCévennes. Tea served after English fashion and by a dear countrywoman, everywhere _"le confortable Anglais"_ admittedly unattainable by Frenchhousewives, could not for a single moment make me forget that I was inFrance. And when the dinner gong sounded came the final, theunequivocal, proof of distance. 

Imagine dining out of doors and in evening dress at eight o'clock in thelast week of August! The table was set on the wide balcony of the upperfloor, high above lawn and bosquets, the most chilly person having herenothing to fear. It is above all things the French climate thattransports us so far from home and makes us feel ourselves hundreds, nay, thousands of miles away. 

I have elsewhere, perhaps ofttimes, dwelt on the luminosity of theatmosphere in southern and south-western France. To-night not a breathwas stirring, the outer radiance was the radiance of stars only, yet solimpid, so lustrous the air that cloudless moonlight could hardly havemade every object seem clearer, more distinct. The feeling inspired bysuch conditions is that of enchantment. For the nonce we may yield to aspell, fancy ourselves in Armida's enchanted garden or other "delightfulland of Faëry. "

Not for long, however! Pleasant practical matters soon recall us to thelife of every day. That laborious, out-of-door existence, which seemssordid in superfine English eyes, but which is never without the gaietythat enchanted Goldsmith and Sterne a hundred and fifty years ago. 

Whilst host and guest dined on the balcony, the farming folk and such ofthe household as could be spared were enjoying a starlit supperelsewhere. Later, my hostess took me downstairs and introduced herEnglish visitor to a merry but strictly decorous party having a specialbit of sward to themselves, bailiff, vintagers, stockmen, dairywoman, washerwoman and odd hands making up a round dozen of men, women andboys. All seemed quite at home, and chatted easily with their employerand the visitor, by no means perturbed, rather pleased by the intrusion. 

And here I will mention one of those incidents that lead Englishobservers into so many misconceptions concerning French rural life. Little things that seem sordid, even brutifying to insular eyes, reallyarise from incompatible standards. 

The Frenchman's ideal of material comfort begins and ends with solvency, the sense of absolute security from want in old age. Small comforts hesets little store by; provided that he gets a good dinner, lesserconsiderations go. I do not hesitate to say that the comforts enjoyed byour own farm-servants half a century ago were far in excess of thosethought more than sufficient by French labourers and their employers. Onthe following day my hosts took me round the farmery, fowl-run, piggeries, neat-houses and stalls being inspected one by one. When wecame to the last named, I noticed at the door of the long building andon a level with the feeding troughs for oxen, a bed-shaped wooden boxpiled up with fresh clean straw. 

"That is where our stockman sleeps, " explained the lady. 

Here, then, quite contentedly slept the herdsman of a large estate innineteenth-century France, whilst his English compeers two generationsbefore, and in much humbler employ, had their tidy bedroom andcomfortable bed under the farmer's roof. What would my own Suffolkploughmen have said to the notion of spending the night in an ox-stall?But _autres pays, autres moeurs_. In Déroulède's fine little poem, "Bongîte", a famished, foot-sore soldier returning home is generouslyentreated by a poor housewife. When she sets about preparing a bed forhim, he remonstrates--

 "Good dame, what means that new-made bed, Those sheets so finely spun? On heaped-up straw in cattle-shed, I'd snore till rise of sun. "

The compensations for apparent hardship in the case of French peasantsare many and great. In Henry James's great series of dissolving viewscalled _The American Scene_, he describes the heterogeneous masses ashaving "a promoted look". The French proletariat have not a promotedlook, rather one of inherited, traditional stability and self-respect. One and all, moreover, are promoting themselves, rising by a slowevolutionary process from the condition of wage-earner to that ofmetayer, tenant, lastly freeholder. 

Although the immediate environs of Quissac and Sauve are not remarkable, magnificent prospects are obtained a little farther afield--our drivesand walks abounded in interest--and associations! Strange but true it isthat we can hardly halt anywhere in France without coming upon historic, literary or artistic memorials. Every town and village is redolent oftradition, hardly a spot but is glorified by genius!

Thus, half-an-hour's drive from our village still stands the châteauand birthplace of Florian, the Pollux of fabulists, La Fontaine beingthe Castor, no other stars of similar magnitude shining in theirespecial arc. 

Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian was born here in 1755, just sixty yearsafter the great fabulist's death. Nephew of a marquis, himselfnephew-in-law of Voltaire, endowed with native wit and gaiety, the youngman was a welcome guest at Fernay, and no wonder! His enchanting fablesdid not see the light till after Voltaire's death, but we will hope thatsome of them had delighted his host in recitation. Many of us who lovedFrench in early years have a warm corner in our hearts for "NumaPompilius", but Florian will live as the second fabulist of France, tomy own thinking twin of his forerunner. 

How full of wisdom, wit and sparkle are these apologues! Take, forinstance, the following, which to the best of my ability I have renderedinto our mother tongue--

 VANITY (LE PETIT CHIEN). 

 I Once on a time and far away, The elephant stood first in might, He had by many a forest fray At last usurped the lion's right. On peace and reign unquestioned bent, The ruler in his pride of place, Forthwith to life-long banishment Doomed members of the lion race. 

 II Dispirited, their best laid low, The vanquished could but yield to fate, And turn their backs upon the foe In silence nursing grief and hate. A poodle neatly cropped and clipped, With tasselled tail made leonine, On hearing of the stern rescript, Straightway set up a piteous whine. 

 III "Alas!" he moaned. "Ah, woe is me! Where, tyrant, shall I shelter find; Advancing years what will they be, My home and comforts left behind?" A spaniel hastened at the cry, "Come, mate, what's this to-do about?" "Oh, oh, " the other gulped reply, "For exile we must all set out!"

 IV "Must all?" "No, you are safe, good friend; The cruel law smites us alone; Here undisturbed your days may end, The lions must perforce begone. " "The lions? Brother, pray with these, What part or lot have such as you?" "What part, forsooth? You love to tease; You know I am a lion too. "

[Footnote: The first translation appeared with others in _French Men, Women and Books_, 1910. The second was lately issued in the_Westminster Gazette_. ]

Here is another, a poem of essential worldly wisdom, to be bracketedwith Browning's equally oracular "The Statue and the Bust, " fable andpoem forming a compendium. 

 THE FLIGHTY PURPOSE (LE PAYSAN AND LA RIVIERE). 

 "I now intend to change my ways"-- Thus Juan said--"No more for me A round on round of idle days 'Mid soul-debasing company. I've pleasure woo'd from year to year As by a siren onward lured, At last of roystering, once held dear, I'm as a man of sickness cured. "

 "Unto the world I bid farewell, My mind to retrospection give, Remote as hermit in his cell, For wisdom and wise friends I'll live. " "Is Thursday's worldling, Friday's sage? Too good such news, " I bantering spoke. "How oft you've vowed to turn the page, Each promise vanishing like smoke!"

 "And when the start?" "Next week--not this. " "Ah, you but play with words again. " "Nay, do not doubt me; hard it is To break at once a life-long chain. " Came we unto the riverside, Where motionless a rustic sate, His gaze fixed on the flowing tide. "Ho, mate, why thus so still and squat?"

 "Good sirs, bound to yon town am I; No bridge anear, I sit and sit Until these waters have run dry, So that afoot I get to it. " "A living parable behold, My friend!" quoth I. "Upon the brim You, too, will gaze until you're old, But never boldly take a swim!"

As far as I know, no memorial has as yet been raised to the fabulisteither at Quissac or at Sauve, but as long as the French language lastssuccessive generations will keep his memory green. Certain of his fablesevery little scholar knows by heart. 

Associations of other kinds are come upon by travellers bound fromQuissac to Le Vigan, that charming little centre of silkworm rearingdescribed by me elsewhere. A few miles from our village lies Ganges, aname for ever famous in the annals of political economy and progress. 

"From Ganges", wrote the great Suffolk farmer in July 1787, "to themountain of rough ground which I crossed" (in the direction ofMontdardier), "the ride has been the most interesting which I havetaken in France; the efforts of industry the most vigorous, theanimation the most lively. An activity has been here that has swept awayall difficulties before it and clothed the very rocks with verdure. Itwould be a disgrace to common sense to ask the cause; the enjoyment ofproperty must have done it. _Give a man the sure possession of a bleakrock, and he will turn it into a garden_. " The italics are my own. Whenwill Arthur Young have his tablet in Westminster Abbey, I wonder?

The department of the Gard offers an anomaly of the greatest historicinterest. Here and here only throughout the length and breadth of Francevillages are found without a Catholic church, communities that have heldfast to Protestantism and the right of private judgment from generationto generation during hundreds of years. Elsewhere, in the Côte d'Or, forinstance, as I have described in a former work, Protestantism wascompletely stamped out by the Revocation, whole villages are nowultramontane, having abjured, the alternatives placed before them beingconfiscation of property, separation of children and parents, banishment, prison and death. 

[Footnote: See _Friendly Faces_, chap. Xvi. ]

The supremacy of the reformed faith may be gathered from the followingfacts: A few years back, of the six deputies representing thisdepartment five were Protestant and the sixth was a Jew. The _ConseilGénéral_ or provincial council numbered twenty-three Protestants asagainst seventeen Catholics. The seven members of the Board of Hospitalsat Nîmes, three of the four inspectors of public health, nine of thetwelve head-mistresses of girls' schools, twenty-nine of forty ruralmagistrates, were Protestants. 

My host belonged to the same faith, as indeed do most of his class andthe great captains of local industry. It is not as in Michelet'sfondly-loved St. Georges de Didonne, where only the lowly and the toilerhave kept the faith aflame. 

But whilst neighbours now live peacefully side by side, a gulf stilldivides Catholic and Protestant. Although half a millennium has elapsedsince the greatest crime of modern history, the two bodies remain apart:French _annexés_ of Alsace-Lorraine and Germans are not more completelydivided. Mixed marriages are of rarest occurrence, intercourse limitedto the conventional and the obligatory. There are historic curses thatdefy lustration. St. Bartholomew is one of these. I must now saysomething about the country-folks. Calls upon our rustic neighbours, long chats with affable housewives, and rounds of farmery, vineyard andfield attracted me more than the magnificent panoramas to be obtainedfrom Corconne and other villages within an easy drive. 

George Sand has ever been regarded as a poetizer of rural life, anarch-idealist of her humbler country-folks. At Quissac I made more thanone acquaintance that might have stepped out of _La petite Fadette_ or_La mare au Diable_. 

One old woman might have been "la paisible amie, " the tranquil friend, to whom the novelist dedicated a novel. Neat, contented, active andself-respecting, she enjoyed a life-interest in two acres and a cottage, her live stock consisting of a goat, a pig and poultry, her investedcapital government stock representing a hundred pounds. Meagre as mayseem these resources, she was by no means to be pitied or inclined topity herself, earning a few francs here and there by charing, sellingher little crops, what eggs and chickens she could spare, above allthings being perfectly independent. 

A charming idyll the great Sand could have found here. The owner of athirty-acre farm had lately died, leaving it with all he possessed totwo adopted children, a young married couple who for years had actedrespectively as steward and housekeeper. We are bound to infer that onthe one hand there had been affection and gratitude, on the other thesame qualities with conscientiousness in business matters. Thefoster-father was childless and a widower, but, among the humble as wellas the rich French, ambition of posthumous remembrance often actuatesimpersonal bequests. This worthy Jacques Bonhomme might have made anheir of his native village, leaving money for a new school-house or someother public edifice. Very frequently towns and even villages becomelegatees of the childless, and the worthy man would have been quite sureof a statue, a memorial tablet, or at least of having his name added toa street or square. 

Before taking leave of Quissac I must mention one curious fact. 

The Proteus of Odyssean story or the King's daughter and the Efreet inthe "Second Royal Mendicant's Adventure, " could not more easilytransform themselves than the French peasant. Husbandman to-day, mechanic on the morrow, at one season he plies the pruning-hook, atanother he turns the lathe. This adaptability of the French mind, strange to say, is nowhere seen to greater advantage than inout-of-the-way regions, just where are mental torpidity and unbendableroutine. Not one of Millet's blue-bloused countrymen but masters a dozenhandicrafts. 

Thus, whilst the heraldic insignia of Sauve should be a trident, thoseof Quissac should be surmounted by an old shoe! In the former place theforked branches of the _Celtis australis_ or nettle tree, _Ulmaceæ_, afford a most profitable occupation. From its tripartite boughs are madeyearly thousands upon thousands of the three-pronged forks used inagriculture. The wood, whilst very durable, is yielding, and lendsitself to manipulation. 

In Florian's birthplace folks make a good living out of old boots andshoes! Some native genius discovered that, however well worn footgearmay be, valuable bits of leather may remain in the sole. These fragmentsare preserved, and from them boot heels are made; the _débris_, boots, shoes and slippers, no matter the material, find their way to the soilas manure. But this subject if pursued further would lead to a lane, metaphorically speaking, without a turning, that is to say to a treatiseon French rural economy. 

VII

AN IMMORTALIZER

In Renan's exquisitely phrased preface to his _Drames Philosophiques_occurs the following sentence which I render into English _tant bien quemal_: "Side by side are the history of fact and the history of theideal, the latter materially speaking of what has never taken place, butwhich, in the ideal sense, has happened a thousand times. "

Who when visiting the beautiful little town of Saumur thinks of thehistoric figures connected with its name? Even the grand personality ofDuplessis Morny sinks into insignificance by comparison with that of themiser's daughter, the gentle, ill-starred Eugénie Grandet! And who whenCarcassonne first breaks upon his view thinks of aught but Nadaud'simmortal peasant and his plaint--

 "I'm growing old, just three score year, In wet and dry, in dust and mire, I've sweated, never getting near Fulfilment of my heart's desire. Ah, well I see that bliss below 'Tis Heaven's will to vouchsafe none, Harvest and vintage come and go, I've never got to Carcassonne!"

The tragi-comic poem of six eight-lined verses ending thus--

 "So sighed a peasant of Limoux, A worthy neighbour bent and worn. 'Ho, friend, ' quoth I, 'I'll go with you. We'll sally forth to-morrow morn. ' And true enough away we hied, But when our goal was almost won, God rest his soul!--the good man died, He never got to Carcassonne!"

No lover of France certainly should die without having seen Carcassonne, foremost of what I will call the pictorial Quadrilateral, no formidablearray after the manner of their Austrian cognominal, but lovely, dreamlike things. These four walled-in towns or citadels, perfect aswhen they represented mediaeval defence, are Carcassonne, Provins in theBrie, Semur in upper Burgundy, and the Breton Guérande, scene ofBalzac's _Béatrix_. To my thinking, and I have visited each, there islittle to choose between the first two, but exquisite as is the littleBriard acropolis, those imaginary "topless towers of Ilium" of Nadaud'speasant bear the palm. That first view of Carcassonne as we approach itin the railway of itself repays a long and tedious journey. A visionrather than reality, structure of pearly clouds in mid-heaven, seemsthat opaline pile lightly touched with gold. We expect it to evaporateat evenfall! Vanish it does not, nor wholly bring disillusion, so fairand harmonious are the vistas caught in one circuit of the citadel, merematter of twenty minutes. 

But the place by this time has become so familiar to travellers inFrance and readers of French travel, that I will here confine myself toits glorifier, author of a song that has toured the world. 

The first biography of the French Tom Moore, published last year, givesno history of this much translated poem. Had, indeed, some worthyvine-grower poured out such a plaint in the poet's ears? Very probably, for one and all of Nadaud's rural poems breathe the very essence of thefields, the inmost nature of the peasant, from first to last they revealJacques Bonhomme to us, his conceptions of life, his mentality andlimitations. 

[Footnote: My own rendering of this piece and many other of Nadaud'ssongs and ballads are given in _French Men, Women and Books_, 1910. American translators have admirably translated _Carcassonne_. ]

Nadaud's career is uneventful, but from one point of view, far frombeing noteless, he was pre-eminently the happy man. His biographer (A. Varloy) tells us of a smooth, much relished, even an exuberantexistence. The son of an excellent bourgeois, whose ancestry, nevertheless, like that of many another, could be traced for six hundredyears, his early surroundings were the least lyric imaginable. 

He was born at Roubaix, the flourishing seat of manufacture near Lille, which, although a mere _chef-lieu du canton_, does more business withthe Bank of France than the big cities of Toulouse, Nîmes, Montpellierand others thrice its size. Dress fabrics, cloths and exquisite naperyare the products of Roubaix and its suburb; vainly, however, does anyuncommercial traveller endeavour to see the weavers at work. Grimy wallsand crowded factory chimneys are relieved at Roubaix by gardens publicand private, and the town is endowed with museums, libraries, art andtechnical schools. But Nadaud, like Cyrano de Bergerac, if asked whatgave him most delectation, would certainly have replied--

 "Lorsque j'ai fait un vers et que je l'aime, Je me paye en me le chantant à moi-même. "

Here is the boy's daily programme when a twelve-year-old student at theCollège Rollin, Paris. The marvel is that the poetic instinct survivedsuch routine, marvellous also the fact that the dry-as-dust in authoritywas a well-known translator of Walter Scott. If anything could haveconjured the Wizard of the North from his grave it was surely theseparticulars written by Gustave Nadaud to his father on the 19th ofOctober, 1833--

"Five-thirty, rise; five-forty-five, studies till seven-thirty;breakfast and recreation from seven-thirty till eight; from eight tillten, school; from ten to a quarter past, recreation; from a quarter pastten till half past twelve, school; then dinner and recreation from onetill two. School from two till half past four; collation from half pastfour till a quarter past five; school from a quarter past five tilleight. Supper and to bed. "

Poetry here was, however, a healthy plant, and in his school-days thisborn song-writer would scribble verses on his copy-books and read Racinefor his own amusement. Turning his back upon the mill-wheels of hisnative town and an assured future in a Parisian business house, like GilBias's friend, _il s'est jeté dans le bel esprit_--in other words, hebetook himself to the career of a troubadour. Never, surely, did masterof song-craft write and sing so many ditties!

Quitting school with a tip-top certificate both as to conduct andapplication, Gustave Nadaud quickly won fame if not fortune. Hardly ofage, he wrote somewhat Bohemian effusions that at once made the round ofParisian music-halls. 

The revolution, if it brought topsy-turvydom in politics, like its greatforerunner '89 brought the apogee of song. The popular young lyrist, ballader and minstrel, for Nadaud accompanied himself on the piano, nowmade a curious compact, agreeing to write songs for twenty years, a firmnamed Heugel paying him six thousand francs yearly by way ofremuneration. 

Two hundred and forty pounds a year should seem enough for a young man, a bachelor brought up in bourgeois simplicity. But the cost of living inParis was apparently as high sixty years ago as now. In 1856-7 he wroteto a friend: "How upon such an income I contrived to live and frequentParisian salons without ever asking a farthing of any one, only thosewho have been poor can tell. " The salons spoken of were not onlyaristocratic but Imperial, the late Princess Mathilde being anenthusiastic hostess and patroness. Several operettas were composed byNadaud for her receptions and philanthropic entertainments. Here is asketch of the French Tom Moore in 1868 by a witty contributor of the_Figaro_--

"Nadaud then seated himself at the piano, and of the words he sang Igive you full measure, the impression produced by his performance Icannot hope to convey. Quite indescribable was the concord of voice andhands, on the music as on wings each syllable being lightly borne, yetits meaning thereby intensified. In one's memory only can such delightbe revived and reproduced. "

With other poets, artists and musicians Nadaud cast vocation to thewinds in 1870-1, working in field and other hospitals. "I did my best toact the part of a poor little sister of charity, " he wrote to a friend. His patriotic poem, "La grande blessée, " was written during thatterrible apprenticeship. 

With Nadaud henceforward it was a case of roses, roses all the way. Existence he had ever taken easily, warm friendships doing duty for adomestic circle. And did he not write--

 "I dreamed of an ideal love And Benedick remain?"

His songs proved a mine of wealth, and the sumptuously illustratededition got up by friends and admirers brought him 80, 000 francs, withwhich he purchased a villa, christened Carcassonne, at Nice, thereinspending sunny and sunny-tempered days and dispensing large-heartedhospitality. To luckless brethren of the lyre he held out an ungrudgefulhand, alas! meeting with scant return. The one bitterness of his life, indeed, was due to ingratitude. Among his papers after death was foundthe following note--

"Throughout the last thirty years I have lent sums, large consideringmy means, to friends, comrades and entire strangers. Never, never, never has a single centime been repaid by a single one of theseborrowers. I now vow to myself, never under any circumstances whateverto lend money again!"

Poor song-writers, nevertheless, he posthumously befriended. By his willwith the bulk of his property was founded "La petite Caisse deschansonniers, " a benefit society for less happy Nadauds to come. By aidof these funds, lyrists and ballad-writers unable to find publisherswould be held on their onward path. Full of honours, Nadaud died in1893, monuments being erected to his memory, streets named after him, and undiminished popularity keeping his name alive. 

And the honour denied to Béranger, to Victor Hugo, to Balzac, thecoveted sword and braided coat of the Forty were Nadaud's also. With thewitty Piron he could not ironically anticipate his own epitaph thus--

"Here lies Nadaud who was nothing, not even an Academician!"

Before taking leave of Carcassonne, poetic and picturesque, the mostinveterate anti-sightseer should peep into its museum. For this little_chef-lieu_ of the Aude, with a population under thirty thousand, possesses what, indeed, hardly a French townling lacks, namely, apicture-gallery. If not remarkable from an artistic point of view, thecollection serves to demonstrate the persistent, self-denying andconstant devotion to culture in France. Times may be peaceful or stormy, seasons may prove disastrous, the withered, thin and blasted ears ofcorn may devour the seven ears full and golden, the ship of State may becaught in a tornado and lurch alarmingly--all the same "the man in thestreet, " "the rascal many, " to quote Spenser, will have a museum inwhich, with wife and hopefuls, to spend their Sunday afternoons. Thelocal museum is no less of a necessity to Jacques Bonhomme than hisdaily _pot-au-feu_, that dish of soup which, according to Michelet, engenders the national amiability. 

The splendid public library--the determinative is used in the sense ofcomparison--numbers just upon a volume per head, and the art school, school of music, and other institutions tell the same story. Culturethroughout the country seems indigenous, to spread of itself, and, aboveall things, to reach all classes. Culture on French soil is gratuitous, ever free as air! We must never overlook that primary fact. 

One or two more noticeable facts about Carcassonne. Here was born thateccentric revolutionary and poetic genius, Fabre d'Eglantine, of whom Ihave written elsewhere. 

 [Footnote: See Literary Rambles in France, 1906]

Yet another historic note. From St. Vincent's tower during theConvention, 1792-5, were taken those measurements, the outcome of whichwas the metric system. Two mathematicians, by name Delambre and Méchain, were charged with the necessary calculations, the _mètre_, or aten-millionth part of the distance between the poles and the equator(32, 808 English feet), being made the unit of length. Uniformity ofweight followed, and became law in 1799. 

But to touch upon historic Carcassonne is to glance upon an almostinterminable perspective. The chronicle of this charming little cityon the bright blue Aude has been penned and re-penned in blood andtears. In 1560 Carcassonne suffered a preliminary Saint Bartholomew, ageneral massacre of Protestants announcing the evil days to follow;days that after five hundred years have left their trace, moral aswell as material. 

VIII

TOULOUSE

A zigzaggery, indeed, was this journey from Nîmes to my Pyrenean valley. That metropolis of art and most heroic town, Montauban, I could not onany account miss. Toulouse necessarily had to be taken on the way toIngres-ville, as I feel inclined to call the great painter's birthplaceand apotheosis. But why write of Toulouse? The magnificent city, itspublic gardens, churches, superbly housed museums and art galleries, itspromenades, drives and panoramas are all particularized by Murray, Joanne and Baedeker. Here, however, as elsewhere, are one or twofeatures which do not come within the province of a guide-book. 

The only city throughout France that welcomed the Inquisition wasamong the first to open a _Lycée pour jeunes filles. _ In accordancewith the acts of 1880-82 public day schools for girls were openedthroughout France; that of Toulouse being fairly representative, Iwill describe my visit. 

The school was now closed for the long vacation, but a junior mistressin temporary charge gave us friendliest welcome, and showed us over thebuilding and annexes. She evidently took immense and quite naturalpride in the little world within world of which she formed a part. Heronly regret was that we could not see the scholars at work. Here may benoted the wide field thrown open to educated women by the above-namedacts, from under-mistresses to _Madame la directrice_, the positionbeing one of dignity and provision for life, pensions being the rewardof long service. 

The course of study is prepared by the rector of the Toulousain Academy, and the rules of management by the municipal council, thus the programmeof instruction bears the signature of the former, whilst the prospectus, dealing with fees, practical details, is signed by the mayor in the nameof the latter. 

We find a decree passed by the town council in 1887 to the effect thatin the case of two sisters a fourth of the sum-total of fees should beremitted, of three, a half, of four, three-quarters, and of five, theentire amount. Even the outfit of the boarders must be approved by thesame authority. A neat costume is obligatory, and the number andmaterial of undergarments is specified with the utmost minuteness. Besides a sufficient quantity of suitable clothes, each student mustbring three pairs of boots, thirty pocket-handkerchiefs, a bonnet-box, umbrella, parasol, and so forth. 

Such regulations may at first sight look trivial and unnecessary, butthere is much to be said on the other side. From the beginning of theterm to the end, the matron, whose province is quite apart from that ofthe head-mistress, is never worried about the pupils' dress, no shoes inneed of repair, no garments to be mended, no letters to be writtenbegging Mme. A. To send her daughter a warm petticoat, Mme. B. Toforward a hair-brush, and so on. Again, the uniform obligatory onboarders prevents those petty jealousies and rivalries provoked by fineclothes in girls' schools. Alike the child of the millionaire and of thesmall official wear the same simple dress. 

Children are admitted to the lower school between the ages of five andtwelve, the classes being in the hands of certificated mistresses. Theupper school, at which pupils are received from twelve years andupwards, and are expected to remain five years, offers a complete courseof study, lady teachers being aided by professors of the Faculté desLettres and of the Lycée for youths. Students who have remainedthroughout the entire period, and have satisfactorily passed finalexaminations, receive a certificate entitling them to admission into thegreat training college of Sèvres or to offer themselves as teachers inschools and families. 

The curriculum is certainly modest compared with that obligatory oncandidates for London University, Girton College, or our senior localexamination; but it is an enormous improvement on the old conventualsystem, and several points are worthy of imitation. Thus a girl quittingthe Lycée would have attained, first and foremost, a thorough knowledgeof her own language and its literature; she would also possess a fairnotion of French common law, of domestic economy, including needleworkof the more useful kind, the cutting out and making up of clothes, andthe like. Gymnastics are practised daily. In the matter of religion themunicipality of Toulouse shows absolute impartiality. No sectarianteaching enters into the programme, but Catholics and Protestants andJews in residence can receive instruction from their respectiveministers. 

The Lycée competes formidably with the convents as regards fees. Twenty-eight pounds yearly cover the expense of board, education, andmedical attendance at the upper school; twenty-four at the lower; dayboarders pay from twelve to fifteen pounds a year; books, the use of theschool omnibus, and laundress being extras. Three hundred scholars inall attended during the scholastic year ending July 1891. 

Day-pupils not using the school omnibus must be accompanied to and fromthe school, and here an interesting point is to be touched upon. In sofar as was practicable, the Lycée for girls has been modelled on theplan of the time-honoured establishments for boys. As yet a uniformcurriculum to begin with was out of the question; the programme isalready too ambitious in the eyes of many, whilst ardent advocates ofthe higher education of women in France regret that the vices as well asthe virtues of the existing system have been retained. Educationists andadvanced thinkers generally would fain see a less strait-laced routine, a less stringent supervision, more freedom for play of character. TheLycée student, boy or girl, youth or maiden, is as strictly guarded as acriminal; not for a moment are these citizens of the future trusted tothemselves. 

In the vast dormitory of the high school here we see thirty neatcompartments with partitions between, containing bed and toiletrequisites, and at the extreme end of the room, commanding a view ofthe rest, is the bed of the under-mistress in charge, _surveillante_ asshe is called. Sleeping or waking, the students are watched. Thismassing together of numbers and perpetual supervision no longer finduniversal favour. 

But I am here writing of fifteen years ago. Doubtless were I to repeatmy visit I should find progressive changes too numerous for detail. Happy little middle-class Parisians now run to and from their Lycéesunattended. Young ladies in society imitate their Anglo-Saxon sistersand have shaken off that incubus, _la promeneuse_ or walking chaperon. 

Works on social France, as is the case with almanacs, encyclopædias andthe rest, require yearly revision. Manners and customs change no lessquickly than headgear and skirts. 

Charles Lamb would have lived ecstatically at the Languedocian capital. It is a metropolis of beggardom, a mendicant's Mecca, a citadel of JulesRichepin's cherished _Gueux_. Here, indeed, Elia need not have lamentedover the decay of beggars, "the all sweeping besom of societarianreformation--your only modern Alcides' club to rid time of itsabuses--is uplift with many-handed sway to extirpate the last flutteringtatters of the bugbear _Mendicity_. Scrips, wallets, bags, staves, dogsand crutches, the whole mendicant fraternity with all their baggage arefast hasting out of the purlieus of this eleventh persecution. "

No, here is what the best beloved of English humorists calls "the oldestand the honourablest form of pauperism, " here his vision would havefeasted on "Rags, the Beggars' robes and graceful insignia of hisprofession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expectedto show himself in public. " "He is never out of fashion, " adds Lamb, "orlimpeth outwardly behind it. He is not required to wear court mourning. He weareth all colours, fearing none. His costume hath undergone lesschange than the Quaker's. He is the only man in the universe who is notobliged to study appearances. "

Here, too, would the unmatchable writer have gazed upon more than one"grand fragment, as good as an Elgin marble. " And alas! many deformitiesmore terrible still, and which, perhaps, would have damped even Lamb'sardour. For in the Toulouse of 1894, as in the London of sixty yearsbefore, its mendicants "were so many of its sights, its Lions. " The cityliterally swarmed with beggars. At every turn we came upon some livingtorso, distorted limb and hideous sore. Begging seemed to be theaccepted livelihood of cripples, blind folk and the infirm. Let us hopethat by this time something better has been devised for them all. Was ithere that Richepin partly studied the mendicant fraternity, giving us inpoetry his astounding appreciation, psychological and linguistic? Andperhaps the bard of the beggars, like the English humorist, would wishhis _pauvres Gueux_ to be left unmolested. 

The sights of Toulouse would occupy a conscientious traveller many days. The least leisurely should find time to visit the tiny square called_place du Salin_. Here took place the innumerable _autos-da-fé_ of theToulousain Inquisition, and here, so late as 1618, the celebratedphysician and scientist Vanini was atrociously done to death by thattruly infernal tribunal, and for what? For simply differing from theobscurantism of his age, and having opinions of his own. 

The atrocious sentence passed on Vanini was in part remitted, evidentlypublic opinion already making itself felt. His tongue was cut out, butstrangulation preceded the burning alive. Here one cannot help notingthe illogical, the puerile--if such words are applicable to devilishwickedness--aspect of such Inquisitorial sentences. If thesehounders-down of common-sense and the reasoning faculty really believed, as they affected to believe, that men who possessed and exercised bothqualities were thereby doomed to eternal torments, why set up thehorrible and costly paraphernalia of the Inquisition? After all, nomatter how ingeniously inventive might be their persecutors, they couldonly be made to endure terminable and comparatively insignificanttorments, not a millionth millionth fraction of eternity!

Refreshing it is to turn to the Toulouse of minstrelsy. The proud seatof the troubadours, the Academy of the Gay Science and of the poetictourneys revived in our own day! Mistral's name has long been European, and other English writers have charmingly described the _Feux Floraux_of the olden time and the society of _Lou Felibrige_ with its revival ofProvençal literature. But forty years ago, and twenty years before hismasterpiece had found a translator here, he was known and highlyesteemed by a great Englishman. 

In Mill's _Correspondence_ (1910) we find a beautiful letter, andwritten in fine stately French, from the philosopher to the poet, datedAvignon, October 1869. 

Mill had sent Mistral the French translation of his essay, "TheSubjection of Women, " and in answer to the other's thanks and flatteringassurance of his own conversion, he wrote: "Parmi toutes les adhésionsqui ont été données à la thèse de mon petit livre, je ne sais s'il y ena aucune qui m'ont fait plus de plaisir que la vôtre. "

The letter as a whole is most interesting, and ends with acharacterization, a strikingly beautiful passage in the life andteaching of Jesus Christ. Hard were it to match this appreciation amongorthodox writers. 

So transparent is the atmosphere here that the Pyrenees appear within anhour's ride: they are in reality sixty miles off! Lovely are the clearlyoutlined forms, flecked with light and shadow, the snowy patches beingperfectly distinct. 

IX

MONTAUBAN, OR INGRES-VILLE

An hour by rail from Toulouse lies the ancient city of Montauban, as faras I know unnoticed by English tourists since Arthur Young's time. Thissuperbly placed _chef-lieu_ of the Tarn and Garonne is alike an artisticshrine and a palladium of religious liberty. Here was born that stronglyindividualized and much contested genius, Dominique Ingres, and hereProtestantism withstood the League, De Luyne's besieging army and thedragonnades of Louis XIV. 

The city of Ingres may be thought of by itself; there is plenty of foodfor reflection here without recalling the prude whose virtue caused moremischief than the vices of all the Montespans and Dubarrys put together. Let us forget the Maintenon terror at Montauban, the breaking up offamilies, the sending to the galleys of good men and women, thetorturings, the roastings alive, and turn to the delightful and soothingsouvenirs of genius! Every French town that has given birth to shiningtalent is straightway turned into a Walhalla. This ancient town, sostrikingly placed, breathes of Ingres, attracts the traveller by themagic of the painter's name, has become an art pilgrimage. The noblemonument erected by the townsfolk to their great citizen and thepicture-gallery he bequeathed his native city well repay a much longerjourney than that from Toulouse. We see here to what high levels publicspirit and local munificence can rise in France. We see also how close, after all, are the ties that knit Frenchman and Frenchman, how the gloryof one is made the pride of all. The bronze statue of the painter, withthe vast and costly bas-relief imitating his "Apotheosis of Homer" inthe Louvre, stand in the public walk, the beauty of which aroused evenArthur Young's enthusiasm. "The promenade, " he wrote in June 1787, "isfinely situated. Built on the highest part of the rampart, andcommanding that noble vale, or rather plain, one of the richest inEurope, which extends on one side to the sea and in front to thePyrenees, whose towering masses heaped one upon another in a stupendousmanner, and covered with snow, offer a variety of lights and shades fromindented forms and the immensity of their projections. This prospect, which contains a semicircle of a hundred miles in diameter, has anoceanic vastness in which the eye loses itself; an almost boundlessscene of cultivation; an animated but confused mass of infinitely variedparts, melting gradually into the distant obscure, from which emergesthe amazing frame of the Pyrenees, rearing their silvered heads abovethe clouds. "

The Ingres Museum contains, I should say, more works from the hand of asingle master than were ever before collected under the same roof. Upwards of a thousand sketches, many of great power and beauty, arehere, besides several portraits and one masterpiece, the Christ in theTemple, brilliant as a canvas of Holman Hunt, although the work of anoctogenarian. The painter's easel, palette, and brushes, his violin, thegolden laurel-wreath presented to him by his native town, and otherrelics are reverently gazed at on Sundays by artisans, soldiers andpeasant-folk. The local museum in France is something more than a littlecentre of culture, a place in which to breathe beauty and delight. It isa school of the moral sense, of the nobler passions, and also a templeof fame. Therein the young are taught to revere excellence, and here theambitious are stimulated by worthy achievement. 

Ingres-ville recalls an existence stormy as the history of Montaubanitself. This stronghold of reform throughout her vicissitudes did notshow a bolder, more determined front to the foe than did her greatcitizen his own enemies and detractors. Dominique Ingres and hislife-story favour those physicists who discern in native soil andsurroundings the formative influences of aptitudes and character. Theman and his birthplace matched each other. Indomitableness characterizedboth, and to understand both we must know something of their respectivehistories. To Montauban Henri Martin's great history does ample justice, to her illustrious son contemporary writers have recently paid worthytributes. 

[Footnote: See _Les Grands Artistes--Ingres_, par J. Mommeja, Paris, Laurens; _Le Roman d'amour de M. Ingres_, par H. Lapauze, Paris, Lafitte, 1911. ]

"When a writer is praised above his merits in his own times, " wroteSavage Landor, "he is certain of being estimated below them in thetimes succeeding. " In the case of Ingres, opposition and contumely werefollowed by perhaps excessive laudation whilst he lived, after hisdeath ensuing a long period of reaction. Time has now set the seal uponhis fame. The great Montalbanais has been finally received into thenational Walhalla. 

The father of the so-called French Raphaël, writes his biographer, wasnot even a Giovanni Santi. Joseph Ingres, in the words of M. Momméja, was _un petit ornemaniste_, a fabricator of knick-knacks, turning outmodels in clay, busts in plaster, miniatures and other trifles for saleat country fairs. Who can say, this humble craftsman may yet have hadmuch to do with his son's aspirations?

An inferior artist can appraise his masters. From the humble artificerand purveyor of bagatelles the youth not only imbibed a passion forart and technical knowledge: he inherited the next best thing to acalling, in other words, a love of music. From the palette throughouthis long life Ingres would turn with never-abated enthusiasm to hisadored violin. 

The learned monograph above-named gives a succinct and judicial accountof the painter's career. The second writer mentioned tells the story ofhis inner life; one, indeed, of perpetual and universal interest. 

For to this sturdy young bourgeois early came a crisis. He found himselfsuddenly at the parting of the ways, on the one hand beckoningConscience, on the other ambition in the flattering shape of Destiny. Towhich voice would he hearken? Would love and plighted troth overrulethat insistent siren song, Vocation? Would he yield, as have donethousands of well-intentioned men and women before him, to self-interestand worldly wisdom? The problem to be solved by this brilliantly endowedartist just twenty-six--how many a historic parallel does it recall!What three words can convey so much pathos, heroism and generosity as"il gran riffiuto?"--the great renunciation. Does the French languagecontain a more touching record than that of the great Navarre's farewellto his Huguenot brethren? What bitter tears shed Jeanne d'Albret's sonere he could bring himself to sacrifice conscience on the altar ofexpediency and a great career!

At the age of twenty we find Dominique Ingres studying in Paris underDavid, then in his apogee. 

The son of an obscure provincial, however promising, would hardly beoverwhelmed with hospitalities; all the more welcome came thefriendliness of an honourable magistrate and his wife, by nameForestier. During five years the young man had lived on terms ofclosest intimacy with these good folks, under his eyes growing up theironly daughter. 

Alas! poor Julie. Mighty, says Goethe, is the god of propinquity. OnDominique's part attachment seems to have come insensibly, as a matterof course and despite the precariousness of his position. M. Forestierencouraged the young man's advances. To Julie love for the brilliantwinner of the Prix de Rome became an absorption, her very life. Notparticularly endowed by Nature--we have her portrait in M. Momméja'svolume--she described her own physiognomy as "not at all remarkable, butexpressive of candour and goodness of heart. " For Julie, as we shallsee, turned her love-story into a little novel, only unearthed the otherday by M. Lapauze. 

The Prix de Rome meant, of course, a call to Rome, the worthy magistrateexacting from his prospective son-in-law a promise that in twelvemonths' time he would return. During that interval correspondence wenton apace not only between the affianced lovers, but between M. Forestierand Ingres, the former taking affectionate and not uncritical interestin the other's projects. For Ingres was before all things a projector, anticipating by decades the achievements of his later years. The glow ofenthusiasm, the fever of creativeness were at its height. Italypossessed Ingres' entire being when the crisis came. 

After delays, excuses, pleadings, Julie's father lost patience. He wouldbrook no further tergiversations. Ingres must choose between Italy andParis; in other words, so the artist interpreted it, between art andmarriage, a proud destiny or self-extinction. 

Never had a young artist more completely fallen under the spell ofItaly. The recall seemed a death-blow. "On my knees, " he wrote to Julie, whom he really loved, "I implore you not to ask this. It is impossiblefor me to quit immediately a land so full of marvel. "

But the practical M. Forestier would not give way. Ingres' persistencelooked like folly, even madness in his eyes. The young man was withdifficulty living from hand to mouth, portraits and small orders barelykeeping the wolf from the door. The return home and marriage wouldensure his future materially and socially, and up to a certain pointrender him independent of malevolent criticism. For already Ingres wasfiercely attacked by Parisian authorities on art: he had becomeimportant enough to be a target. After cruellest heart-searching andprolonged self-reproach, _il gran riffiuto_ was made, youthful passion, worldly advantages--and plighted faith--were cast to the winds. Henceforth he would live for his palette only, defying poverty, detraction and fiercely antagonistic opinion; if failing in allegianceto others, at least remaining staunch to his first, best, highest self, his genius. 

Julie, the third imperishable Julie of French romance, never married. Let us hope that the writing of her artless little autobiography calleda novel brought consolation. Did she ever forgive the recalcitrant? Herstory, _Emma, ou la fiancée, _ ends with the aphorism: "Without thescrupulous fulfilment of the given word, there can be neither happinessnor inner peace. "

Did that backsliding in early life disturb the great painter's stormybut dazzling career? Who can say? We learn that Ingres was twice, and, according to accredited reports, happily, married. His first wife, ahumbly-born maiden from his native province, died in 1849, leaving theseptuagenarian so desolate, helpless and stricken that kindlyinterveners set to work and re-married him. The second Mme. Ingres, although thirty years his junior, gave him, his biographer tells us, "that domestic peace and happiness of which for a brief space he hadbeen deprived. " Heaped with honours, named by Napoleon III. GrandOfficer of the Legion of Honour, Senator, Member of the Institut, Ingresdied in 1869. Within a year of ninety, he was Dominique Ingres to thelast, undertaking new works with the enthusiasm and vitality of Titian. A few days before his death he gave a musical party, favourite works ofHaydn, Mozart and Beethoven being performed by skilled amateurs. Hisfuneral was a veritable apotheosis, disciples, admirers and detractorsswelling the enormous cortège. 

Those who, like myself, have times without number contemplated themaster's _opus magnum_ in the Louvre, and have studied his art asrepresented in the provincial museums, will quit the Musée Ingres withmixed feelings. It must occur to many that, perhaps, after all, _il granriffiuto_ of opposite kind might have better served art and the artist'sfame. Had he returned to France--and to Julie--at the stipulated period, the following eighteen years being spent not on Italian but on nativesoil, how different the result! Then of his work he could have said, asdid Chantecler of his song--

 "Mon chant Qui n'est pas de ces chants qu'on chante en cherchant Mais qu'on reçoit du sol natal comme une sève. "

Would not most of us willingly give Ingres' greatest classical andhistoric canvases for one or two portraits, say that of Bertin, or, better still, for a group like that of the Stamiti family? What aportrait gallery he would have bequeathed, how would he have made themen and women of his time live again before us!

[Footnote: Both are reproduced, with many other works, in M. Momméja's volume. ]

Ingres, the artist, ever felt sure of himself. Did the lover look back, regretting the broken word, the wrong done to another? We do not know. His life was throughout upright, austere, free from blot; born and breda Catholic, he had doubtless Huguenot blood in his veins, many of hismost striking characteristics pointed to this inference. 

A word more concerning Montauban itself. The stronghold of reform, thatdefied all Richelieu's attempts to take it, is to this day essentially aProtestant town. Half of its inhabitants have remained faithful to thefaith of their ancestors. Tourists will note the abundance of cypresstrees marking Huguenot graves, the capital of Tarn and Garonne is averitable Calvinistic _Campo Santo_. After the Revocation, many familiesfled hence to England, their descendants to this day loving andreverencing the country which gave them a home. 

Montauban, as we should expect, has raised a splendid monument to itsone great citizen. 

Since writing these lines, an Ingres exhibition has been opened in theGeorges Petit Gallery, Paris. Apropos of this event, the _Revue des DeuxMondes_ (May 15, 1911) contains a striking paper by the art-critic, M. De Sizeraine. Some of the conclusions here arrived at are startling. Certain authorities on art are said to regard the great Montalbanais asa victim of daltonism--in other words, colour-blind!

In company of the mere amateur, this authority turns with relief fromthe master's historical and allegorical pieces to his wonderfullyspeaking portraits. Here, he says, all is simple, nothing iscommonplace, nothing is unexpected, and yet nothing resembles what wehave seen elsewhere; we find no embellishment, no stultification. Headds: "In art, as in literature, works which survive are perhaps thosein which the artist or writer has put the most of himself, not those inwhich he has had most faith. The "Voeu de Louis XIII, " the "Thétis" ofIngres, we may compare to Voltaire's _Henriade_ and to the_Franciade_ of Ronsard, all belong to the category of the_opus magnum_ that has failed, and of which its creator is proud. "With the following charming simile the essay closes--

"Posterity is a great lady, she passes, reviews the _opus magnum, lagrande machine_ disdainfully, satirically; all seems lost, the artistcondemned. But by chance she catches sight of a neglected picture turnedto the wall in a corner or passage, some happy inspiration that has costits author little pains, but in which he has not striven beyond hispowers, and in which he has put the best of himself. The _grande dame_catches it up, holds it to the light. 'Ha! here is something pretty!'she cries. And the artist's fame is assured. "

Has not Victor Hugo focused the same truth in a line--

 "Ici-bas, le joli c'est le nécessaire!"

And our own Keats also--

 "For 'tis the eternal law, That first in beauty should be first in might. "

X

MY PYRENEAN VALLEY AT LAST

 Osse, la bien aimée Toi, du vallon Le choix, la fille aînée Le vrai fleuron! C'est sur toi qu'est fixée Dans son amour, La première pensée Du roi du jour Comme à sa fiancée L'amant accourt. Xavier Navarrot. 

Between Toulouse and Tarbes the scenery is quite unlike that of theGard and the Aude. Instead of the interminable vineyards round aboutAigues-Mortes and Carcassonne, we gaze here upon a varied landscape. Following the Garonne with the refrain of Nadaud's famous song inour minds--

 "Si la Garonne avait voulu, "--

we traverse a vast plain or low vale rich in many-coloured crops:buckwheat, sweeps of creamy blossom, dark-green rye, bluish-green Indiancorn with silvery flower-head, and purple clover, and here and there apatch of vine are mingled together before us; in the far distance thePyrenees, as yet mere purple clouds against the horizon. 

We soon note a peculiarity of this region--vines trained to trees, amethod in vogue a hundred years ago. "Here, " wrote Arthur Young, whenriding from Toulouse to St. Martory on his way to Luchon, "for the firsttime I see rows of maples with vines trained in festoons from tree totree"; and farther on he adds, "medlars, plums, cherries, maples inevery hedge with vines trained. " The straggling vine-branches have acurious effect, but the brightness of the leafage is pleasant to theeye. No matter how it grows, to my thinking the vine is a lovely thing. 

The rich plain passed, we reach the slopes of the Pyrenees, their woodedsides presenting a strange, even grotesque, appearance, owing to themathematical regularity with which the woods are cut, portions beingclose shaven, others left intact in close juxtaposition, solid phalanxesof trees and clearings at right angles. The fancy conjures up aBrobdingnagian wheat-field partially cut in the green stage. Sad havocis thus made of once beautiful scenes, richly-wooded slopes having losthalf their foliage. 

A hundred years ago Lourdes was a mere mountain fortress, a State prisonto which unhappy persons were consigned by _lettres de cachet_. Apologists of the Ancien Régime assert, in the first place, that theseBastilles were comfortable, even luxurious retreats; in the second, that_lettres de cachet_ were useful and necessary; in the third, thatneither Bastilles nor _lettres de cachet_ were resorted to on the eveof the Revolution. Let us hear what Arthur Young has to say on thesubject. "I take the road to Lourdes, " he writes in August 1787, "whereis a castle on a rock, garrisoned for the mere purpose of keeping Stateprisoners, sent hither by _lettres de cachet_. Seven or eight are knownto be here at present; thirty have been here at a time; and many forlife--torn by the relentless hand of jealous tyranny from the bosom ofdomestic comfort, from wives, children, friends, and hurried, for crimesunknown to themselves, most probably for virtues, to languish in thisdetested abode, and die of despair. Oh liberty, liberty!"

Great is the contrast between the lovely entourage of this notoriousplace and the triviality and vulgar nature of its commerce. The onelong, winding street may be described as a vast bazaar, more suited toChaucer's Canterbury Pilgrims than to holders of railway tickets andcontemporaries of the Eiffel Tower. 

A brisk trade is done here, the place wearing the aspect of a huge fair. Rosaries, crosses, votive tablets, ornamental cans for holding themiraculous waters, drinking-cups, candles, photographs, images, medalsare sold by millions. The traffic in these wares goes on all day long, the poorest "pilgrim" taking away souvenirs. 

The Lourdes of theology begins where the Lourdes of bartering ends. Aswe quit the long street of bazaars and brand-new hotels, the firstglimpse gives us an insight into its life and meaning, makes us feelthat we ought to have been living two or three hundred years ago. Weglance back at the railway station, wondering whether a halt were wise, whether indeed the gibbet, wheel, and stake were not really prepared forheretics like ourselves!

The votive church built on the outer side of the rock from which flowsthe miraculous fountain is a basilica of sumptuous proportions, representing an outlay of many millions of francs. Its portico, withhorse-shoe staircase in marble, spans the opening of the green hills, behind which lie grotto and spring. We are reminded of the enormouschurch now crowning the height of Montmartre at Paris; here, as thereand at Chartres, is a complete underground church of vast proportions. The whole structure is very handsome, the grey and white building-stonestanding out against verdant hills and dark rocks. A beautifullylaid-out little garden with a statue of the miracle-working Virgin liesbetween church and town. 

Looking from the lofty platform on the other side of the upper church, we behold a strange scene. The space below is black with people, hundreds and thousands of pilgrims, so called, priests and nuns being infull force, one and all shouting and gesticulating with fierce zealotry, a priest or two holding forth from a temporary pulpit. 

Between these closely-serried masses is a ghastly array. On litters, stretchers, beds, chairs, lie the deformed, the sick, the moribund, awaiting their turn to be sprinkled with the miraculous waters orblessed by the bishop. These poor people, many of whom are in the laststage of illness, have for bearers, volunteers; these are priests, younggentlemen of good family, and others, who wear badges and leathertraces, by which they attach themselves to their burden. 

All day long masses are held inside the church and in the open air; at agiven signal the congregation stretching out their arms in the form of across, prostrating themselves on the ground, kissing the dust. 

We must descend the broad flight of steps in order to obtain a good viewof the grotto, an oval opening in the rocks made to look like astalactite cave, with scores and hundreds of _ex-votos_ in the shapeof crutches. Judging from this display, there should be no more lame folksleft in France. The Virgin of Lourdes must have healed them all. In aniche of the grotto stands an image of the Virgin, and behind, perpetually lighted with candles, an altar, at which mass is celebratedseveral times daily. 

On one side, the rock has been pierced in several places, deliciouslypure, cool water issuing from the taps. Crowds are always collectedhere, impatient to drink of the miraculous fountain, and to fill vesselsfor use at home. We see tired, heated invalids, and apparently dyingpersons, drinking cups of this ice-cold water; enough, one would think, to kill them outright. Close by is a little shop full of trifles forsale, but so thronged at all hours of the day that you cannot getattended to; purchasers lay down their money, take up the objectdesired, and walk away. Here may be bought a medal for two sous, or acrucifix priced at several hundred francs. 

The praying, chanting, and prostrating are at their height when theviolet-robed figure of a bishop is caught sight of, tripping down aside-path leading from the town. Blessing any who chance to meet him onthe way, chatting pleasantly with his companion, a portly gentlemanwearing the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour, the bishop hastenstowards the grotto, dons his sacerdotal robes of ivory-white and gold, and celebrates mass. The ceremony over, there is a general stir. Adjusting their harness, the bearers form a procession, the bishopemerges from the grotto, and one by one the thirty and odd litters aredrawn before him to be sprinkled, blessed--and healed! alas, such, doubtless, is the fond delusion of many. 

The sight of so many human wrecks, torsos and living skeletons all agogfor life, health, and restoration, is even less heart-breaking than thatof their companions. Here we see a mother bending with agonized looksover some white-faced, wasted boy, whose days, even hours, are clearlynumbered; there a father of a wizen-faced, terribly deformed girl, amite to look at, but fast approaching womanhood, brought hither to beput straight and beautiful. Next our eye lights on the emaciated form ofa young man evidently in the last stage of consumption, his own facehopeful still, but what forlornness in that of the adoring sister by hisside! These are spectacles to make the least susceptible weep. Grotesqueis the sight of a priest who must be ninety at least; what furthermiracle can he expect, having already lived the life of threegenerations?

The last litter drawn by, the enormous crowd breaks up; tall candles areoffered to those standing near, and a procession is formed, headed bythe bishop under his gold and white baldachin, a large number of priestsfollowing behind, then several hundred men, women, and children, theblack and white robes of the priests and nuns being conspicuous. Chanting as they go, outsiders falling on their knees at the approach ofthe baldachin, the pilgrims now wind in solemn procession round thestatue in front of the church, and finally enter, when another religiouscelebration takes place. Services are going on all day long and lateinto the night. Hardly do these devotees give themselves time for meals, which are a scramble at best, every hotel and boarding-house muchovercrowded. The _table d'hôte_ dinner, or one or two dishes, arehastily swallowed, and the praying, chanting, marching and prostratingbegin afresh. At eight o'clock from afar comes the sound of pilgrims'voices as the procession winds towards the grotto. 

There is picturesqueness in these nocturnal celebrations, the taperstwinkling against the dark heavens, the voices dying away in thedistance. Superstition has its season as well as sulphur-baths andchalybeate springs. The railway station is a scene of indescribableconfusion; enormous contingents come for a few hours only, the numberedtrains that brought them are drawn up outside the main lines awaitingtheir departure. Here we are hustled by a motley throng; fashionableladies bedizened with rosaries, badges, and medallions; elegant younggentlemen, the _jeunesse dorée_ of a vanished _régime_, proudlywearing the pilgrim's badge, all travelling third-class and in humblecompany for their soul's good; peasant women from Brittany in charmingcostumes; a very, very few blue blouses of elderly civilians'; enormousnumbers wearing religious garb. 

It seems a pity that a bargain could not be struck by France andGermany, the Emperor William receiving Lourdes in exchange for Metz orStrasburg! Lourdes must represent a princely revenue, far in excess, Ishould say, of any profit the Prussian Government will ever make out ofthe annexed provinces; and as nobody lives there, and visitors onlyremain a day or two, it would not matter to the most patriotic Frenchpilgrim going to whom the place belonged. 

The tourist brings evil as well as good in his track, and the tax uponglorious scenery here is not the globe-trotter but the mendicant. Gavarnie is, without doubt, as grandiose a scene as Western Europe canshow. In certain elements of grandeur none other can compete with it. But until a balloon service is organized between Luz and the famousCirque it is impossible to make the journey with an unruffled temper. The traveller's way is beset by juvenile vagrants, bare-faced andimportunate as Neapolitans or Arabs. Lovers of aerial navigation haveotherwise not much left to wish for. Nothing can be more like a ride incloudland than the drive from Pierrefitte to Luz and from Luz toGavarnie. The splendid rock-hewn road is just broad enough to admit oftwo carriages abreast. On one side are lofty, shelving rocks, on theother a stone coping two feet high, nothing else to separate us from theawful abyss below, a ravine deep as the measure of St. Paul's Cathedralfrom base to apex of golden cross. We hear the thunder of the river asit dashes below by mountains two-thirds the height of Mont Blanc, theirdark, almost perpendicular sides wreathed with cloud, on their summitsgleaming never-melted snow, here and there the sombre parapets streakedwith silvery cascades. At intervals the Titanic scene is relieved byglimpses of pastoral grace and loveliness, and such relief is necessaryeven to those who can gaze without giddiness on such awfulness. Betweengorge and gorge lie level spaces, amid dazzlingly-green meadows theriver flows calm and crystal clear, the form and hue of every pebbledistinct as the pieces of a mosaic. Looking upwards we see hanginggardens and what may be called farmlets, tiny homesteads with minutepatches of wheat, Indian corn, and clover on an incline so steep as tolook vertical. Most beautiful and refreshing to the eye are the littlehayfields sloping from the river, the freshly-mown hay in cocks or beingturned, the shorn pasture around bright as emerald. Harvest during theyear 1891 was late, and in the first week of September corn was stillstanding; nowhere, surely, corn so amber-tinted, so golden, nowhere, surely, ripened so near the clouds. In the tiny chalets perched on themountain ridges, folks literally dwell in cloudland, and enjoy a kind ofsupernal existence, having for near neighbours the eagles in theireyries and the fleet-footed chamois or izard. 

These vast panoramas--towering rocks of manifold shape, Alp rising aboveAlp snow-capped or green-tinted, terrace upon terrace of fields andhomesteads--show every variety of savage grandeur and soft beauty tillwe gradually reach the threshold of Gavarnie. This is aptly called"chaos" which we might fancifully suppose the leavings, "the fragmentsthat were left, " of the semicircular wall now visible, thrown up bytranshuman builders, insurmountable barrier between heaven and earth. Nosooner does the awful amphitheatre break upon the view, than we discernthe white line of the principal fall, a slender silvery column reaching, so it seems, from star-land and moon-land to earth; river of some upperworld that has overleaped the boundaries of our own. No words can conveythe remotest idea of such a scene. 

We may say with regard to scenery what Lessing says of pictures, we onlysee in both what we bring with us to the view. More disconcerting thanthe importunities of beggars and donkey-drivers are the superciliousremarks of tourists. To most, of course, the whole thing is "a saddisappointment. " Everything must necessarily be a disappointment to somebeholders; and with critics of a certain order, the mere fact of notbeing pleased implies superiority. The hour's walk from the village tothe Cirque is an event also in the life of the flower-lover. We havehardly eyes for Gavarnie, so completely is our gaze fascinated by thelarge luminous gold and silver stars gleaming conspicuously from thebrilliant turf. These are the glorious flower-heads of the white andyellow Pyrenean thistle that open in sunshine as do sea-anemones, sending out lovely fringes, sunrays and moonbeams not more strikinglycontrasted. As we rush hither and thither to gather them--if wecan--their roots are veritable tentaculae, other lovely flowers are tobe had in plenty, the beautiful deep-blue Pyrenean gentian, monk's-hoodin rich purple blossom, rose-coloured antirrhinum, an exquisite littleyellow sedum, with rare ferns. On one side, a narrow bridle-path windsround the mountain towards Spain; on the other, cottage-farms dot thegreen slopes; between both, parting the valley, flows the Gave, here aquietly meandering streamlet, whilst before us rises Gavarnie; a sceneto which one poet only--perhaps the only one capable of grappling withsuch a subject--has done justice--

 "Cirque, hippodrome, Stage whereon Stamboul, Tyre, Memphis, London, Rome, With their myriads could find place, whereon Paris at ease Might float, as at sundown a swarm of bees, Gavarnie, dream, miracle!"

 [Footnote: "Un cirque, un hippodrome, Un théâtre où Stamboul, Tyre, Memphis, Londres, Rome, Avec leurs millions d'hommes pourraient s'asseoir. Ou Paris flotterait comme un essaim du soir. Gavarnie!--un miracle! un rêve!"--Victor Hugo, "Dieu. "]

How to give some faint conception of the indescribable? Perhaps thegreat French poet has best succeeded in a single line--

 "L'impossible est ici debout. "

We feel, indeed, that we are here brought face to face with theimpossible. 

Let the reader then conjure up a solid mass of rock threefold thecircumference of St. Paul's Cathedral; let him imagine the façade ofthis natural masonry of itself exceeding the compass of our greatProtestant minster; then in imagination let him lift his eyes from stageto stage, platform to platform, the lower nearly three times the heightof St. Paul's from base to apex of golden cross, the higher that of foursuch altitudes; their gloomy parapets streaked with glistening whitelines, one a vast column of water, although their shelving sides showpatches of never-melted snows; around, framing in the stupendous scene, mountain peaks, each unlike its majestic brother, each in heightreaching to the shoulder of Mont Blanc. Such is Gavarnie. 

My next halting-place was a remote Pyrenean village admirably adaptedfor the study of rural life. Within a few hours' journey of the Spanishfrontier, Osse lies in the beautiful valley of Aspe, and is reached byway of Pau and Oloron. At the latter town the railway ends, and we haveto drive sixteen miles across country, a delightful expedition infavourable weather. The twin towns, old and new Oloron, present thecontrast so often seen throughout France, picturesque, imposingantiquity beside utilitarian ugliness and uniformity. The open suburbanspaces present the appearance of an enormous drying-ground, in which arehung the blankets of the entire department. Blankets, woollen girdles orsashes, men's bonnets are manufactured here. "Pipers, blue bonnets, andoatmeal, " wrote an English traveller a hundred years ago, "are found inCatalonia, Auvergne, and Suabia as well as in Lochaber. " We are now inthe ancient kingdom of Beam, with a portion of Navarre added to theFrench crown by Henry IV, and, two hundred years later, named thedepartment of the Basses Pyrenées. 

[Illustration: OSSE]

Every turn of the road reveals new features as we journey towards Osse, having always in view the little Gave d'Aspe, after the manner ofPyrenean rivers, making cascades, waterfalls, whirlpools on its way. Most beautiful are these mountain streams, their waters of pure, deepgreen, their surface broken by coruscations of dazzlingly white foam andspray, their murmur ever in our ears. When far away we hardly miss thegrand contours of the Pyrenees more than the music of their rushingwaters. No tourists meet us here, yet whither shall we go for scenessublimer or more engaging? On either side of the broadening velvetygreen valley, with its tumbling stream, rises a rampart of statelypeaks, each unlike its neighbour, each having a graciousness andgrandeur of its own. Here and there amid these vast solitudes is seen awhite glittering thread breaking the dark masses of shelving rock, mountain torrent falling into the river from a height of several hundredfeet. Few and far between are the herdsmen's châlets and scatteredcornfields and meadows, and we have the excellent carriage road toourselves. Yet two or three villages of considerable size are passed onthe way; of one, an inland spa much frequented by the peasants, I shallmake mention presently. 

For three hours we have wound slowly upward, and, as our destination isapproached, the valley opens wide, showing white-walled, grey-roofedhamlets and small towns all singularly alike. The mountains soon closeround abruptly on all sides, making us feel as if we had reached theworld's end. On the other side of those snow-capped peaks, here somajestically massed before our gaze, lies Spain. We are in a part ofFrance thoroughly French, yet within a few hours of a country strikinglycontrasted with it; manners, customs, modes of thought, institutionsradically different. 

[Illustration: NEAR THE SPANISH FRONTIER]

The remoteness and isolation of Osse explain the existence of a littleProtestant community in these mountain fastnesses. For centuries theReformed faith has been upheld here. Not, however, unmolested. A tabletin the neat little church tells how the original place of Protestantworship was pulled down by order of the king in 1685, and onlyreconstructed towards the close of the following century. Withoutchurch, without pastor, forbidden to assemble, obliged to bury theirdead in field or garden, these dales-folk and mountaineers yet clungtenaciously to their religion. One compromise, and one only, they made. Peasant property has existed in the Pyrenees from time immemorial, andin order to legitimize their children and enjoy the privilege ofbequeathing property, the Protestants of the Vallée d'Aspe were marriedaccording to the rites of the Romish Church. In our own days, here aselsewhere throughout France, the religious tenets handed down fromfather to son are adhered to without wavering, and at the same timewithout apparent enthusiasm. Catholics and Protestants live amicablyside by side; but intermarriages are rare, and conversions from Rome torationalism infrequent. The Sunday services of the little Protestantchurch are often attended by Catholics. Strangers passing through Osse, market-folk, peasants and others, never fail to inspect it curiously. The Protestant pastor is looked up to with respect and affection alikeby Catholic and Protestant neighbours. The rival churches neither losenor gain adherents to any extent. This fact is curious, especially in aspot where Protestantism is seen at its best. It shows the extremeconservatism and stability of the French character, often set down asrevolutionary and fickle. In England folks often and avowedly changetheir religion several times during their lives. Is not the solemnreception into Rome of instructed men and women among ourselves a matterof every day? In France it is otherwise, and when a change is made weshall generally find that the step is no retrograde one. 

If the social aspect is encouraging at Osse, the same may be said ofpeasant property. Even a Zola must admit some good in a communityunstained by crime during a period of twenty years, and bound by ties ofbrotherhood which render want impossible. A beautiful spirit ofhumanity, a delicacy rare among the most polished societies, characterize these frugal sons and daughters of the soil. Nor isconsideration for others confined to fellow-beings only. The animal istreated as the friend, not the slave of man. "We have no need of the LoiGrammont here, " said a resident to me; and personal observationconfirmed the statement. 

As sordidness carried to the pitch of brutality is often imputed to theFrench peasant, let me relate an incident that occurred hereabouts, notlong before my visit. The land is minutely divided, many possessing acottage and field only. One of these very small owners was suddenlyruined by the falling of a rock, his cottage, cow and pig beingdestroyed. Without saying a word, his neighbours, like himself in veryhumble circumstances, made up a purse of five hundred francs, a largesum with such donors, and, too delicate-minded to offer the giftthemselves, deputed an outsider to do it anonymously. Another instancein point came to my knowledge. This was of a young woman servant, who, during the illness of her employer, refused to accept wages. "You shallpay me some other time, " said the girl to her mistress; "I am sure youcan ill afford to give me the money now. "

Peasant property and rural life generally here presented to me somewholly new features; one of these is the almost entire self-sufficingness of very small holdings, their owners neither buying norselling, making their little crops and stock almost completely supplytheir needs. Thus on a field or two, enough flax is grown with which tospin linen for home use, enough wheat and Indian corn for the year'sbread-making, maize being mixed with wheaten flour; again, pigs andpoultry are reared for domestic consumption--expenditure being reducedto the minimum. Coffee is a luxury seldom indulged in, a few drink home-grown wine, but all are large milk-drinkers. The poorest is a goodcustomer of the dairy farmer. 

I was at first greatly puzzled by the information of a neighbour that hekept cows for the purpose of selling milk. Osse being sixteen miles froma railway station, possessing neither semi-detached villas, hotels, boarding-houses, convents, barracks, nor schools, and a population offrom three to four hundred only, most of these small farmers--who werehis patrons?

I afterwards learned that the "ha'porth of milk, " which means much morein all senses than with us, takes the place of tea, coffee, beer, to saynothing of more pernicious drinks, with the majority. New milk from thecow costs about a penny a quart, and perhaps if we could obtain asimilar commodity at the same price in England, even gin might besupplanted. Eggs and butter are also very cheap; but as the peasantsrear poultry exclusively for their own use, it is by no means easy atOsse to procure a chicken. A little, a very little money goes to theshoemaker and general dealer, and fuel has to be bought; this item isinconsiderable, the peasants being allowed to cart wood from thecommunal forests for the sum of five or six francs yearly. The villageis chiefly made up of farmhouses; on the mountain-sides and in thevalley are the châlets and shepherds' huts, abandoned in winter. Thehomesteads are massed round the two churches, Catholic and Protestant, most having a narrow strip of garden and balcony carried along the upperstorey, which does duty as a drying-ground. 

One of these secluded hamlets, with its slated roofs, white walls, andbrown shutters, closely resembles another; but Osse stands alone inpossessing a Protestant church and community. 

Although the little centre of a purely agricultural region, we findhere one of those small, specific industries, as characteristic ofFrench districts as soil and produce. Folks being great water-drinkers, they will have their drinking-water in a state of perfection. Somenative genius long ago invented a vessel which answers the requirementof the most fastidious. This is a pail-shaped receptacle of yewen wood, bound with brass bands, both inner and outer parts being keptexquisitely clean. Water in such vessels remains cool throughout thehottest hours of the hottest summer, and the wood is exceedinglydurable, standing wear and tear, it is said, hundreds of years. Theturning and encasing of yewen wood, brass-bound water-jars is aflourishing manufacture at Osse. 

Here may be seen and studied peasant property in many stages. I wouldagain remark that any comparison between the condition of the Englishagricultural labourer and the French peasant proprietor is irrelevantand inconclusive. In the cottage of a small owner at Osse, forinstance, we may discover features to shock us, often a total absenceof the neatness and veneer of the Sussex ploughman's home. Our disgustis trifling compared with that of the humblest, most hard-workingowner of the soil, when he learns under what conditions lives hisEnglish compeer. To till another's ground for ten or eleven shillingsa week, inhabit a house from which at a week's notice that other caneject him, possess neither home, field nor garden, and have no kind ofprovision against old age, such a state of things appears to ourartless listener wholly inconceivable, incommensurate with moderncivilization and bare justice. 

As an instance of the futility of comparisons, I will mention oneexperience. I was returning home late one afternoon when apoorly-dressed, sunburnt woman overtook me. She bore on her head abasket of bracken, and her appearance was such that in any other countryI should have expected a demand for alms. Greeting me, however, cheerfully and politely, she at once entered into conversation. She hadseen me at church on Sunday, and went on to speak of the pastor, withwhat esteem both Catholics and Protestants regarded him, then of thepeople, their mode of life and condition generally. 

"No, " she said, in answer to my inquiry, "there is no real want here, and no vagrancy. Everybody has his bit of land, or can find work. I comefrom our vineyard on the hillside yonder, and am now returning home tosupper in the village--our farmhouse is there". She was a widow, sheadded, and with her son did the work of their little farm, thedaughter-in-law minding the house and baby. They reared horses for sale, possessed a couple of cows, besides pigs and poultry. 

The good manners, intelligence, urbanity, and quiet contentment of thisgood woman were very striking. She had beautiful white teeth, and wasnot prematurely aged, only very sun-burnt and shabby, her black stuffdress blue with age and mended in many places, her partially bare feetthrust in sabots. The women here wear toeless or footless stockings, theupper part of the foot being bare. I presume this is an economy, aswooden shoes wear out stockings. We chatted of England, ofProtestantism, and many topics before bidding each other good-night. There was no constraint on her part, and no familiarity. She talkedfluently and naturally, just as one first-class lady traveller might doto a fellow-passenger. Yet, if not here in contact with the zero ofpeasant property, we are considering its most modest phase. 

A step higher and we found an instance of the levelling processcharacteristic of every stage of French society, yet hardly to be lookedfor in a remote Pyrenean village. In one of our afternoon rambles weovertook a farmeress, and accepted an invitation to accompany her home. She tripped cheerfully beside us; although a Catholic, on friendliestterms with her Protestant neighbours. Her thin white feet in toelessstockings and sabots, well-worn woollen petticoat, black stuff jacket, headgear of an old black silk handkerchief, would have suggestedanything but the truth to the uninitiated. Here also the unwary strangermight have fumbled for a spare coin. She had a kindly, intelligent face, and spoke volubly in patois, having very little command of French. Itwas, indeed, necessary for me to converse by the medium of aninterpreter. On approaching the village we were overtaken by a slight, handsome youth conducting a muck-wagon. This was her younger son, andhis easy, well-bred greeting, and correct French, prepared me for thepiece of intelligence to follow. The wearer of peasant's garb, cartingmanure, had passed his examination of Bachelor of Arts and Science, had, in fact, received the education of a gentleman. In his case, thepatrimony being small, a professional career meant an uphill fight, butdoubtless, with many another, he would attain his end. 

The farmhouse was large, and, as is unusual here, apart from stables andcow-shed, the kitchen and outhouse being on the ground floor, the youngmen's bedrooms above. Our hostess slept in a large, curtainedfour-poster, occupying a corner of the kitchen. A handsome wardrobe ofsolid oak stood in a conspicuous place, but held only a portion of thefamily linen. These humble housewives count their sheets by the dozen ofdozens, and linen is still spun at home, although not on the scale offormer days. The better-off purchase strong, unbleached goods of localmanufacture. Here and there I saw old women plying spindle and distaff, but the spinning-wheel no longer hums in every cottage doorway. 

Meantime our hospitable entertainer--it is ever the women who wait ontheir guests--brought out home-grown wine, somewhat sour to theunaccustomed palate, and, as a corrective, home-made brandy, which, withsugar, formed an agreeable liqueur, walnuts--everything, indeed, thatshe had. We were also invited to taste the bread made of wheaten andmaize flour mixed, a heavy, clammy compound answering Mrs. Squeers'srequirement of "filling for the price. " It is said to be very wholesomeand nutritious. 

The kitchen floor, as usual, had an unsecured look, but was clean swept, and on shelves stood rows of earthen and copper cooking-vessels and theyewen wood, brass-bound water-jars before mentioned. The façade of thehouse, with its shutters and balcony, was cheerful enough, but justopposite the front door lay a large heap of farmhouse manure awaitingtransfer to the pastures. A little, a very little, is needed to makethese premises healthful and comfortable. The removal of themanure-heap, stables, and cow-shed; a neat garden plot, a floweringcreeper on the wall, and the aspect would be in accordance with thematerial condition of the owner. 

The property shared by this widow and her two sons consisted of betweenfive and six acres, made up of arable land and meadow. They kept fourcows, four mares for purposes of horse-breeding, and a little poultry. Milch cows here are occasionally used on the farm, an anomaly among apopulation extremely gentle to animals. 

My next visits were paid on a Sunday afternoon, when everybody is athome to friends and neighbours. Protestant initiative in the matter ofthe seventh day test has been uniformly followed, alike man and beastenjoy complete repose. As there are no cabarets and no trippers todisturb the public peace, the tranquillity is unbroken. 

Our first call was upon an elder of the Protestant Church, and one ofthe wealthier peasants of the community. The farmhouse was on the usualPyrenean plan, stables and neat-houses occupying the ground floor, anouter wooden staircase leading to kitchen, parlour, and bedrooms; on theother side a balcony overlooking a narrow strip of garden. 

Our host, dressed in black cloth trousers, black alpaca blouse, andspotless, faultlessly-ironed linen, received us with great cordialityand the ease of a well-bred man. His mother lived with him, a charmingold lady, like himself peasant-born, but having excellent manners. Shewore the traditional black hood of aged and widowed Huguenot women, andher daughter-in-law and little granddaughter, neat stuff gowns andcoloured cashmere kerchiefs tied under the chin. 

We were first ushered into the vast kitchen or "living room, " as itwould be called in some parts of England, to-day with every other partof the house in apple-pie order. Large oak presses, rows of earthen andcopper cooking-vessels, an enormous flour-bin, with plain deal table andchairs, made up the furniture, from one part of the ceiling hanginglarge quantities of ears of Indian corn to dry. Here bread is baked oncea week, and all the cooking and meals take place. 

Leading out of the kitchen was the salon or drawing-room, the first Ihad ever seen in a peasant farmer's house. A handsome tapestrytable-cover, chimney ornaments, mirror, sofa, armchairs, rugs, betokenednot only solid means but taste. We were next shown the grandmother'sbedchamber, which was handsomely furnished with every modernrequirement, white toilet-covers and bed-quilt, window-curtains, rug, wash-stand; any lady unsatisfied here would be hard indeed to please. The room of master and mistress was on the same plan, only much larger, and one most-unlooked-for item caught my eye. This was a towel-horse(perhaps the comfortably-appointed parsonage had set the fashion?), aluxury never seen in France except in brand-new hotels. As a rule thetowel is hung in a cupboard. We were then shown several other bedrooms, all equally suggestive of comfort and good taste; yet the owner was apeasant, prided himself on being so, and had no intention of bringing uphis children to any other condition. His farm consisted of a fewhectares only, but was very productive. We saw his cows, of which he isvery fond, the gentle creatures making signs of joy at their master'sapproach. Four or five cows, as many horses for breeding purposes, a fewsheep, pigs, and poultry made up his stock. All that I saw of thisfamily gave me a very high notion of intelligence, morality, thrift andbenevolence. 

Very feelingly all spoke of their animals and of the duty of humanbeings towards the animal world generally. It was the first time I hadheard such a tone taken by French peasants, but I was here, be itremembered, among Protestants. The horrible excuse made in Italy andBrittany for cruelty to beasts, "Ce ne sont pas des chrétiens, " finds noacceptance among these mountaineers. 

Our second visit brought us into contact with the bourgeois element. Thefarmhouse, of much better appearance than the rest, also stood in thevillage. The holding was about the size of that just described. Theyoung mistress was dressed in conventional style, had passed anexamination at a girls' Lycée, entitling her to the _brevet supérieur_or higher certificate, her husband wore the dress of a countrygentleman, and we were ushered into a drawing-room furnished with piano, pictures, a Japanese cabinet, carpets, and curtains. 

The bedrooms might have been fitted up by an upholsterer of TottenhamCourt Road. It must be borne in mind that I am not describing thewealthy farmers of the Seine and Marne or La Venidée. 

The fact that these young people let a part of their large, well-furnished house need not surprise us. There is no poverty here, butno riches. I do not suppose that any one of the small landowners to whomI was introduced could retire to-morrow and live on his savings. I dareaver that one and all are in receipt of a small income from investedcapital, and have a provision against sickness and old age. 

The master of the house showed me his stock, five or six handsome cowsof cross breed, in value from £10 to £16, the latter the maximum pricehere. We next saw several beautiful mares and young colts, and fourhorned sheep. Sheepkeeping and farming are seldom carried on together, and this young farmer was striking out a new path for himself. He toldme that he intended to rear and fatten sheep, also to use artificialmanure. Up to the present time, guanos and phosphates are all butunknown in these regions, only farmhouse dung is used, cows being partlykept for that purpose. Although the land is very productive, myinformant assured me that much remained to be done by departure fromroutine and the adoption of advanced methods. The cross-breeding ofstock was another subject he had taken up. Such initiators are needed indistricts remote from agricultural schools, model farms, and State-paidchairs of agriculture. 

Each of the four instances just given differed from the other. The firstshowed us peasant property in its simplest development, a little familycontentedly living on their bit of land, making its produce suffice fordaily needs, independent of marts and markets as the members of aprimitive community. 

The second stage showed us a wholly dissimilar condition, yet notwithout its ideal side. We were brought face to face with thattransitional phase of society and pacific revolution, of happiest auguryfor the future. From the peasant ranks are now recruited contingentsthat will make civil wars impossible, men who carry into politicslearning and the arts, those solid qualities that have made rural Francethe admiration of the world, and more than once saved her Republic. 

The first instance exemplified the intense conservatism of the Frenchpeasant. Liberal in politics, enlightened in religion, open to thereception of new ideas, here was nevertheless a man absolutely satisfiedwith social conditions as they affected himself and his children, utterly devoid of envy or worldly ambition. To reap the benefits of histoil, deserve the esteem of his neighbours, bequeath his little estate, improved and enriched, to his heirs, surely this was no contemptibleideal either. 

The last case differed from the other three. We were now reminded of theEnglish tenant, or even gentleman-farmer--with a difference. Alike masterand mistress had received a good education and seen something of theworld; they could enjoy music and books. But in spite of her _brevetsupérieur_, the wife attended to her dairy; and although the husbandwas a gentleman in manners and appearance, he looked after the stock. They lived, too, on friendliest terms with their less-instructed andhomelier neighbours, the black alpaca blouse and coloured kerchief, doing duty for bonnet, being conspicuous at their Sunday receptions. Noteven a Zola can charge French village-life with the snobbishness soconspicuous in England. It will be amply shown from the foregoingexamples that peasant property is no fixed condition to be arbitrarilydealt with after the manner of certain economists. On the contrary, itis many-phased; the fullest and widest development of modern France isindeed modern France itself. The peasant owner of the soil has attainedthe highest position in his own country. No other class can boast ofsuch social, moral and material ascendency. He is the acknowledgedarbitrator of the fortunes of France. 

I will now cite two facts illustrating the bright side of peasantproperty in its humblest phase, where we have been told to expectsordidness, even brutality. The land hereabouts, as I have beforestated, is excessively divided, the holdings being from two and a halfacres in extent and upwards. It often happens that the younger childrenof these small owners give up their share of the little family estatewithout claiming a centime of compensation, and seek their fortunes inthe towns. They betake themselves to handicrafts and trade, in theirturn purchasing land with the savings from daily wages. 

Again, it is supposed that the life of the peasant owner is one ofuniform, unbroken drudgery, his daily existence hardly more elevatedthan that of the ox harnessed to his plough. Who ever heard of anEnglish labourer taking a fourteen days' rest at the seaside? When did arheumatic ploughman have recourse to Bath or Buxton? They order thesethings better in France. 

Between Osse and Oloron stands Escot, long famous for its warm springs. The principal patrons of this modest watering-place are the peasants. Itis their Carlsbad, their Homburg, many taking a season as regularly asthe late King Edward. The thing is done with thoroughness, but at aminimum of cost. They pay half a franc daily for a room, and anotherhalf-franc for the waters, cooking their meals in the general kitchen ofthe establishment. Where the French peasant believes, his faith isphenomenal. Some of these valetudinarians drink as many as forty-sixglasses of mineral water a day! What must be their capacities in robusthealth? The bourgeois or civilian element is not absent. Hither from Pauand Oloron come clerks and small functionaries with their families. Newspapers are read and discussed in company. We may be sure that therustic spa is a little centre of sociability and enlightenment. 

Let me now say something about the crops of this sweet Pyreneanvalley. The chief of these are corn, maize, rye, potatoes, and clover;the soil being too dry and poor for turnips and beetroot. Flax isgrown in small quantities, and here and there we seen vines, but thewine is thin and sour. 

From time immemorial, artificial irrigation has been carried on in theVallée d'Aspe, and most beautiful is the appearance of the brilliantlygreen pastures, intersected by miniature canals in every direction; thesweet pastoral landscape framed by mountain peaks of loveliest colourand majestic shape. These well-watered grasslands produce two or eventhree crops a year; the second, or _regain_ as it is called, was beinggot in early in September, and harvest having taken place early, cloverwas already springing up on the cleared cornfields. Everywhere men andwomen were afield making hay or scattering manure on the meadows, thelatter sometimes being done with the hands. 

All these small farmers keep donkeys and mules, and on market-days theroads are alive with cavalcades; the men wearing gay waist-sashes, flatcloth caps, or berets, the women coloured kerchiefs. The type isuniform--medium stature, spareness, dark eyes and hair, and olivecomplexion predominating. Within the last thirty years the generalhealth and physique have immensely improved, owing to better food andwholesomer dwellings. Goître and other maladies arising frominsufficient diet have disappeared. Epidemics, I was assured, seldomwork havoc in this valley; and though much remains to be done in the wayof drainage and sanitation, the villages have a clean, cheerful look. 

The last ailment that would occur to us proves most fatal to thosehardy country folks. They are very neglectful of their health, and asthe changes of temperature are rapid and sudden, the chief mortalityarises from inflammation of the lungs. It is difficult indeed to defendoneself against so variable a climate. On my arrival the heat wastropical. Twelve hours later I should have rejoiced in a fire. Dangerous, too, is the delicious hour after sunset, when mist risesfrom the valley, whilst yet the purple and golden glow on the peaksabove tempts us to linger abroad. 

The scenery is grandiose and most beautiful. Above the white-walled, grey-roofed villages and townlings scattered about the open, risesharp-pointed green hills or monticules, one gently overtopping theother; surmounting these, lofty barren peaks, recalling the volcanicchains of Auvergne, the highest snow-capped point twice the altitude ofthe Puy de Dôme, two-thirds that of Mont Blanc. 

Whichever way we go we find delightful scenery. Hidden behind the foldedhills, approached by lovely little glades and winding bridle-path, tosses and foams the Gave d'Aspe, its banks thickly set with willow andsalicornia, its solitary coves inviting the bather. The witchery ofthese mountain streams grows upon us in the Pyrenees. We hunger for themusic of their cascades when far away. The sun-lit, snow-lit peaks, towering into the brilliant blue heavens, are not deserted as theyappear. Shepherd farmers throughout the summer dwell in huts here, andwelcome visitors with great affability. 

Let me narrate a fact interesting alike to the naturalist andmeteorologist. On the 7th September, 1891, the heat on one of thesesummits, nine thousand feet above the sea-level, was so intense that alittle flock of sheep were seen literally hugging the snow, laying theirfaces against the cool masses, huddled about them, as shivering mortalsround a fire in winter. And, a little way off, the eye-witnesses of thisstrange scene gathered deep blue irises in full bloom. 

[Illustration: ORCUM]

On the lower slopes the farmers leave their horses to graze, giving thema look from time to time. One beautiful young horse lost its life justbefore my arrival, unwarily approaching a precipitous incline. As a ruleaccidents are very rare. 

The izard or Pyrenean chamois, although hunted as game, is not yet asurvival here, nor the eagle and bear, the latter only making itsappearance in winter-time. 

Tent-life in these mountain-sides is quite safe and practicable. Who cansay? A generation hence and these magnificent Alps may be tunnelled byrailways, crowned by monster hotels, peopled from July to October withtourists in search of disappointments. 

At present the Vallée d'Aspe is the peacefullest in the world. Alike onweek-days and Sundays the current of life flows smoothly. Every morningfrom the open windows of the parsonage may be heard the sweet, simplehymns of the Lutheran Church, master and mistress, servants andchildren, uniting in daily thanksgiving and prayer. 

And a wholesome corrective is the Sunday service after the sightsof Lourdes. 

The little congregation was striking. Within the altar railings stoodtwo _anciens_, or elders, of the church, middle-aged men, tall, stalwart, the one fair as a Saxon, the other dark as a Spaniard. Bothwore the dress of the well-to-do peasant, short black alpaca blouses, black cloth trousers, and spotless collars and cuffs, and both worthilyrepresented those indomitable ancestors who neither wavered nor lostheart under direst persecution. 

By the time the pastor ascended the reading-desk, the cheerful, well-kept little church was full, the men in black blouses, the womenwearing neat stuff or print gowns, with silk handkerchiefs tied underthe chin, widows and the aged, the sombre black-hooded garment, enveloping head and figure, of Huguenot matrons of old--supposed to havesuggested the conventual garb. 

Among the rest were two or three Catholics, peasants of theneighbourhood, come to look on and listen. The simple, intelligibleservice, the quiet fervour of the assembly, might well impress asceptical beholder. Even more impressive is the inscription over thedoor. A tablet records how the first Protestant church was pulled downby order of the king after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, andrebuilt on the declaration of religious liberty by the NationalAssembly. Gazing on that inscription and the little crowd ofworshippers, a sentence of Tacitus came into my mind. Recording how notonly the biographers of good men were banished or put to death, buttheir works publicly burnt by order of Domitian, the historian, whosesentences are volumes condensed, adds: "They fancied, forsooth"--he isspeaking of the tyrant and his satellites--"that all records of theseactions being destroyed, mankind could never approve of them. " Anillusion shared by enemies of intellectual liberty, from the Caesars totheir latest imitator, unhappily not wholly dispelled in our own day. 

Whether the homeward journey is made through the Landes by way ofBayonne and Bordeaux, or through the Eastern Pyrenees by way ofPerpignan, we are brought face to face with scenes of strangesttransformation. In the former region the agency has been artificial, theshifting sands being fixed and solidified by plantations on a giganticscale, and large tracts rendered fertile by artificial irrigation; inthe latter, Nature has prepared the field, the more laborious portion ofthe husbandman's task is already done. 

"The districts of sand, as white as snow and so loose as to blow, " seenby Arthur Young towards the close of the last century, can hardly besaid to exist in our own day. Even within twenty-five years the changesare so great as to render entire regions hardly recognizable. Thestilts, or _chanques_, of which our word "shanks" is supposed to be theorigin, become rarer and rarer. The creation of forests and sinking ofwells, drainage, artificial manures and canals are rapidly fertilizing aonce arid region; with the aspect of the country a proportionate changetaking place in the material condition of the people. 

No less startling is the transformation of lagoon into salt marsh, andmarsh into cultivable soil, witnessed between the Spanish frontier, Perpignan and Nîmes. 

Quitting Cerbère, the little town at which travellers from Barcelonare-enter French territory, we follow the coast, traversing a region longlost to fame and the world, but boasting of a brilliant history beforethe real history of France began. 

We are here in presence of geological changes affected neither by shocknor convulsion, nor yet by infinitesimally slow degrees. A fewcenturies have sufficed to alter the entire contour of the coast andreverse the once brilliant destinies of maritime cities. With therecorded experience of mediaeval writers at hand, we can localizelagoons and inland seas where to-day we find belts of luxuriantcultivation. In a lifetime falling short of the Psalmist's threescoreyears and ten observations may be made that necessitate thereconstruction of local maps. 

The charming little watering-place of Banyulssur-Mer, reached soon afterpassing the Spanish frontier, is the only place on this coast, exceptCette, without a history. The town is built in the form of anamphitheatre, its lovely little bay surrounded by rich southernvegetation. The oleanders and magnolias in full bloom, gardens andvineyards, are no less strikingly contrasted with the barrenness andmonotony that follows, than Banyuls itself, spick and span, brand-new, with the buried cities scattered on the way, ancient as Tyre and Sidon, and once as flourishing. There is much sadness yet poetic charm in thelandscape sweeps of silvery-green olive or bluish salicornia against apale-blue sky, dull-brown fishing villages bordering sleepy lagoons, stretches of white sand, with here and there a glimpse of the purple, rock-hemmed sea. Little of life animates this coast, in many spots thecustom-house officer and a fisherman or two being the sole inhabitants, their nearest neighbours removed from them by many miles. Only theflamingo, the heron, and the sea-gull people these solitudes, within thelast few years broken by the whistle of the locomotive. We are followingthe direct line of railway between Barcelona and Paris. 

The first of the buried cities is the musically-named Elne, ancientlyIlliberis, now a poor little town of the department of the EasternPyrenees, hardly, indeed, more than a village, but boasting a wondrouspedigree. We see dull-brown walls, ilex groves, and above low-lyingwalls the gleaming sea. This apparently deserted place occupies the siteof city upon city. Seaport, metropolis, emporium had here reached theirmeridian of splendour before the Greek and the Roman set foot in Gaul. Already in Pliny's time the glories of the Elne had become tradition. Wemust go farther back than Phoenician civilization for the beginnings ofthis town, halting-place of Hannibal and his army on their march towardsRome. The great Constantine endeavoured to resuscitate the fallen city, and for a brief space Elne became populous and animated. With other onceflourishing seaports it has been gradually isolated from the sea, andthe same process is still going on. 

Just beyond Perpignan a lofty tower, rising amid vineyards and pastures, marks the site of Ruscino, another ancient city and former seaport. TheTour de Roussillon is all that now remains of a place once importantenough to give its name to a province. Le Roussillon, from which wasformed the department of the Pyrénées Orientales, became French by thetreaty of the Pyrenees in 1659. Here also the great Carthaginian halted, and here, we learn, he met with a friendly reception. 

Monotonous as are these wide horizons and vast stretches of marsh andlagoon, they appeal to the lover of solitude and of the more pensiveaspects of nature. The waving reeds against the pale sky, the sweeps ofglasswort and terebinth, show delicate gradations of colour; harmonious, too, the tints of far-off sea and environing hills. Not cities only seeminterred here: the railway hurries us through a world in which all ishushed and inanimate, as if, indeed, mankind no less than good fortunehad deserted it. The prevailing uniformity is broken by thepicturesquely placed little town of Salses and the white cliffs ofLeucate. Strabo and Pomponius Mela describe minutely the floatingislands or masses of marine plants moving freely on the lake of Salses. Here, as elsewhere, the coastline is undergoing slow but steadymodification, yet we are in presence of phenomena that engaged theattention of writers two thousand years ago. 

From this point till we approach Cette the region defies definition. Itis impossible to determine nicely where the land ends and the seabegins. The railway follows a succession of inland salt lakes andlagoons, with isolated fishermen's cabins, reminding us oflake-dwellings. In some places the hut is approached by a narrow stripof solid ground, on either side surrounded by water, just admitting thepassage of a single pedestrian. The scene is unspeakably desolate. Onlysea-birds keep the fisher-folk company; only the railway recalls thebusy world far away. 

Of magnificent aspect is Narbonne, the Celtic Venice, as it rises abovethe level landscape. The great seaport described by Greek historians sixcenturies before our own era, the splendid capital of Narbonese Gaul, rival of the Roman Nîmes and of the Greek Arles, is now as dull aprovincial town as any throughout France. Invasions, sieges, plagues, incendiaries, most of all religious persecutions, ruined the mediævalNarbonne. The Jewish element prevailed in its most prosperous phase, andM. Renan in his history of Averroës shows how much of this prosperityand intellectual pre-eminence was due to the Jews. The cruel edicts ofPhilip Augustus against the race proved no less disastrous here than theexpulsion of Huguenots elsewhere later. The decadence of Narbonne as aport is due to natural causes. Formerly surrounded by lagoons affordingfree communication with the sea, the Languedocian Venice has graduallylost her advantageous position. The transitional stage induced suchunhealthy climatic conditions that at one period there seemed alikelihood of the city being abandoned altogether. In proportion as themarsh solidified the general health improved. Day by day the slow butsure process continues, and when the remaining salt lakes shall havebecome dry land, this region, now barren and desolate, will blossom likethe rose. The hygienic and atmospheric effects of the _Eucalyptusglobulus_ in Algeria are hardly more striking than the ameliorationwrought here in a natural way. The Algerian traveller of twenty-fiveyears ago now finds noble forests of blue gum tree, where, on his firstvisit, his heart was wrung by the spectacle of a fever-strickenpopulation. On the coast of Languedoc the change has been slower. It hastaken not only a generation but a century to transform pestilentialtracts into zones of healthfulness and fertility. 

An interesting fact, illustrating the effect of physical agencies uponhuman affairs, must be here mentioned. Till within the last few yearsthis town counted a considerable Protestant community. The ravages ofthe phylloxera in the neighbouring vineyards caused a wholesale exodusof vine-growers belonging to the Reformed Church, and in 1886 the numberhad dwindled to such an extent that the services of a pastor were nolonger required. The minister in charge was transferred elsewhere. 

The dull little town of Agde is another ancient site. Its name is alikea poem and a history. The secure harbourage afforded by this shelteredbay won for the place the name of Good Fortune, [Greek: agathae tuchae], whence Agathe, Agde. A Greek settlement, its fine old church was in partconstructed of the materials of a temple to Diana of Ephesus. Agdepossesses interest of another kind. It is built of lava, the solitarypeak rising behind it, called Le Pic de St. Loup, being the southernextremity of that chain of extinct volcanoes beginning with Mont Mezencin the Cantal. A pathetic souvenir is attached to this lonely crater. Ata time when geological ardour was rare, a Bishop of Agde, St. Simon byname, devoted years of patient investigation to the volcanic rocks inhis diocese. The result of his studies were recorded in letters to alearned friend, but the Revolution stopped the poor bishop'sdiscoveries. He perished by the guillotine during the Terror. Thecelebrated founder of socialism in France was his nephew. 

XI

AN OLIVE FARM IN THE VAR

The friendly visit of a few Russian naval officers lately put thecountry into as great a commotion as a hostile invasion. I startedsouthward from Lyons on the 12th October, 1893, amid scenes of whollyindescribable confusion; railway stations a mere compact phalanx ofexcited tourists bound for Toulon, with no immediate prospect of gettingan inch farther, railway officials at their wits' end, carriage aftercarriage hooked on to the already enormously long train, and yet crowdsupon crowds left behind. Every train was, of course, late; and on theheels of each followed supplementary ones, all packed to their utmostcapacity. As we steamed into the different stations "Vive la Russie!"greeted our ears. The air seemed filled with the sound; never surely wassuch a delirium witnessed in France since the fever heat of 1789!

At Valence, Montélimar, Avignon, Arles, the same tumult reigned; butbefore reaching the second place, the regulation number of carriages, twenty-five, had been exceeded, and as hardly one per cent of thetravellers alighted, we could only pass by the disconcerted multitudesawaiting places. And a mixed company was ours--the fashionable world, select and otherwise, the demi-monde in silks and in tatters, musicians, travelling companies of actors and showmen, decoratedfunctionaries, children, poodles, all bound for the Russian fleet!

At Marseilles, a bitter disappointment awaited some, I fear, many. Nosooner were we fairly within the brilliantly-lighted, crowded station, and before the train had come to a standstill, than a stentorian voicewas heard from one end of the platform to the other, crying--

"LOOK TO YOUR PURSES!"

And as the gorged carriages slowly discharged their burden, the streamof passengers wending towards the door marked "Way out, " a yet louderand more awe-inspiring voice came from above, the official being perchedhigh as an orator in the pulpit, repeating the same words--

"ATTENTION À VOTRE PORTE-MONNAIE!"

The dismay of the thwarted pickpockets may be better imagined thandescribed. Many, doubtless, had come from great distances, confident ofa golden harvest. Let us hope that the authorities of Toulon wereequally on the alert. Marseilles no more resembles Lyons, Bordeaux, Nantes, than those cities resemble each other. Less elegant than Lyons, less majestic than Bordeaux, gayer by far than Nantes, the capital ofSouthern France has a stamp of its own. Today, as three thousand yearsago, Marseilles may be called the threshold of the East. In these hot, bustling, noisy streets, Paris is quiet by comparison; London a Trappistmonastery! Orientals, or what our French neighbours call exotics, are socommon that no one looks at them. Japanese and Chinese, Hindus, Tonquinois, Annamites, Moors, Arabs, all are here, and in native dress;and writing letters in the salon of your hotel, your _vis-à-vis_ at the_table d'hôte_, your fellow sightseers, east and west, to-day as of old, here come into friendly contact; and side by side with the East is theglowing life of the South. We seem no longer in France, but in a greatcosmopolitan mart that belongs to the whole world. 

The Marseillais, nevertheless, are French; and Marseilles, to theirthinking, is the veritable metropolis. "If Paris had but herCannebière, " they say, "she would be a little Marseilles!"

Superbly situated, magnificently endowed as to climate, the _chef-lieu_of the Bouches du Rhône must be called a slatternly beauty; whilstembellishing herself, putting on her jewels and splendid attire, shehas forgotten to wash her face and trim her hair! Not in Horatianphrase, dainty in her neatness, Marseilles does herself injustice. Lyonsis clean swept, spick and span as a toy town; Bordeaux is coquettish asher charming Bordelaise; Nantes, certainly, is not particularly carefulof appearances. But Marseilles is dirty, unswept, littered from end toend; you might suppose that every householder had just moved, leavingtheir odds and ends in the streets, if, indeed, these beautifully-shadedwalks can be so called. The city in its development has laid out alleysand boulevards instead of merely making ways, with the result that inspite of brilliant sky and burning sun, coolness and shadow are ever tobe had. The Cannebière, with its blue sky, glowing foliage and gay, nonchalant, heterogeneous crowds, reminds me of the Rambla of Barcelona. Indeed, the two cities have many points of resemblance. Marseilles isgreatly changed from the Marseilles I visited twenty-five years ago, tosay nothing of Arthur Young's description of 1789. The only advantagewith which he accredited the city was that of possessing newspapers. Itsport, he wrote, was a horsepond compared to that of Bordeaux; the numberof country houses dotting the hills disappointingly small. At thepresent time, suburban Marseilles, like suburban London, encroachesyear by year upon the country; another generation, and the sea-coastfrom Toulon to the Italian frontier will show one unbroken line ofcountry houses. Of this no one can doubt who sees what is going on inthe way of building. 

But it is not only by beautiful villas and gardens that the city hasembellished itself. What with the lavishness of the municipality, publiccompanies, and the orthodox, noble public buildings, docks, warehouses, schools, churches, gardens, promenades, have rendered Marseilles themost sumptuous French capital after Paris. Neither Lyons, Bordeaux, Nantes, can compare with it for sumptuosity. In the Palais deLongchamps, the splendour of municipal decoration reaches its acme; thehorsepond Arthur Young sneered at now affords accommodation of 340acres, with warehouses, said to be the finest in the world; last, butnot least, comes the enormous Byzantine Cathedral not yet finished, built at the cost of a quarter of a million sterling. Other new churchesand public buildings without number have sprung up of late years, thecrowning glory of Marseilles being its Palais de Longchamps. 

This magnificent group of buildings may be called a much enlarged andmuch more grandiose Trocadéro. Worthily do these colossal Tritons andsea-horses commemorate the great achievement of modern Marseilles;namely, the conveying of a river to its very doors. Hither, over adistance of fifty-four miles, are brought the abundant waters of theDurance; as we stand near, their cascades falling with the thunder ofour own Lodore. But having got the river and given the citizens morethan enough water with which to turn their mills, supply their domesticwants, fertilize suburban fields and gardens, the Town Council seemsatisfied. The streets are certainly, one and all, watered with rushingstreams, greatly to the public health and comfort. A complete system ofdrainage is needed to render the work complete. When we learn that evenNice is not yet drained from end to end, we need not be astonished attardy progress elsewhere. Sanitation is ever the last thing thought ofby French authorities. Late in the afternoon we saw two or three menslowly sweeping one street. No regular cleaning seems to take place. Getwell out of the city, by the sea-shore, or into the Prado--an avenue ofsplendid villas--and all is swept and garnished. The centralthoroughfares, so glowing with life and colour, and so animated by dayand night, are malodorous, littered, dirty. It is a delightful drive bythe sea, over against the Château d'If, forts frowning above the rock, the deep blue waves, yellowish-brown shore, and green foliage, all instriking contrast. 

We with difficulty realize that Marseilles is not the second city inFrance. The reason is obvious. Lyons lies less compactly together, itsthickly-peopled Guillotière seems a town apart; the population of Lyons, moreover, is a sedentary one, whilst the Marseillais, being seafarers, are perpetually abroad. The character, too, is quite different, lessexpansive, less excitable, less emotional in the great silk-weavingcapital, here gay, noisy, nonchalant. Nobody seems to find the cares ofthe day a burden, all to have some of the sunshine of the place in theircomposition. "Mon bon, " a Marsellais calls his neighbour; there is nostillness anywhere. Everybody is "Mon bon" to everybody. 

The out-of-door, rollicking, careless life, more especially strikes anortherner. We seem here as remote from ordinary surroundings as ifsuddenly transported to Benares. The commercial prosperity of the firstFrench sea-port is attested by its lavish public works, and number ofcountry houses, a disappointing handful in Arthur Young's time. Hardly ahouseholder, however modest his means, who does not possess a cottage orchâlet; the richer having palatial villas and gardens. Nothing canconvey a greater notion of ease and wealth than the prospect of suburbanMarseilles, its green hills, rising above the sea, thickly dotted withsummer houses in every part. 

All who wish to realize the advance of French cities since 1870-71should visit Marseilles. Only those who knew it long ago can measure thechange, and greater changes still are necessary ere its sanitaryconditions match climate and situation. 

From Marseilles to Nice, from the land of the olive to that of the palm, is a long and wearisome journey. That tyrannical monopoly, theParis-Lyon-Méditerranée Railway Company, gives only slow trains, exceptto travellers provided with through tickets; and these so inconvenientlyarranged, that travellers unprovided with refreshments, have noopportunity of procuring any on the way. Whenever we travel by railwayin France we are reminded of the crying need for competition. Theall-omnipotent P. -L. -M. Does as it pleases, and it is quite useless fortravellers to complain. Every inch of the way points to the future ofthe Riviera--a future not far off. A few years hence and the sea-coastfrom Marseilles to Mentone will be one unbroken line of hotels andvillas. The process is proceeding at a rapid rate. When Arthur Youngmade this journey a century ago, he described the country around Toulonthus: "Nine-tenths are waste mountain, and a wretched country of pines, box, and miserable aromatics. " At the present time, the brilliant redsoil, emerald crops, and gold and purple leafage of stripped vine, makeup a picture of wondrous fertility. At every point we see vineyards ofrecent creation; whilst not an inch of soil between the olive trees iswasted. On the 28th of October the landscape was bright with autumncrops, some to be _répiqué_, or planted out according to the Chinesesystem before mentioned. 

The first thing that strikes the stranger at Nice is its Italianpopulation. These black-eyed, dark-complexioned, raven-haired, easy-going folks form as distinct a type as the fresh-complexioned, blue-eyed Alsatian. That the Niçois are French at heart is self-evident, and no wonder, when we compare their present condition with that of thepast. We see no beggars or ragged, wretched-looking people. If themunicipal authorities have set themselves the task of putting downmendicity, they have succeeded. French enterprise, French capital isenriching the population from one end of the Alpes Maritimes to theother. At the present time there must be tens of thousands of workmenemployed in the building of hotels and villas between Marseilles andVentimille. That the Riviera will finally be overbuilt no one candoubt; much of the original beauty of the country is already destroyedby this piling up of bricks and mortar, more beauty is doomed. Butmeantime work is brisk, wages are high, and the Post Office savings bankand private banks tell their own tale. 

Of course the valetudinarians contribute to the general prosperity, aprosperity which it is difficult for residents in an Englishwatering-place to realize. Thus I take up a Hastings newspaper to find along list of lodging-house keepers summoned for non-payment of taxes. Arrived at Nice, a laundress employed by my hostess immediately came tosee if I had any clothes for her. On bringing back the linen shedeposited it in my room, saying I could pay her when fetching the nextbundle. I let her go, but called her back, thinking that perhaps thepoor woman had earned nothing for months and was in distress. My hostessafterwards informed me with a smile that this good woman had £2, 500 inthe bank. I could multiply instances in point. 

If the condition of the working classes has immensely improved, the costof living has not stood still. A householder informed me that prices ofprovisions, servants' wages, house rent and other items of domesticeconomy have tripled within the last twenty years. There is everyprospect that this increase will continue. Last winter hotels andboarding-houses at Nice were all full; fast as new ones are built, theyfill to overflowing. And, of course, the majority of visitors are rich. No others should come; they are not wanted. 

In studying the rural population we must bear in mind one fact--namely, the line of demarcation separating the well-to-do peasants of the plainfrom the poor and frugal mountaineer. Follow the mule track from Mentoneto Castillon, and we find a condition of things for squalor and povertyunmatched throughout France. Visit an olive-grower in the valley of theVar, and we are once more amid normal conditions of peasant property. Myfirst visit was to the land of Goshen. 

Provided with a letter of introduction to a farmer, I set off for thevillage of St. Martin du Var, a village of five hundred and odd souls, only within the last year or two accessible by railway. The new line, which was to have connected Nice with Digne and Cap, had been stoppedshort half-way, the enterprising little company who projected it beingthereby brought to the verge of ruin. This fiasco, due, I am told, tothe jealous interference of the P. -L. -M. , is a great misfortune totravellers, the line partially opened up leading through a most wildlypicturesque and lovely region, and being also of great commercial andstrategic importance. But that terrible monopoly, the Paris-Lyon-Méditerranée, will tolerate no rivals. Folks bound from Gap to Nice muststill make the long round by way of Marseilles in order to please theCompany; merchandise--and, in case of a war with Italy, which may Heavenavert!--soldiers and ammunition must do the same. 

The pretty new "Gare du Sud" invites patronage, and three services areperformed daily. On this little line exists no third class. I imagine, then, that either the very poor are too poor to take train at all, orthat there are none unable to pay second-class fare. In company ofpriests, peasants, and soldiers, I took a second-class place, the guardjoining us and comfortably reading a newspaper as soon as we werefairly off. 

It is a superb little journey to St. Martin du Var. The line may bedescribed as a succession of tunnels, our way lying between loftylimestone cliffs and the Var, at the present time almost dry. As weslowly advance, the valley widens, and on either side are broad beltsof verdure and fertility; fields, orchards, gardens, olive treesfeathering the lower slopes, here and there, little villages perchedhigh above the valley. One charming feature of the landscape is theaspen; so silvery were its upper leaves in the sun that at first Itook them for snow-white blossoms. These verdant stretches on eitherside of the river were formerly mere waste, redeemed and renderedcultivable by means of dykes. 

My destination is reached in an hour, a charmingly placed village amidbeautiful mountain scenery, over against it towering the hamlet of LaRoquette, apparently inaccessible as cloudland. Here a tributarystream joins the Var, the long winding valley, surrounded by loftycrags and olive-clad slopes, affording a delightful and mostexhilarating prospect. The weather on this 20th of October was that ofa perfect day in July. 

St. Martin du Var has its Mairie, handsome communal schools, and largepublic walks or recreation ground, a parallelogram planted with trees. The place has a neglected, Italian aspect; at the same time an aspect ofease and contentment. The black-eyed, olive-complexioned, Italian-looking children are uniformly well dressed, with good shoes andstockings. French children, even of the poorest class, are alwaysdecently shod. 

I found my host at dinner with his wife, little daughter, andsister-in-law. The first impression of an uninitiated traveller would beof poverty. The large bare kitchen was unswept and untidy; the familydishes--soup, vegetables, olives, good white bread, wine--were placed onthe table without cloth or table-cover. As will be seen, thesehard-working, frugal people were rich; in England they would haveservants to wait upon them, fine furniture, and wear fashionableclothes. My letter of introduction slowly read and digested, the head ofthe family placed himself at my disposal. We set off on a round ofinspection, the burning mid-day sun here tempered by a delicious breeze. 

We first visited the olive-presses and corn-mill--this farmer wasvillage miller as well as olive grower--all worked by water-power anderected by himself at a heavy outlay. Formerly these presses and millswere worked by horses and mules after the manner of old-fashionedthreshing-machines, but in Provence as in Brittany, progress is now theorder of the day. 

In order to supply these mills, a little canal was dug at my host's ownexpense, and made to communicate with the waters of the Var; thus a goodsupply is always at hand. 

The enormous olive-presses and vats are now being got in for the firstor October harvest. This is the harvest of windfalls or fallen fruit, green or black as the case may be, and used for making an inferior kindof oil. The second harvest or gathering of the olives remaining on thetrees takes place in April. Linen is spread below, and the berriesgently shaken off. I may add that the periods of olive harvests vary indifferent regions, often being earlier or later. An olive tree produceson an average a net return of twelve francs, the best returns beingalternate or biennial; the roots are manured from time to time, otherwise the culture is inexpensive. The trees are of great age and, indeed, are seldom known to die. The "immortal olive" is, indeed, nofiction. In this especial district no olive trees have, within livingmemory, been killed by frost, as was the case in Spain some years ago. Nevertheless, the peaks around St. Martin du Var are tipped with snow inwinter. The olive harvests and necessary preparations require a largenumber of hands, the wages of men averaging three francs, of women, thehalf. Thus at the time I write of, day labourers in remote regions ofProvence receive just upon fourteen shillings and sixpence per week;whereas I read in the English papers that Essex farmers are reducing thepittance of twelve and even ten shillings per week for able-bodied men. 

Ten days later, my cicerone said that the first harvest would be inactive progress, and he most cordially invited me to revisit him forthe purpose of looking on. From the lees of the crushed berries athird and much inferior oil is made and used in the manufacture ofsoap, just as what is called _piquette_ or sour wine is made inBrittany from the lees of crushed grapes. I was assured by this farmerthat the impurity of olive oil we so often complain of in England, arises from adulteration at the hands of retailers. Table oil as itissues from the presses of the grower is absolutely pure; merchants addinferior qualities or poppy oil, described by me in an earlier page, and which my present host looked upon with supreme contempt. The olive, with the vine and tobacco, attains the maximum of agricultural profits. This farmer alone sells oil to the annual value of several thousandpounds, and to the smaller owner also it is the principal source ofincome. Peasant owners or tenants of an acre or two grow a little cornas well, this chiefly for their own use. 

The interior of the corn-mill presented an amusing scene. Two or threepeasants were squabbling with my host's subordinate over their sacks offlour; one might have supposed from the commotion going on and thegeneral air of vindictive remonstrance that we were suddenly transportedto a seigneurial mill. A few conciliatory words from the master put allstraight, and soon after we saw the good folks, one of them an oldwoman, trotting off on donkeys with their sack of corn slung beforethem. I need hardly say that the talk of these country-people amongthemselves is always in patois, not a word of which is intelligible tothe uninitiated. 

Just above the mills are groves of magnificent old olive trees, andalongside the little railway were bright strips of lucerne and pasture, folks here and there getting in their tiny crops of hay. 

The iron road is not yet regarded as an unmixed good. My host told methat local carters and carriers had been obliged in consequence to selltheir horses and carts and betake themselves to day labour. Suchdrawbacks are, of course, inevitable, but the ulterior advantageeffected by the railway is unquestionable. I should say that nowhere arelife and property safer than in these mountain-hemmed valleys. Thelandlady of the little hotel at St. Martin du Var assured me that shealways left her front door open all night. Nothing had ever happened toalarm her but the invasion of three English ladies at midnight, one ofthese of gigantic stature and armed with a huge stick. The trio weremaking a pedestrian journey across country, apparently taking thissecurity for granted. Neither brigands nor burglars could have giventhe poor woman a greater fright than the untimely appearance of mycountrywomen. 

It was now too hot to visit the open tracts of pasture and cultivationalongside the Var. The farmer's wife proposed a shady walk to aneighbouring farm instead, our errand being to procure milk for my fiveo'clock tea. Without hat or umbrella, my companion set off, chatting aswe went. She explained to me that on Sundays she wore bonnet and mantleafter the fashion of a _bourgeoise_; in other words, she dressed like alady, but that neither in summer nor winter at any other time did shecover her head. She was a pleasant-mannered, intelligent, affable woman, almost toothless, as are so many well-to-do middle-aged folks in France. Dentists must fare badly throughout the country. No one ever seems tohave a guinea to spend upon false teeth. 

We were soon out of the village, and passing the pretty garden of theGendarmerie, reached a scene of unimaginable, unforgettable beauty. Never shall I forget the splendour of the olive trees set around awide, brilliantly green meadow; near the farmhouse groves ofpomegranate, orange and lemon with ripening fruit; beside these, medlarand hawthorn trees (_cratoegus azarolus_), the golden leafage andcoral-red fruit of the latter having a striking effect; beyond, silverypeaks, and, above all, a heaven of warm, yet not too dazzling blue. Atthe farther end of the meadow, in which a solitary cow grazed at will, a labourer was preparing a ribbon-like strip of land for corn, besidehim, pretending to work too, his little son of five years. My hostessheld up her jug and stated her errand, proposing that the cow should bemilked a trifle earlier in order to suit my convenience. The mangood-naturedly replied that, as far as the matter concerned himself, hewas agreeable enough, but that the cow was not so easily to be put outof her way. She was milked regularly as clockwork at a quarter to five, the clock had only just struck four; he might leave his work and takeher home, but not a drop of milk would she give before the proper time!Leaving our jug, we roamed about this little paradise, unwilling toquit a scene of unblemished beauty. A more bewitching spot I do notrecall; and it seemed entirely shut off from the world, on all sides, unbroken quiet, nothing to mar the exquisiteness of emerald turf, glossy foliage of orange and lemon trees, silvery olive in strikingcontrast, and above, a cloudless sky. In the heart of a primeval forestwe could not feel more alone. 

The thought occurred to me how perfect were such a holiday resort coulda clean little lodging be found near! With some attention tocleanliness and sanitation, the little hotel at St. Martin du Var mightsatisfy the unfastidious. I am bound to admit that in French phrase itleaves much to desire. 

My host gave me a good deal of interesting information about the placeand the people. Excellent communal schools with lay teachers of bothsexes have been opened under French régime; and the village of fivehundred and odd souls has, of course, its Mairie, Hôtel de Ville, andGendarmerie, governing itself after the manner of French villages. 

Whilst the ladies of the house chatted with me they knitted away atsocks and stockings, in coarse, bright-coloured wool. Such articles arenever bought, the home-made substitute being much more economical in theend. As an instance of the solid comfort of these apparently frugalfolks, let me mention their homespun linen sheets. My hostess showed mesome coarse bed-linen lately woven for her in the village. Calicosheets, she said, were much cheaper, but she preferred this durablehome-spun even at three times the price. An old woman in the villagestill plied the loom, working up neighbours' materials at three francs aday. The flax has to be purchased also, so that the homespun sheet is aluxury; "and at the same time, " the housewife added, "a work ofcharity. This poor old woman lives by her loom. It is a satisfaction tohelp her to a mouthful of bread. "

The moon had risen when I took leave, hostess, little daughter, andsister all accompanying me to the station, reiterating their wish to seeme again. Nothing, indeed, would have been pleasanter than to idle awayweeks amid this adorable scenery and these charming people. But life isshort and France is immense. The genially uttered _au revoir_ becomestoo often a mere figure of speech. 

I add, by the way, that the little daughter, now trotting daily to thevillage school, is sure to have a handsome dowry by and by. Fourthousand pounds is no unusual portion of a rich peasant's daughter inthese regions. As an old resident at Nice informed me, "The peasants arericher than the _bourgeoisie_"--as they deserve to be, seeing theirself-denial and thrift. 

XII

PESSICARZ AND THE SUICIDES' CEMETERY

Pessicarz is a hamlet not mentioned in either French or Englishguide-books; yet the drive thither is far more beautiful than theregulation excursions given in tourists' itineraries. The road winds incorkscrew fashion above the exquisite bay and city, gleaming as if builtof marble, amid scenes of unbroken solitude. Between groves of veteranolives and rocks rising higher and higher, we climb for an hour and ahalf, then leaving behind us the wide panorama of Nice, Cimiez, the sea, and villa-dotted hills, take a winding inland road, as beautiful as canbe imagined. Here, nestled amid chestnut woods, lay the little farm Ihad come to see, consisting of three hectares let at a rent of fivehundred francs (between seven and eight acres, rented at twenty pounds ayear), the products being shared between owner and tenant. This modifiedsystem of _métayage_ or half profits is common here, and certainlyaffords a stepping-stone to better things. By dint of uncompromisingeconomy, the metayer may ultimately become a small owner. The farmhousewas substantially built and occupied by both landlord and tenant, thelatter with his family living on the ground floor. This arrangementprobably answers two purposes, economy is effected, and fraud preventedon the part of the metayer. Pigs and poultry are noisy animals, and if adishonest tenant wanted to smuggle any of these away by night, theywould certainly betray him. The housewife, in the absence of herhusband, received me very kindly. I was of course introduced by aneighbour, who explained my errand, and she at once offered to show meround. She was a sturdy, good-natured-looking woman, very well-dressedand speaking French fairly. The first thing she did was to show me herpoultry, of which she was evidently very proud. This she accomplished bycalling out in a loud voice, "Poules, poules, poules" ("chickens, chickens, chickens"), as if addressing children, whereupon they camefluttering out of the chestnut woods, fifty or more, some of fine breed. These fowls are kept for laying, and not for market, the eggs being sentdaily into Nice. She then asked me indoors, the large kitchen being onone side of the door, the outhouses on the other. Beyond the kitchen wasa large bedroom, her children, she explained, sleeping upstairs. Bothrooms were smoke-dried to the colour of mahogany, unswept and veryuntidy, but the good woman seemed quite sensible of these disadvantagesand apologized on account of narrow space. A large supply of clotheshung upon pegs in the bed-chamber, and it possessed also a very handsomeold upright clock. The kitchen, besides stores of cooking utensils, hada stand for best china, and on the walls were numerous unframedpictures. I mention these trifling details to show that even among thepoorer peasant farmers something is found for ornament; they do not liveas Zola would have us believe, for sordid gains alone. 

We next visited the pigs, of which she possessed about a dozen in threeseparate styes. These are fed only upon grain and the kitchen washsupplied from hotels; but she assured me that the disgusting story Ihad heard at Nice was true. There are certain pork-rearingestablishments in the department at which carrion is purchased andboiled down for fattening pigs. My hostess seemed quite alive to theunwholesomeness of such a practice, and we had a long talk about pigs, of which I happen to know something; that they are dirt-loving animalsis quite a mistake; none more thoroughly enjoy a good litter of cleanstraw. I was glad to find this good woman entirely of the same opinion. She informed me with evident satisfaction that fresh straw was alwaysthrown down on one side of the piggery at night, and that the animalsalways selected it for repose. 

The first lot were commodiously housed, but I reasoned with her withregard to the other two, the pig-styes being mere caverns without lightor air, and the poor creatures grunting piteously to be let out. Shetold me that they were always let out at sundown, and heard what I hadto say about pigs requiring air, let us hope to some purpose. Certainly, departmental professors have an uphill task before them inout-of-the-way regions. These poor people are said to be extremelyfrugal as a rule, but too apt to squander their years' savings at apaternal fête, wedding or any other festivity. Generations must elapseere they are raised to the level of the typical French peasant. On thescore of health they may compare favourably with any race. A fruit andvegetable diet seems sufficient in this climate. Besides her poultry andpigs my farmeress had not much to show me; but a plot of flowers formarket, a little corn, and a few olive trees added grist to the mill. Onthe whole, want of comfort, cleanliness, and order apart, I should saythat even such a condition contrasts favourably with that of an Englishagricultural labourer. Without doubt, were we to inquire closely intomatters, we should discover a sum of money invested or laid by forfuture purchases utterly beyond the reach of a Suffolk ploughman. 

Just below the little farm I visited a philanthropic experimentinteresting to English visitors. This was an agricultural orphanagefounded by an Englishman two years before, seventeen waifs and strayshaving been handed over to him by the Municipal Council of Nice. Theeducation of the poor little lads is examined once a year by a schoolinspector, in other respects the protégés are left to their new patron. Here they are taught household and farm work, fruit and flower culture, the business of the dairy, carpentering, and other trades; beingafterwards placed out. I question whether an English Board of Guardianswould so readily hand over seventeen workhouse lads to a foreigner, butit is to be hoped that the Niçois authorities will have no reason toregret their confidence. The boys do no work on Sundays, and once a yearhave a ten days' tramp in the country; the buildings are spacious andairy, but I was sorry to see a plank-bed used as a punishment. 

Indeed, I should say that the system pursued savours too much of themilitary. Here, be it remembered, no juvenile criminals are underrestraint, only foundlings guilty of burdening society. Whether thisschool exists still I know not. 

Very different was the impression produced by the State HorticulturalCollege recently opened at Antibes. 

Around the lovely little bay the country still remains pastoral andunspoiled; a mile or two from the railway station and we are in themidst of rural scenes, tiny farms border the road, patches of corn, clover, vineyard, and flower-garden--flowers form the chief harvest ofthese sea-board peasants--orange, lemon and olive groves with here andthere a group of palms, beyond these the violet hills and dazzling bluesea, such is the scenery, and could a decent little lodging be found inits midst, the holiday resort were perfect. 

One drawback to existence is the treatment of animals. As I drovetowards the college a countryman passed with a cart and pair of horses, the hindmost had two raw places on his haunches as large as a pennypiece. I hope and believe that in England such an offender would havegot seven days' imprisonment. The Italians, as we all know, have nofeeling for animals, and the race here is semi-Italian--wholly so, if wemay judge by physiognomy and complexion. 

Until the foundation of the Horticultural College here, the only one inexistence on French soil was that of Versailles. Whilst farm-schoolshave been opened in various parts of the country, and special brancheshave their separate institutions, the teaching of horticulture remainedsomewhat in abeyance. Forestry is studied at Nancy, husbandry in generalat Rennes, Grignan, and Amiens, the culture of the vine at Montpellier, drainage and irrigation at Quimperlé, all these great schools being madeaccessible to poorer students by means of scholarships. 

In no other region of France could a Horticultural College be soappropriately placed as in the department of the Alpes Maritimes. It isnot only one vast flower-garden, but at the same time a vastconservatory, the choice flowers exported for princely tables in winterbeing all reared under glass. How necessary, then, that every detail ofthis delightful and elaborate culture should be taught the people, whosemainstay it is, a large proportion being as entirely dependent uponflowers as the honey bee! Here, and in the neighbourhood of Nice, theyare cultivated for market and exportation, not for perfume distilleriesas at Grasse. 

The State School of Antibes was created by the Minister of Agriculturein 1891, and is so unlike anything of the kind in England that a briefdescription will be welcome. The first point to be noted is itsessentially democratic spirit. When did a farm-labourer's son amongourselves learn any more of agriculture than his father orfellow-workmen could teach him? At Antibes, as in the numerousfarm-schools (fermes-écoles) now established throughout France, thepupils are chiefly recruited from the peasant class. 

How, will it be asked, can a small tenant farmer or owner of three orfour acres afford to lose his son's earnings as soon as he quits school, much less to pay even a small sum for his education? The difficulty ismet thus: in the first place, the yearly sum for board, lodging andteaching is reduced to the minimum, viz. Five hundred francs a year; inthe second, large numbers of scholarships are open to pupils who havesuccessfully passed the examination of primary schools, and whoseparents can prove their inability to pay the fees. No matter how poor hemay be, the French peasant takes a long look ahead. He makes up his mindto forfeit his son's help or earnings for a year or two in view of theulterior advantage. A youth having studied at Antibes, would come outwith instruction worth much more than the temporary loss of time andmoney. That parents do reason in this way is self-evident. On theoccasion of my visit, of the twenty-seven students by far the largerproportion were exhibitioners, sons of small owners or tenants. Lads areadmitted from fourteen years and upwards, and must produce thecertificate of primary studies, answering to that of our Sixth Standard, or pass an entrance examination. The school is under State supervision, the teaching staff consisting of certificated professors. The disciplineis of the simplest, yet, I was assured, quite efficacious. If a lad, free scholar or otherwise, misbehaves himself, he is called before thedirector and warned that a second reprimand only will be given, thenecessity of a third entailing expulsion. No more rational treatmentcould be devised. 

Besides practical teaching in the fields and gardens, consisting as yetof only twenty-five hectares, or nearly sixty acres, a somewhatbewildering course of study is given. The list of subjects begins well. First, a lad is here taught his duties as the head of a family, acitizen, and a man of business. Then come geography, history, arithmetic, book-keeping, trigonometry, linear drawing, mechanics, chemistry, physics, natural history, botany, geology, _agrologie_, orthe study of soils, irrigation, political economy. Whilst farminggenerally is taught, the speciality of the school is fruit and flowerculture. A beautiful avenue of palm and orange trees leads from theroad to the block of buildings, the director's house standing justoutside. I was fortunate in finding this gentleman at home, and hewelcomed me with the courtesy, I may say cordiality, I have everreceived from professors of agriculture and practical farmers in France. 

We immediately set out for our survey, my companion informing me, to mysurprise, that the gardens I now gazed on so admiringly formed a merewilderness a few years ago, that is to say, until their purchase by theState. The palm and orange trees had been brought hither andtransplanted, everything else had sprung up on the roughly-clearedground. Palm trees are reared on the school lands for exportation toHolland, there, of course, to be kept under glass; ere long theexportation of palms and orange trees will doubtless become asconsiderable as that of hothouse flowers. 

I was shown magnificent palms fifteen years old, and nurseries of tinytrees, at this stage of their existence unlovely as birch brooms. Hitherto, majestic although its appearance, the palm of the Riviera hasnot produced dates. The director is devoting much time to this subject, and hopes ere long to gather his crop. 

As we passed between the orange trees, here and there the deep greenglossy fruit turning to gold, I heard the same report as at Pessicarz. At neither place can the lads resist helping themselves to the unripeoranges. Sour apples and green oranges seem quite irresistible tohobbledehoys. The trees were laden with fruit, and, unless blown off bya storm, the crop would be heavy. An orange tree on an average producesto the value of two hundred francs. 

I was next taken to the newly-created vineyards, some consisting ofFrench grafts on American stock, others American plants; but vines arecapricious, and one vineyard looked sickly enough, although free fromparasites. The climate did not suit it, that was all. 

But by far the most important and interesting crops here are thehothouse flowers. I fancy few English folks think of glass-houses inconnection with the Riviera. Yet the chief business of horticulturistsduring a large portion of the year is in the conservatory. Brilliant asis the winter sun, the nights are cold and the fall of temperatureafter sundown extremely rapid. Only the hardier flowers, therefore, remain out of doors. 

I was now shown the glass-houses being made ready for the winter. Allthe choice flowers, roses, carnations and others, sent to Paris, London, Berlin, St. Petersburg, are grown under glass. Roses thus cultivatedwill bring four francs per dozen to the grower; I was even told ofchoicest kinds sold from the conservatories at a franc each. It mayeasily be conceived how profitable is this commerce, destined withoutdoubt to become more so as the culture of flowers improves. Newvarieties are ever in demand for royal or millionaires' tables, bridalbouquets, funeral wreaths. I was told the discoverer or creator of ablue carnation would make his fortune. I confess this commercial aspectof flowers takes something from their poetry. Give me a cottager's plotof sweet-williams and columbine instead of the floral paragon evolvedfor the gratification of the curious! As we strolled about we came upongroups of students at work. All politely raised their hats when wepassed, and by their look and manner might have been taken for younggentlemen. 

A great future doubtless awaits this delightfully placed HorticulturalSchool. Whilst the object primarily aimed at by the State is theeducation of native gardeners and floriculturists, other results may beconfidently expected. No rule keeps out foreigners, and just as ourIndian candidates for the Forestry service prepare themselves at Nancy, so intending fruit-growers in Tasmania will in time betake themselves toAntibes. A colonial, as well as an international element is pretty sureto be added. French subjects beyond seas will certainly avail themselvesof privileges not to be had at home, carrying away with them knowledgeof the greatest service in tropical France. Horticulture as a sciencemust gain greatly by such a centre, new methods being tried, improvedsystems put into practice. In any case, the department may fairly becongratulated on its recent acquisition, one, alas, we have to setagainst very serious drawbacks! In these intensely hot and glaring daysof mid-October, the only way of enjoying life is to betake oneself to asailing-boat. Few English folks realize the torture of mosquito-invadednights on the Riviera. As to mosquito curtains, they afford a remedyofttimes worse than the disease, keeping out what little air is to behad and admitting, here and there, one mosquito of slenderer bulk andmore indomitable temper than the rest. After two or three utterlysleepless nights the most enthusiastic traveller will sigh for greyEnglish skies, pattering drops and undisturbed sleep. At sea, you mayescape both blinding glare and mosquito bites. A boat is also the onlymeans of realizing the beauty of the coast. Most beautiful is theroundabout sail from Cannes to the Île St. Marguerite: I say roundabout, because, if the wind is adverse, the boatmen have to make a circuit, going out of their course to the length of four or five miles. Everytourist knows the story of the Iron Mask; few are perhaps aware that inthe horrible prison in which Louis XIV kept him for seventeen years, Protestants were also incarcerated, their only crime being that theywould not perjure themselves, in other words, feign certain beliefs toplease the tyrant. 

At the present time the cells adjoining the historic dungeon of theMasque de Fer are more cheerfully occupied. Soldiers are placed therefor slight breaches of discipline, their confinement varying from twelvehours to a few days. We heard two or three occupants gaily whiling awaythe time by singing patriotic songs, under the circumstances the bestthing they could do. Lovely indeed was the twenty minutes' sail back toCannes, the sea, deep indigo, the sky, intensest blue, white villasdotting the green hills, far away the violet mountains. When we betakeourselves to the railway or carriage road, we must make one comparisonvery unfavourable to English landscape. Here building stone, as bricksand mortar with us, is daily and hourly invading pastoral scenes, butthe hideous advertizing board is absent in France. We do not come uponmonster advertisements of antibilious pills, hair dye, or soap amidolive groves and vineyards. Let us hope that the vulgarizationpermitted among ourselves will not be imitated by our neighbours. 

In 1789 Arthur Young described the stretch of country between Fréjusand Cannes as a desert, "not one mile in twenty cultivated. " WillEurope and America, with the entire civilized world, furnishvaletudinarians in sufficient numbers to fill the hotels, villas, andboarding houses now rising at every stage of the same way? The matterseems problematic, yet last winter accommodation at Nice barelysufficed for the influx of visitors. 

Nice is the most beautiful city in France, I am tempted to say the mostbeautiful city I ever beheld. It is the last in which I should choose tolive or even winter. 

Site, sumptuosity, climate, vegetation here attain their acme; so far, indeed, Nice may be pronounced flawless. During a certain portion of theyear, existence, considered from the physical and material point ofview, were surely here perfect. When we come to the social and moralaspect of the most popular health resort in Europe, a very differentconclusion is forced upon us. 

Blest in itself, Nice is cursed in its surroundings. So near is thatplague spot of Europe, Monte Carlo, that it may almost be regarded as asuburb. For a few pence, in half-an-hour, you may transport yourselffrom a veritable earthly Paradise to what can only be described as agilded Inferno. Unfortunately evil is more contagious than good. Certainmedical authorities aver that the atmosphere of Mentone used to beimpregnated with microbes of phthisis; the germs of moral diseaseinfecting the immediate neighbourhood of Nice are far more appalling. Nor are symptoms wanting of the spread of that moral disease. Themunicipal council of this beautiful city, like Esau, had just sold theirbirthright for a mess of pottage. They had conceded the right ofgambling to the Casino, the proprietors purchasing the right by certainoutlays in the way of improvements, a new public garden, and so on. Asyet roulette and rouge-et-noir are not permitted at Nice, the gamblingat present carried on being apparently harmless. It is in reality evenmore insidious, being a stepping-stone to vice, a gradual initiationinto desperate play. Just as addiction to absinthe is imbibed by potionsquite innocuous in the beginning, so the new Casino at Nice schools thegamester from the outset, slowly and by infinitesimal degrees preparinghim for ruin, dishonour and suicide. 

The game played is called _Petits Chevaux_, and somewhat resembles ournursery game of steeplechase. The stakes are only two francs, but asthere are eight to each horse, and you may take as many as you please, it is quite easy to lose several hundred francs in one evening--or, forthe matter of that, one afternoon. Here, as at Monte Carlo, the gamblingrooms remain open from noon till midnight. The buildings are on animposing scale: reading rooms, a winter garden, concerts, entertainmentsof various kinds blinding the uninitiated to the real attraction of theplace, namely, the miniature horses spinning around the tables. Already--I write of October--eager crowds stood around, and we heardthe incessant chink of falling coin. This modified form of gambling isespecially dangerous to the young. Parents, who on no account would lettheir children toss a five-franc piece on to the tables of Monte Carlo, see no harm in watching them play at _petits chevaux_. They should, first of all, make a certain ghastly pilgrimage I will now relate. 

Monaco does not as yet, politically speaking, form a part of Frenchterritory; from a geographical point of view we are obliged so to regardit. Thus French geographers and writers of handbooks include the tinyprincipality, which for the good of humanity, let us hope, may ere longbe swallowed up by an earthquake--or moralized! The traveller then isadvised to take train to Monaco, and, arrived at the little station, whisper his errand in the cab-driver's ear, "To the suicides' cemetery. "

For the matter of that, it is an easy walk enough for all who can standthe burning sun and glare of white walls and buildings. Very lovely, too, is the scene as we slowly wind upwards, the road bordered withaloes and cypresses; above, handsome villas standing amid orange grovesand flowers; below, the sparkling sea. 

A French cemetery, with its wreaths of beadwork and artificial violets, has ever a most depressing appearance. That of Monaco is like any other, we find the usual magnificence, and usual tinsel. Many beautiful trees, shrubs, and flowers, however, relieve the gloom, and every inch isexquisitely kept. 

Quite apart from this vast burial-ground, on the other side of the mainentrance, is a small enclosure, walled in and having a gate of openironwork always locked. Here, in close proximity to heaps of gardenrubbish, broken bottles and other refuse, rest the suicides of MonteCarlo, buried by the parish gravedigger, without funeral and without anykind of religious ceremony. Each grave is marked by an upright bit ofwood, somewhat larger than that by which gardeners mark their seeds, andon which is painted a number, nothing more. Apart from these, arestakes driven into the ground which mark as yet unappropriated spots. The indescribable dreariness of the scene is heightened by twomonumental stones garlanded with wreaths and surrounded by flowers. Thefirst records the memory of a young artisan, and was raised by hisfellow-workmen; the second commemorates brotherly and sisterlyaffection. Both suicides were driven to self-murder by play. Theremainder are mere numbers. There are poor gamesters as well as rich, and it is only or chiefly these who are put into the ground here. Thebodies of rich folks' relatives, if identified, are immediately removed, and, by means of family influence, interred with religious rites. Manysuicides are buried at Nice and Mentone, but the larger proportion, farther off still. Not to descant further on this grim topic, let me nowsay something about Monte Carlo itself. 

Never anywhere was snare more plainly set in the sight of any bird. There is little in the way of amusement that you do not get for nothinghere, a beautiful pleasure-ground, reading-rooms as luxurious andwell-supplied as those of a West End club, one of the best orchestras inEurope, and all without cost of a farthing. 

The very lavishness arouses suspicion in the minds of the wary. Whyshould we be supplied, not only with every English newspaper we everheard of, but with _Punch_, _Truth_, and similar publications to boot? Whyshould Germans, Russians, Dutch, every other European nation, receivetreatment equally generous? Again, to be able to sit down at elegantwriting-tables and use up a quire of fine notepaper and a packet ofenvelopes to match, if we chose, how is all this managed? The concertsawaken a feeling of even intenser bewilderment. Not so much as a pennyare we allowed to pay for a programme, to say nothing of the trainedmusicians. Where is the compensation of such liberality?

The gambling tables, crowded even at three o'clock on an Octoberafternoon, answer our question. The season begins later, but gamblerscannot wait. "Faites le jeu, messieurs; messieurs, faites le jeu, " isalready heard from noon to midnight, and the faster people ruinthemselves and send a pistol shot through their heads, the faster otherstake their place. It is indeed melancholy to reflect how many oncerespectable lives, heads of families, even wives and mothers, are beinggradually lured on to bankruptcy and suicide. 

In cruellest contrast to the moral degradation fostered below, is theenormous cathedral, at the time of my visit in course of erectiondirectly above the gambling rooms. The millions of francs expended onthis sumptuous basilica were supplied by the proprietors of the Casinoand the Prince of Monaco. Nothing can strike the stranger with astronger sense of incongruity--a church rising from the very heart of aPandemonium!

Monaco is a pretty, toy-like, Lilliputian kingdom compared with whichthe smallest German principality of former days was enormous. Curiouslyenough, whilst Monte Carlo is peopled with gamesters, the only tenantsof Monaco seem to be priests, nuns and their pupils. The miniaturecapital, state and kingdom in one, consists chiefly of convents andseminaries, and wherever you go you come upon these Jesuit fathers withtheir carefully-guarded troops of lads in uniform. A survey of theentire principality of Monaco, Monte Carlo included, requires about aquarter of an hour. Nowhere, surely, on the face of the civilized globeis so much mischief contained in so small a space. Fortunately, thepoisonous atmosphere of the Casino does not seem to affect the nativepoor. Everywhere we are struck by the thrifty, sober, hard-workingpopulation; beggars or ragged, wretched-looking creatures are very rare. If the authorities of the Alpes Maritimes have set themselves to putdown vagrancy, they have certainly succeeded. 

Nice is a home for the millionaire and the working man. The intermediateclass is not wanted. Visitors are expected to have money, are welcomedon that account, and if they have to look to pounds, shillings, andpence, had much better remain at home. 

Woe betide the needy invalid sent thither in search of sunshine!Sunshine is indeed a far more expensive luxury on the Riviera than weimagine, seeing that only rooms with a north aspect are cheap, and asunless room is much more comfortless and unwholesome than a well-warmedone, no matter its aspect, in England. The only cheap commodity, oneunfortunately we cannot live upon, is the bouquet. In October, that isto say, before the arrival of winter visitors, flowers are to be had forthe asking; on the market-place an enormous bouquet of tuberoses, violets, carnations, myrtle, priced at two or three francs, the price inParis being twenty. Fruit also I found cheap, figs fourpence a dozen, and other kinds in proportion. This market is the great sight of Nice, and seen on a cloudless day--indeed it would be difficult to see it onany other--is a glory of colour of which it is impossible to give theremotest notion. I was somewhat taken aback to find Sunday lessobserved here as a day of rest than in any other French town I know, andnot many French towns are unknown to me. The flower and fruit marketswere crowded, drapers', grocers', booksellers' shops open all day long, traffic unbroken as usual. I should have imagined that a city, forgenerations taken possession of by English visitors, would by this timehave fallen into our habit of respecting Sunday alike in the interestsof man and beast. Of churches, both English and American, there is nolack. Let us hope that the Protestant clergy will turn their attentionto this subject. Let us hope also that the entire English-speakingcommunity will second their efforts in this direction. Further, I willput in a good word for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty toAnimals founded at Nice some years since, and sadly in need of funds. The Society is backed up by the Government in accordance with theadmirable Loi Grammont, but, as is the case with local societies inEngland, requires extraneous help. Surely rich English valetudinarianswill not let this humane work stand still, seeing, as they must dodaily, the urgent necessity of such interference! From the windows of abeautiful villa on the road to Villefranche, I saw baskets of chickensbrought in from Italy, the half of which were dead or dying fromsuffocation. As the owner of the villa said, "Not even self-interestteaches this Italian humanity. " By packing his fowls so as to affordthem breathing space, he would double his gains. The habit of cruelty istoo inveterate. My host assured me that large numbers of poultry sentacross the frontier are suffocated on the way. 

Horrible also is the pigeon-shooting at Monte Carlo. Hundreds of thesewretched birds are killed for sport every day during the winter. Thewounded or escaped fly back after a while to be shot at next day. 

The word "villa" calls for comment. Such a designation is appropriatehere. The palatial villas of Nice, standing amid orangeries and palmgroves, are worthy of their Roman forerunners. For the future I shallresent the term as applied in England to eight-roomed, semi-detachedconstructions, poorly built, and with a square yard of flower-bed infront. Many of the Niçois villas are veritable palaces, and what adds totheir sumptuousness is the indoor greenery, dwarf palms, india-rubbertrees, and other handsome evergreens decorating corridor andlanding-places. The English misnomer has, nevertheless, compensations insnug little kitchen and decent servant's bedroom. I looked over ahandsome villa here, type, I imagine, of the rest. The servants'bedrooms were mere closets with openings on to a dark corridor, nowindows, fireplace, cupboard, or any convenience. The kitchen was along, narrow room, after the manner of French kitchens, with space bythe window for two or three chairs. I ventured to ask the mistress ofthe house where the servants sat when work was done. Her answer wassuggestive--

"They have no time to sit anywhere. "

It will be seen that our grey skies and mean-looking dwellings havecompensations. 

XIII

GUEST OF FARMER AND MILLER

"Nine hours' rolling at anchor" was Arthur Young's experience of aChannel passage in 1787, and on the return journey he was compelled towait three days for a wind. Two years later, what is in our own time adelightful little pleasure cruise of one hour and a quarter, the journeyfrom Dover to Calais occupied fourteen hours. 

We might suppose from the hundreds of thousands of English travellerswho yearly cross the Manche, that Picardy, Artois, and French Flanderswould overflow with them, that we should hear English speech wherever wego, and find ourselves amid more distinctly English surroundings thaneven in Switzerland or Norway; but no such thing. From the moment Iquitted Boulogne to that of my departure from Calais, having made theround by way of Hesdin, Arras, Vitry-en-Artois, Douai, Lille, St. Omer, I no more encountered an English tourist than on the Causses of theLozère a few years before. Many years later, on going over much of thesame ground, with a halt at Étaples and Le Touquet, it was much thesame. Yet such a tour, costing so little as regards money, time andfatigue, teems with interest of very varied and unlooked-for kind. 

Every inch of ground is historic to begin with, and has contributed itspage to Anglo-French annals or English romance. We may take the littlerailway from Hesdin to Abbeville, traversing the forest of Crécy, anddrive across the cornfields to Agincourt. We may stop at Montreuil, which now looks well, not only "on the map, " but from the railwaycarriage, reviving our recollections of Tristram Shandy. At Douai wefind eighty English boys playing cricket and football under the eye ofEnglish Benedictine monks--their college being a survival of thepersecutions of Good Queen Bess. 

And to come down from history and romance to astounding prose, we find, a few years ago, Roubaix, a town of 114, 000 souls, that is to say, afourth of the population of Lyons--a town whose financial transactionswith the Bank of France exceed those of Rheims, Nîmes, Toulouse, orMontpellier, represented by a man of the people, the important functionsof mayor being filled by the proprietor of a humble _estaminet_ andvendor of newspapers, character and convictions only having raised theSocialist leader to such a post!

In rural districts there is also much to learn. Peasant property existsmore or less in every part of France, but we are here more especially inpresence of agriculture on a large scale. In the Pas-de-Calais and theNord we find high farming in right good earnest, holdings of from ten tofifteen hundred acres conducted on the footing of large industrialconcerns, capital, science and enterprise being alike brought to bearupon the cultivation of the soil and by private individuals. 

I travelled from Boulogne to Hesdin, in time for the first beautifuleffect of spring-tide flower and foliage. The blackthorn and pear treeswere already in full blossom, and the elm, poplar and chestnut justbursting into leaf. Everything was very advanced, and around theone-storeyed, white-washed cottages the lilacs showed masses of bloom, field and garden being a month ahead of less favoured years. 

 * * * * *

Near Étaples the wide estuary of the Canche showed clear, lake-likesheets of water amid the brilliant greenery; later are passed sandydowns with few trees or breaks in the landscape. This part of Franceshould be seen during the budding season; of itself unpicturesque, it isyet beautified by the early foliage. Hesdin is an ancient, quiet littletown on the Canche, with tanneries making pictures--and smells--by theriver, unpaved streets, and a very curious bit of civic architecture, the triple-storeyed portico of the Hôtel de Ville. Its 7000 and oddsouls were soon to have their museum, the nucleus being a splendid setof tapestries representing the battle of Agincourt, in loveliest shadesof subdued blue and grey. The little inn is very clean and comfortable;for five francs a day you obtain the services of the master, who iscook; the mistress, who is chambermaid; and the daughters of the house, who wait at table. Such, at least, was my experience. 

 * * * * *

My errand was to the neighbouring village of Hauteville-Caumont, whitherI drove one afternoon. Quitting the town in a north-easterly direction, we enter one of those long, straight French roads that really seem as ifthey would never come to an end. The solitude of the scene around isastonishing to English eyes. For miles we only meet two road-menders andan itinerant glazier. On either side, far as the glance could reach, stretches the chessboard landscape--an expanse oceanic in its vastnessof green and brown, fields of corn and clover alternating with landprepared for beetroot and potatoes. The extent and elevation of thisplateau, formerly covered with forests, explain the excessive drynessof the climate. Bitter indeed must be the wintry blast, torrid the raysof summer here. As we proceed we see little breaks in the leveluniformity, plains of apple-green and chocolate-brown; the land dipshere and there, showing tiny combes and bits of refreshing wood. Thehouses, whether of large landowner, functionary or peasant, areinvariably one-storeyed, the white walls, brown tiles, or thatched roofhaving an old-fashioned, rustic effect. One might suppose earthquakeswere common from this habit of living on the ground floor. The drynessof the climate doubtless obviates risk of damp. Much more graceful arethe little orchards of these homesteads than the mathematically plantedcider apples seen here in all stages of growth. Even the blossoms ofsuch trees later on cannot compare with the glory of an orchard, in theold acceptance of the word, having reached maturity in the natural way. Certain portions of rural France are too geometrical. That I must admit. 

Exquisitely clean, to use a farmer's expression, are these sweeps ofcorn and ploughed land, belonging to different owners, yet apparentlywithout division. Only boundary stones at intervals mark the limits. Here we find no infinitesimal subdivision and no multiplicity of crops. Wheat, clover, oats form the triennial course, other crops being rye, potatoes, Swede turnips, sainfoin and the _oeillette_ or oil poppy. Thecider apple is also an important product. 

I found my friend's friend at home, and after a chat with madame and herdaughter, we set out for our round of inspection. This gentleman farmedhis own land, a beautifully cultivated estate of several hundred acres;here and there a neighbour's field dovetailed into his own, but for thegreater part lying compactly together. The first object that attractedmy notice was a weather-beaten old windmill--sole survivor of myriadsformerly studding the country. This antiquated structure might have beenthe identical one slashed at by Don Quixote. Iron grey, dilapidated, solitary, it rose between green fields and blue sky, like a lighthousein mid-ocean. These mills are still used for crushing rye, the mashbeing mixed with roots for cattle, and the straw used here, aselsewhere, for _liage_ or tying up wheatsheaves. The tenacity of thisstraw makes it very valuable for such purposes. 

Corn, rye and sainfoin were already very advanced, all here testifyingto highly scientific farming; and elsewhere roots were being sown. Thesoil is prepared by a process called _marnage_, _i. E_. Dug up to theextent of three feet, the _marne_ or clayey soil being brought to thesurface. A very valuable manure is that of the scoria or residue ofdephosphated steel, formerly thrown away as worthless, but now largelyimported from Hungary for agricultural purposes. Nitrate is also largelyused to enrich the soil. Sixty years ago the Pas-de-Calais possessedlarge forests. Here at Caumont vast tracts have been cleared and broughtunder culture since that time. These denuded plateaux, at a considerableelevation above the sea-level, are naturally very dry and very cold inwinter, the climate being gradually modified by the almost total absenceof trees. Wisely has the present Government interdicted furtherdestruction; forests are now created instead, and we find privateindividuals planting instead of hacking down. Lucerne is not muchcultivated, and my host told me an interesting fact concerning it; inorder to grow lucerne, farmers must procure seeds of local growers. Seeds from the south of France do not produce robust plants. 

The purple-flowered poppy, cultivated for the production of oil, mustform a charming crop in summer, and is a most important product. I wasassured that oil procured from crushed seeds is the only kind absolutelyfree from flavour, and as such superior even to that of olives. Of equalimportance is the cider apple. 

The economic results of war are curiously exemplified here. During thewar of 1871 German troops were stationed in the neighbouring departmentof the Somme, and there acquired the habit of drinking cider. Soagreeable was found this drink that cider apples are now largelyexported to Germany, and just as a Frenchman now demands his Bock at acafé, so in his Biergarten the German calls for cider. 

My host informed me that all his own apples, grown for commerce, wentover the northern frontier. Cider is said to render the imbibergout-proof and rheumatism-proof, but requires a long apprenticeship torender it palatable. The profits of an apple orchard are threefold. There is the crop gathered in October, which will produce in fairseasons 150 francs per hectare, and the two grass crops, apple trees nothurting the pasture. 

The labourer's harvest here are his potato-fed pigs. In our walks wecame upon men and women sowing potatoes on their bit of hired land; forthe most part their bit of land is tilled on Sundays, a neighbour'shorse being hired or borrowed for the purpose. Thus neither man norbeast rest on the seventh day, and as a natural consequence church-goinggradually falls into abeyance. My host deplored this habit of turningSunday into a veritable _corvée_ for both human beings and cattle, butsaid that change of system must be very slow. 

On the whole, the condition of the agricultural labourer here contrastsvery unfavourably with that of the peasant owner described elsewhere. 

The same drawbacks exist as in England. Land for the most part beingheld by large owners, accommodation for poorer neighbours isinsufficient. Many able-bodied workmen migrate to the towns, simplybecause they cannot get houses to live in; such one-storeyed dwellingsas exist have an uncared-for look, neither are the village folks so welldressed as in regions of peasant property. In fact, I should say, aftera very wide experience, that peasant property invariably uplifts andnon-propertied labour drags down. This seems to me a conclusionmathematically demonstrable. 

Mayor of his commune, my host was a man of progress and philanthropy inthe widest sense of the word. He had lately brought about the opening ofan infant school here, and dwelt on the beneficial results; children notbeing admitted to the communal schools under the age of seven, wereotherwise thrown on the streets all day. Infant schools are generallyfound in the larger communes. Intersecting my host's vast stretches offield and ploughed land lay the old strategic road from Rouen to St. Omer, a broad band of dazzling white thrown across the tremendouspanorama. An immense plain is spread before us as a map, now crudelybrilliant in hue, two months later to show blending gold and purple. Vast, too, the views obtained on the homeward drive. Over against Hesdinrises its forest--holiday ground of rich and poor, as yet undiscoveredby the tourist. From this friendly little town a charming woodlandjourney may be made by the railway now leading through the forest ofCrécy to Abbeville. 

Between Hesdin and Arras the geometrically planted cider apple trees andpoplars growing in parallel lines are without beauty, but by the railwayare bits of waste ground covered with cowslip, wind flowers, cuckoo-pint, and dandelion. On the top of lofty elms here and there aredark masses; these are the nests of the magpie, and apparently quitesafe from molestation. 

By the wayside we see evidences of peasant ownership on the most modestscale, women cutting their tiny patch of rye, as green food for cattle, sowing their potato field, or keeping a few sheep. Everywhere lilacsare in full bloom, and the pear and cherry trees burdened with blossomas snow. Everything is a month ahead of ordinary years. I write ofApril 1893. 

The Hôtel St. Pol at Arras looks, I should say, precisely as it did inRobespierre's time. The furniture certainly belongs to that epoch, sanitary arrangements have made little advance, and the bare staircasesand floors do not appear as if they had been well swept, much lessscoured, since the fall of the Bastille. It is a rambling, I should sayrat-haunted, old place, but fairly quiet and comfortable, with civilmen-servants and no kind of pretence. 

Arras itself, that is to say its Petite Place, is a specimen ofRenaissance architecture hardly to be matched even in France. TheFlemish gables and Spanish arcades, not a vestige of modernizationmarring the effect, make a unique picture. Above all rises the first ofthose noble belfry towers met by the traveller on this round, souvenirsof civic rights hardly won and stoutly maintained. The first objectlooked for will be Robespierre's birthplace, an eminently respectablemiddle-class abode, now occupied by a personage almost as generallydistasteful as that of the Conventionnel himself, namely, aprocess-server or bailiff. A bright little lad whom I interrogated onthe way testified the liveliest interest in my quest, and would not losesight of me till I had discovered the right house. It is ayellow-walled, yellow-shuttered, symbolically atrabilious-looking place, with twenty-three front windows. Robespierre's parents must have been indecent circumstances when their son Maximilian was born, and perhaps thereverses of early life had no small share in determining his aftercareer. Left an orphan in early life, he owed his education and start inlife to charity. The fastidious, poetic, austere country lawyer, unlikehis fellow-conventionnels, was no born orator. Thoughts that breathe andwords that burn did not drop from his lips as from Danton's. Hiscarefully prepared speeches, even in the apogee of his popularity, wereoften interrupted by the cry "Cut it short" or "Keep to the point. " Theexponent of Rousseau was ofttimes "long preaching, " like St. Paul. 

But there are early utterances of Robespierre's that constitute inthemselves a revolution, when, for instance, in 1789 he pleaded for theadmission of Jews, non-Catholics, and actors to political rights. "TheJews, " he protested, "have been maligned in history. Their reputed vicesarise from the ignominy into which they have been plunged. " And althoughhis later discourses breathe a spirit of frenzied vindictiveness, certain passages recall that "humane and spiritual element" commentedupon by Charles Nodier. This is especially noticeable in what is calledhis _discours-testament_, the speech delivered on the eve of Thermidor. At one moment, with positive ferocity, he lashes the memory of formerfriends and colleagues sent by himself to the guillotine; at another hedilates upon the virtue of magnanimity in lofty, Platonic strains. 

[ILLUSTRATION: ARRAS, LA PETITE PALACE]

With Danton's implacable foe it was indeed a case of "Roses, roses, allthe way. Thus I enter, and thus I go. " Twenty-four hours after thatperoration he awaited his doom, an object of ruthless execration. Andvisitors are still occasionally shown in the Hôtel des Archives thetable on which was endured his short but terrible retribution. 

A public day school for girls exists at Arras, but the higher educationof women--we must never lose sight of the fact--is sternly denounced byCatholic authorities. Lay schools and lay teachers for girls are notonly unfashionable, they are immoral in the eyes of the orthodox. 

The museum and public library, 40, 000 and odd volumes, of this townof 26, 000 souls are both magnificent and magnificently housed in theancient Abbaye de St. Vaast, adjoining cathedral, bishopric andpublic garden. 

Besides pictures, statuary, natural history and archaeologicalcollections, occupying three storeys, is a room devoted exclusively tolocal talent and souvenirs. Among the numerous bequests of generouscitizens is a collection of _faïence_ lately left by a tradeswoman, whose portrait commemorates the deed. Some fine specimens of ancienttapestry of Arras, hence the name arras, chiefly in shades of grey andblue, and also specimens of the delicate hand-made Arras lace, are here. There is also a room of technical exhibits, chemicals and minerals usedin the industrial arts, dyes, textiles. 

Quite a third of the visitors thronging these sumptuous rooms were youngrecruits. A modern picture of Eustache St. Pierre and his companions, atthe feet of Edward III and his kneeling Queen, evoked much admiration. Iheard one young soldier explaining the subject to a little group. Therewere also many family parties, and some blue blouses. How delightfulsuch a place of resort-not so much in July weather, on this 9th of Aprilone might fancy it harvest time!--but on bleak, rainy, uninviting days!One of the officials advised me to visit the recently erected Ecole desBeaux Arts at the other end of the town, which I did. I would here notethe pride taken in their public collections by all concerned. Thiselderly man, most likely an old soldier, seemed as proud of the museumas if it were his own especial property. 

I was at once shown over the spacious, airy, well-kept building--schoolof art and conservatorium of music in one, both built, set on foot, andmaintained by the municipality. Here youths and girls of all ranks canobtain a thorough artistic and musical training without a fraction ofcost. The classes are held in separate rooms, and boys in addition learnmodelling and mechanical drawing. 

The school was opened four years ago, and already numbers eightystudents of both sexes, girls meeting two afternoons a week, boys everyevening. Arras also possesses an École Normale or large training schoolfor female teachers. 

On this brilliant Sunday afternoon, although many small shops were open, I noted the cessation of street traffic. Every one seemed abroad, andbusiness at a standstill. All the newspaper kiosks were closed. 

Next morning soon after eight o'clock I was off to Vitry-en-Artois fora day's farming. At the little station I was met by a friend'sfriend--a typical young Frenchman, gaiety itself, amiable, easy, allhis faculties alert--and driven by him in a little English dogcart tothe neighbouring village. Twenty-five minutes brought us to ourdestination--house and model farm of a neighbour, upwards of twelvehundred acres, all cultivated on the most approved methods. Our hostnow took my young friend's reins, he seating himself behind, and wedrove slowly over a large portion of the estate, taking a zigzag courseacross the fields. There are here three kinds of soil--dry, chalky andunproductive, rich loam, and light intermediate. In spite of thedrought of the last few weeks, the crops are very luxuriant, and quitea month ahead of former seasons. 

This estate of six hundred and odd hectares is a specimen of highfarming on a large scale, such as I had never before witnessed inFrance. I do not exaggerate when I say that from end to end could notbe discerned a single weed. Of course, the expense of cultivation onsuch a scale is very great, and hardly remunerative at the presentprice of wheat. 

Sixty hectares, _i. E. _ nearly 150 acres, are planted with wheat, andtwo-thirds of that superficies with beetroot. The young corn was asadvanced as in June with us, some kinds of richer growth than others, and showing different shades of green, each tract absolutely weedless, and giving evidence of highest cultivation. Fourteen hectolitres perhectare of corn is the average, forty the maximum. Besides beetroot forsugar, clover and sainfoin are grown, little or no barley, and neitherturnips nor mangel-wurzel. 

[Footnote: Hectolitre = 2 bushels 3 pecks. ]

The land is just now prepared for planting beetroot, by far the mostimportant crop here, and on which I shall have much to say. Henceforth, indeed, the farming I describe may be called industrial, purelyagricultural products being secondary. 

On the importance of beetroot sugar it is hardly necessary to dwell atlength. A few preliminary facts, however, may be acceptable. Up till theyear 1812, cane sugar only was known in France; the discovery ofbeetroot sugar dates from the Continental blockade of that period. In1885 the amount of raw sugar produced from beetroot throughout Francewas 90 millions of kilos. In 1873 the sum-total had reached 400millions. The consumption of sugar per head here is neverthelessone-third less than among ourselves. 

[Footnote: Kilogramme = 2 lb. 3 oz. ]

We come now to see the results of fiscal regulation upon agriculture. Formerly duty was paid not upon the root itself but its product. This isnow changed, and, the beetroot being taxed, the grower strives afterthat kind producing the largest percentage of saccharine matter. Hardlyless important is the residue. The pulp of the crushed beetroot inthese regions forms the staple food of cows, pigs and sheep. Mixed withchopped straw, it is stored for winter use in mounds by smallcultivators, in enormous cellars constructed on purpose by large owners. Horses refuse to eat this mixture, which has a peculiar odour, scentingfarm premises from end to end. The chief manure used is that produced onthe farm and nitrates. On this especial estate dried fish from Swedenhad been tried, and, as on the farm before mentioned, chalky land is dugto the depth of three feet, the better soil being put on the top. Thisis the process called _marnage_. We now drove for miles right across thewide stretches of young wheat and land prepared for beetroot. The wheelsof our light cart, the host said, would do good rather than harm. Horsebeans, planted a few weeks before, were well up; colza also was prettyforward. Pastures there were none. Although the cornfields were as cleanas royal gardens we came upon parties of women, girls and boys hoeinghere and there. The rows of young wheat showed as much uniformity as anewly-planted vineyard. 

Ploughing and harrowing were being done chiefly by horses, only a fewoxen being used. My host told me that his animals were never worked onSundays. On week-days they remain longer afield than with us, but ahalt of an hour or two is made for food and rest at mid-day. Anothercrop to be mentioned is what is called _hivernage_ or winter fodder, _i. E. _ lentils planted between rows of rye, the latter being grownmerely to protect the other. On my query as to the school attendance ofboys and girls employed in agriculture, my host said that authoritiesare by no means rigid; at certain seasons of the year, indeed, they arenot expected to attend. Among some large landowners we find tolerablyconservative notions even in France. Over-education, they say, isunfitting the people for manual labour, putting them out of their place, and so forth. 

Moles are not exterminated. "They do more good than harm, " said my host, "and I like them. " I had heard the same thing at Caumont, where weremany mole-hills. Here and there, dove-tailed into these enormous fields, were small patches farmed by the peasants, rarely their own property. Their condition was described as neither that of prosperity nor want. "They get along. " That was the verdict. 

In our long drive across weedless corn and clover fields we came upon asmall wood, a recent plantation of our host. Even this bit of greenerymade a pleasant break in the uniform landscape. We then drove home, andinspected the premises on foot. Everything was on a colossal scale, and trim as a Dutch interior. The vast collection of machinery includedthe latest French, English, Belgian and American inventions. Steamengines are fixtures, the consumption of coal being 160 tons yearly per300 hectares. 

We are thus brought face to face with the agriculture of the future, ancient methods and appliances being supplanted one by one, manuallabour reduced to the minimum, the cultivation of the soil become purelymechanical. The idyllic element vanishes from rural life and all savoursof Chicago! Stables and neat-houses were the perfection of cleanlinessand airiness. Here for the first time I saw sheep stabled like cows andhorses. Their quarters were very clean, and littered with fresh straw. They go afield for a portion of the day, but, as I have beforementioned, pastures are few and far between. 

The enormous underground store-houses for beetroot, pulp and choppedstraw were now almost empty. At midday, the oxen were led home and fellto their strange food with appetite, its moistness being undoubtedly anadvantage in dry weather. The cart horses were being fed with boiledbarley, and looked in first-rate condition. Indeed, all the animalsseemed as happy and well-cared for as my host's scores upon scores ofpet birds. Birds, however, are capricious, and nothing would induce abeautiful green parrot to cry, "Vive la France" in my presence. After ananimated breakfast--thoroughly French breakfast, the best of everythingcooked and served in the best possible manner--we took leave, and myyoung friend drove me back to Vitry to call upon his own family. 

M. D. , senior, is a miller, and the family dwelling, which adjoins hishuge water-mill, is very prettily situated on the Scarpe. We enteredby a little wooden bridge running outside, a conservatory filled withexotics and ferns lending the place a fairy look. I never saw anythingin rural France that more fascinated me than this water-mill with itscrystal clear waters and surrounding foliage. M. D. With his three sonsquitted their occupation as we drove up. Madame and her young daughterjoined us in the cool salon, and we chatted pleasantly for a quarterof an hour. 

I was much struck with the head of the family, an elderly man with blueeyes, fine features, and a thoughtful expression. He spoke sadly of theeffect of American competition, and admitted that protection could offerbut a mere palliative. Hitherto I had found a keenly protectionist biasamong French agriculturists. Of England and the English he spoke withmuch sympathy, although at this time we were as yet far from the EntenteCordiale. "C'est le plus grand peuple au monde" ("It is the greatestnation in the world"), he said. 

Nothing could equal the ease and cordiality with which this charmingfamily received me. The miller with his three elder sons had comestraight from the mill. Well-educated gentlemen are not ashamed ofmanual labour in France. How I wished I could have spent days, nayweeks, in the neighbourhood of the water-mill!

XIV

LADY MERCHANTS AND SOCIALIST MAYORS

Only three museums in France date prior to the Revolution, those ofRheims, founded in 1748, and of Dijon and Nancy, founded in 1787. Theopening in Paris of the Muséum Français in 1792, consisting of the royalcollections and art treasures of suppressed convents, was the beginningof a great movement in this direction. At Lille the municipalauthorities first got together a few pictures in the convent of theRécollets, and Watteau the painter was deputed to draw up a catalogue. On the 12th May, 1795, the collection consisted of 583 pictures and 58engravings. On the 1st September, 1801, the consuls decreed theformation of departmental museums and distribution of public arttreasures. It was not, however, till 1848 that the municipal council ofLille set to work in earnest upon the enrichment of the museum, now oneof the finest in provincial cities. The present superb building waserected entirely at the expense of the municipality, and was only openedtwo years ago. It has recently been enriched by art treasures worth amillion of francs, the gift of a rich citizen and his wife, tapestries, _faïence_, furniture, enamels, ivories, illuminated MSS. , rare bindings, engraved gems. Before that time the unrivalled collection of drawings byold masters had lent the Lille museum a value especially its own. 

The collections are open every day, Sundays included. Being entirelybuilt of stone, there is little risk of fire. Thieves are guardedagainst by two caretakers inside the building at night and two patrolsoutside. It is an enormous structure, and arranged with much taste. 

The old wall still encircles the inner town, and very pretty is thecontrast of grey stone and fresh spring foliage; lilacs in full bloom, also the almond, cherry, pear tree, and many others. 

Lille nowadays recalls quite other thoughts than those suggested byTristram Shandy. It may be described as a town within towns, themanufacturing centres around having gradually developed into large rivalmunicipalities. Among these are Tourcoing, Croix, and Roubaix, now morethan half as large as Lille itself. I stayed a week at Lille, and had Iremained there a year, in one respect should have come away no whit thewiser. The manufactories, one and all, are inaccessible as the interiorof a Carmelite convent. Queen Victoria could get inside the monastery ofthe Grande Chartreuse, but I question whether Her Majesty would havebeen permitted to see over a manufactory of thread gloves at Lille!

Such jealousy has doubtless its reason. Most likely trade secrets havebeen filched by foreign rivals under the guise of the ordinary tourist. Be this as it may, the confection of a tablecloth or piece of beige iskept as profoundly secret as that of the famous pepper tarts of PrinceBedreddin or the life-sustaining cordial of celebrated fasters. 

In the hope of winning over a feminine mind, I drove with a friend toone of the largest factories at Croix, the property of a lady. 

Here, as at Mulhouse, mill-owners live in the midst of their works. Theydo not leave business cares behind them, after English fashion, dwellingas far away as possible from factory chimneys. The premises of Mme. C. Are on a magnificent scale; all in red brick, fresh as if erectedyesterday, the mistress's house--a vast mansion--being a little removedfrom these and surrounded by elegantly-arranged grounds. A good deal ofbowing and scraping had to be got through before we were even admittedto the portress's lodge, as much more ceremonial before the portresscould be induced to convey our errand to one of the numerous clerks in acounting-house close by. At length, and after many dubious shakes of thehead and murmurs of surprise at our audacity, the card was transmittedto the mansion. 

A polite summons to the great lady's presence raised our hopes. Thereseemed at least some faint hope of success. Traversing the gravelledpath, as we did so catching sight of madame's coach-house and half-dozencarriages, landau, brougham, brake, and how many more! we reached thefront door. Here the clerk left us, and a footman in livery, with nolittle ceremony, ushered us into the first of a suite of receptionrooms, all fitted up in the modern style, and having abundance of fernsand exotics. 

At the end of the last salon a fashionably dressed lady, typicallyFrench in feature, manners and deportment, sat talking to two gentlemen. She very graciously advanced to meet us, held out a small white handcovered with rings, and with the sweetest smile heard my modestlyreiterated request to be allowed a glimpse of the factory. Would that Icould convey the gesture, expression of face and tone of voice withwhich she replied, in the fewest possible words!

After that inimitable, unforgettable "Jamais, jamais, jamais!" there wasnothing to do but make our bow and retire, discomfiture being amplyatoned by the little scene just described. 

We next drove straight through Lille to the vast park or Bois, as it iscalled, not many years since acquired by the town as a pleasure-ground. Very wisely, the pretty, irregular stretch of glade, dell and wood hasbeen left as it was, only a few paths, seats and plantations beingadded. No manufacturing town in France is better off in this respect. Wide, handsome boulevards lead to the Bois and pretty botanical garden, many private mansions having beautiful grounds, but walled in completelyas those of cloistered convents. The fresh spring greenery and multitudeof flowering trees and shrubs make suburban Lille look its best; outsidethe town every cottage has a bit of ground and a tree or two. 

During this second week of April the weather suddenly changed. Rainfell, and a keen east wind rendered fires and winter garments oncemore indispensable. On one of these cold, windy days I went withLille friends to Roubaix, as cold and windy a town, I should say, asany in France. 

A preliminary word or two must be said about Roubaix, the city ofstrikes, pre-eminently the Socialist city. 

City we may indeed call it, and it is one of rapidly increasingdimensions. In the beginning of the century Roubaix numbered 8000 soulsonly. Its population is now 114, 000. Since 1862 the number of itsmachines has quintupled. Every week 600 tons of wool are brought to themills. As I have before mentioned, more business is transacted with theBank of France by this _cheflieu_ of a canton than by Toulouse, Rheims, Nîmes, or Montpellier. The speciality of Roubaix is its dress stuffs andwoollen materials, large quantities of which are exported to America. Tosee these soft, delicate fabrics we must visit Regent Street and otherfashionable quarters, not an inch is to be caught sight of here. 

Roubaix is a handsome town, with every possible softening down of grimyfactory walls and tall chimneys. A broad, well-built street leads to theHôtel de Ville; another equally wide street, with mansions of wealthymill-owners and adjacent factories, leads to the new Boulevard de Parisand pretty public park, where a band plays on Sunday afternoons. 

But my first object was to obtain an interview with the Socialist mayor, a man of whom I had heard much. A friend residing at Lille kindly pavedthe way by sending his own card with mine, the messenger bringing back acourteous reply. Unfortunately, the Conseil-Général then sitting atLille curtailed the time at the mayor's disposal, but before one o'clockhe would be pleased to receive me, he sent word. Accordingly, conductedby my friend's clerk, I set out for the Town Hall. 

We waited some little time in the vestibule, the chief magistrate ofRoubaix being very busy. Deputy-mayors, adjoints, were coming and going, and liveried officials bustled about, glancing at me from time to time, but without any impertinent curiosity. Impertinent curiosity, by theway, we rarely meet with in France. People seem of opinion thateverybody must be the best judge of his or her own business. I wasfinally ushered into the council chamber, where the mayor and threedeputy-mayors sat at a long table covered with green baize, transactingbusiness. He very courteously bade me take a seat beside him, and we atonce entered into conversation. The working man's representative of whatwas then the city _par excellence_ of strikes and socialism is aremarkable-looking man in middle life. Tall, angular, beardless, withthe head of a leader, he would be noticed anywhere. There was a look ofindomitable conviction in his face, and a quiet dignity from whichneither his shabby clothes nor his humble calling detract. Can anyindeed well be humbler? The first magistrate of a city of a hundred andfourteen thousand souls, a large percentage of whom are educated, wealthy men of the world, keeps, as I have said, a small _estaminet_ orcafé in which smoking is permitted, and sells newspapers, himself earlyin the morning making up and delivering his bundles to the variousretailers. Here, indeed, we have the principles of the Republic--Liberty, Equality, Fraternity--carried out to their logical conclusion. Without money, without social position, this man owes his presentdignity to sheer force of character and conviction. We chatted ofsocialism and the phases of it more immediately connected with Roubaix, on which latter subject I ventured to beg a little information. 

[Footnote: I give Littré's meaning of _estaminet_. ]

"We must go to the fountain-head, " he replied very affably. "I regretthat time does not permit me to enter into particulars now; but leave meyour English address. The information required shall be forwarded. "

We then talked of socialism in England, of his English friends, and hewas much interested to learn that I had once seen the great Marx andheard him speak at a meeting of the International in Holborn twenty-fiveyears before. 

Then I told him, what perhaps he knew, of the liberty accorded by ourGovernment to hold meetings in Trafalgar Square, and we spoke ofGladstone. "A good democrat, but born too early for socialism--thefuture of the world. One cannot take to socialism at eighty-three yearsof age, " I said. 

"No, that is somewhat late in the day, " was the smiling reply. 

I took leave, much pleased with my reception. From a certain point ofview, the socialist mayor of Roubaix was one of the most interestingpersonalities I had met in France. 

Roubaix has been endowed by the State with a handsome museum, library, technical and art school, the latter for young men only. These may belong to any nationality, and obtain their professional orartistic training free of charge. The exhibition of students' worksufficiently proclaims the excellence of the teaching. Here we sawvery clever studies from the living model, a variety of designs, and, most interesting of all, fabrics prepared, dyed and woven entirely bythe students. 

The admirably arranged library is open to all, and we were courteouslyshown some of its choicest treasures. These are not bibliographicalcuriosities, but albums containing specimens of Lyons silk, a marvellousdisplay of taste and skill. Gems, butterflies' wings, feathers oftropical birds are not more brilliant than these hues, while each designis thoroughly artistic, and in its way an achievement. 

The picture gallery contains a good portrait of the veteran song-writerNadaud, author of the immortal "Carcassonne. " Many Germans and Belgians, engaged in commerce, spend years here, going away when their fortunesare made. More advantageous to the place are those capitalists who takeroot, identifying themselves with local interests. Such is the case witha large English firm at Croix, who have founded a Protestant church andschools for their workpeople. 

Let me record the spectacle presented by the museum on Sunday afternoonduring the brilliant weather of April 1893. What most struck me was thepresence of poorly-dressed boys; they evidently belonged to the leastprosperous working class, and came in by twos and threes. Nothing couldequal the good behaviour of these lads, or their interest in everything. Many young shop-women were also there, and, as usual, a large contingentof soldiers and recruits. 

Few shops remained open after mid-day, except one or two very largegroceries, at which fresh vegetables were sold. It is pleasant to note agradual diminution of Sunday labour throughout France. 

The celebration of May-Day, which date occurred soon after my visit, wasnot calculated either to alarm the Republic or the world in general. Itwas a monster manifestation in favour of the Three Eights, and I thinkfew of us, were we suddenly transformed into Roubaix machinists, wouldnot speedily become Three Eighters as well. 

At five o'clock in the morning the firing of cannon announced the annual"Fête du Travail, " or workmen's holiday, not accorded by Act ofParliament, but claimed by the people as a legitimate privilege. 

Unwonted calm prevailed in certain quarters. Instead of men, women, boysand girls pouring by tens of thousands into the factories, the streetsleading to them were empty. In one or two cases, where machinery hadbeen set in motion and doors opened, public opinion immediately effecteda stoppage of work. Instead, therefore, of being imprisoned fromhalf-past five in the morning till seven or eight at night, the entireRoubaisien population had freed itself to enjoy "a sunshine holiday. "Such a day cannot be too long, and at a quarter past seven vast crowdshad collected before the Hôtel de Ville. 

Here a surprise was in store for the boldest Three Eighter going. Thetricolour had been hoisted down, and replaced, not by a red flag, but bya large transparency, showing the following device in red letters upona white ground:--

 FÊTE INTERNATIONALE DU TRAVAIL, 1er Mai 1893. 

 Huit Heures du Travail, Huit Heures du Loisir, Huit Heures du Repos. 

[Footnote: Translation-International festival of labour; eight hours'work, eight hours' leisure, eight hours' repose. ]

The mayor, in undress, that is to say in garments of every day, havingsurveyed these preparations, returned to his _estaminet_, the Plat d'Or, and there folded his newspapers as usual for the day's distribution. 

In the meantime the finishing touch was put to other decorations, consisting of flags, devices and red drapery, everywhere the ThreeEights being conspicuous. 

A monster procession was then formed, headed by the Town Council and avast number of bands. There was the music of the Fire Brigade, thesocialist brass band, the children's choir, the Choral Society ofRoubaix, the Franco-Belgian Choral Society, and many others. Twentythousand persons took part in this procession, the men wearing redneckties and a red flower in their button-holes, the forty-seven groupsof the workmen's federation bearing banners, all singing, bandsplaying, drums beating, cannons firing as they went. 

At mid-day the defile was made before the Hôtel de Ville, and delegatesof the different socialist groups were formally received by the mayorand deputy-mayors, wearing their tricolour scarves of office. 

I must say the mayor's speech was a model of conciseness, good senseand, it must be added, courtesy; addressing himself first to hisfellow-townswomen, then to his fellow-townsmen, he thanked the labourparty for the grandiose celebration of the day, dwelt on thedetermination of the municipal council to watch over the workmen'sinterests, then begged all to enjoy themselves thoroughly, taking careto maintain the public peace. 

Toasts were drunk, the mayor's health with especial enthusiasm, but whenat the stroke of noon he waved the tricolour and an enormous number ofpigeons were let loose, not to be fired at but admired as they flew awayin all directions, their tricolour ribbons fluttering, the generaldelight knew no bounds. "Long live our mayor, " resounded from everymouth, "Vive le citoyen Carrette!"

The rest of the day was devoted to harmless, out-of-door amusements: aballoon ascent, on the car being conspicuous in red, "Les trois huits, "concerts, gymnastic contests, finally dancing and illuminations. 

Thus ended the first of May, 1893, in Lille. 

 * * * * *

St. Omer is a clean, well-built and sleepy little town, with some fineold churches. The mellow tone of the street architecture, especiallyunder a burning blue sky, is very soothing; all the houses have ayellowish or pinkish hue. 

The town abounds in convents and seminaries, and the chief business ofwell-to-do ladies seems that of going to church. In the cathedral aremany votive tablets to "Our Lady of Miracles"--one of the numerousmiracle-working Virgins in France. Here we read the thanksgiving of ayoung man miraculously preserved throughout his four years' militaryservice; there, one records how, after praying fervently for a certainboon, after many years the Virgin had granted his prayer. Parentscommemorate miraculous favours bestowed on their children, and so on. 

The ancient ramparts at this time were in course of demolition, and thebelt of boulevards which are to replace them will be a greatimprovement. The town is protected by newly-constructed works. Needlessto say, it possesses a public library, on the usual principle--onecitizen one book, --a museum, and small picture gallery. The populationis 21, 000. 

I was cordially received by a friend's friend, foremost resident in theplace, and owner of a large distillery. As usual, the private dwelling, with coach-house, stables and garden adjoined the business premises. The_genièvre_ or gin, so called from the juniper used in flavouring it, here manufactured, is a choice liqueur, not the cheap intoxicant of ourown public-houses. Liqueurs are always placed with coffee on Frenchbreakfast-tables. Every one takes a teaspoonful as a help to digestion. 

French people are greatly astonished at the absence of liqueurs inEngland. The excellence of French digestions generally would not seem todiscredit the habit. In the fabrication of gin here only the corn of ryeis used, and in small quantities, the juniper berry; it is ready fordrinking in six months, although improved by keeping. I saw also curaçoain its various stages. The orange peel used in the manufacture of thisliqueur is soaked in alcohol for four months. 

My object, however, was to see the high farming on an extensive scalefor which this region is famous. Accordingly my host, accompanied by hisamiable wife, placed themselves, their carriage, and time at mydisposal, and we set out for a long round. 

In harvest time the aspect of the country must be one of extremerichness. The enormous sweeps of corn, clover, and beetroot have nodivision from each other or the road; no hedges are to be seen, and nota tree in the middle of the crops, few trees, indeed, anywhere. Everywhere, on this 17th of April, the corn was a month ahead of formerseasons, and, in spite of the long drought, very flourishing. 

The first farm visited consists of 360 hectares (just upon 900 acres), all in the highest cultivation, and conducted strictly on the footing ofa large industrial concern, with offices, counting-house, carpenters', saddlers' and wheelwrights' shops, smithies, mills and machinery, everyagricultural process down to grinding the corn being performed on thepremises, and by workmen in the employ of the owner. 

As we enter these vast premises, and hear the buzz of machinery, we feelthe complete prosaicization of rustic life. The farmhouse scenes of myown childhood in Suffolk, the idyllic descriptions of George Eliot, nomore resemble actualities than the poetic spinning-wheel of olden timesthe loom of latest invention. Utility is the object aimed at, incontestably with great results, but in effect unromantic as Chicago. It is high farming made to pay. All was bustle and activity as we madethe round of the premises, beginning with the vast machinery andworkshops. These walled-in buildings, divided into two portions, eachcovering three-quarters of an acre, reminded me of nothing so much as ofthe caravanserais of Algerian travel twenty-five years ago. Once thedoors are bolted none can enter, yet to render security doubly sure dogsare chained up in every corner--we will hope, let loose at night. 

I will not here go into agricultural details, only adding a fewparticulars. 

The splendid wheat, clover, bean and rye crops attested theexcellence of the farming. Dovetailing into these enormous fieldswere small patches of peasant owners or tenants, all without divisionor apparent boundary. 

In the villages I was struck by the tidy appearance of the childrencoming out of school. The usual verdict on peasant proprietorshereabouts was that they do not accumulate, neither are they in want. Very little, if any, beggary meets the eye, either in town or country. We then drove to the château, with its English grounds, of the Vicomtede----, friend of my host, and an ardent admirer of England and Englishways. This gentleman looked, indeed, like an English squire, and spokeour tongue. He had visited King Edward, then Prince of Wales, atSandringham. As an illustration of his lavish method of doing things, Imention a quantity of building stone lately ordered from Valenciennes. This stone, for the purpose of building offices, had cost £800. In thispart of France clerks and counting-houses seem an indispensable featureof farm premises. An enormous bell for summoning work-people to work ormeals is always conspicuous. The whole thing has a commercial aspect. 

Here we saw some magnificent animals, among these a prize bull ofFlemish breed. It was said to be very fierce, and on this account had aring in its nose. This cruel custom is now, I believe, prohibited hereby the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. On the otherhand, I was glad to find the Vicomte a member of the kindred society inParis, and he assured me that he was constantly holding his green cardof membership over offenders _in terrorem_. 

We hardly expect a rich aristocrat to make utility the first object inhis agricultural pursuits. High farming was nevertheless here the orderof the day. 

We next drove to Clairmarais, a village some miles off in quite anotherdirection, coming in sight of magnificent forests. Our errand was tothe ancient Cistercian abbey, now the property of a capitalist, andturned into the business premises of his large farm. Of the originalmonastery, founded in 1140, hardly a trace remains. Abutting on theouter wall is the chapel, and before it a small enclosed flower-gardenfull of wallflowers and flowering shrubs, a bit of prettiness welcome tothe eye. Just beyond, too, was an old-fashioned, irregularly plantedorchard, with young cattle grazing under the bloom-laden trees, the turfdazzlingly bright, but less so than the young corn and rye, now readyfor first harvesting. 

The vaulted kitchens with vast fireplaces are relics of the ancientabbey, and even now form most picturesque interiors. At a long woodentable in one sat a blue-bloused group drinking cider out of huge yellowmugs--scene for a painter. Another, fitted up as a dairy, was hardlyless of a picture. On shelves in the dark, antiquated chamber lay large, red-earthen pans full of cream for cheese-making. The brown-robed figureof a lay brother would have seemed appropriate in either place. 

Outside these all was modernization and hard prose. We saw the shepherdreturning with his sheep from the herbage, the young lambs bleatingpitifully in an inner shed. It is the custom here to send the sheepafield during the day, the lambs meantime being fed on hay. Here again, I should say, is a commercial mistake. The lamb of pasture-fed animalsmust be incontestably superior. Humanity here seems on the side ofutilitarianism. Who can say? Perhaps the inferiority of French meat incertain regions arises from this habit of stabling cattle and sheep. Thedrive from Clairmarais to St. Omer took us through a quite different andmuch more attractive country. We were now in the marais, an amphibiousstretch of country, cut up into gardens and only accessible by tinycanals. It is a small Holland. This vast stretch of market garden, intersected by waterways just admitting the passage of a boat, is veryproductive. Three pounds per hectare is often paid in rent. The earlyvegetables, conveyed by boat to St. Omer, are largely exported toEngland. Every inch of ground is turned to account, the turf-bordered, canal-bound gardens making a pretty scene, above the green levelsintersected by gleaming water the fine towers of St. Omer clearlyoutlined against the brilliant sky. 

The English colony of former days vanished on the outbreak of the lastwar, not to return. A few young English Catholics still prepare for thepriesthood here, and eighty more were at this time pursuing theirstudies at Douai, under the charge of English Benedictines. "Why, "impatiently asked Arthur Young in 1788, "are Catholics to emigrate inorder to be ill-educated abroad, instead of being allowed institutionsthat would educate them well at home?"

The disabilities he reprobates have long since been removed, butEnglish-speaking seminarists still flock to Douai. 

Here I close this agricultural and industrial round in Picardy andFrench Flanders, regions so near home, yet so unfamiliar to most of us!And here I close what, in many respects, may be called another round inunfrequented France. 

THE END