The position of Morez is heavenly beautiful, but the town itself
hideous. Nature having put the finishing touch to her choice handiwork,
man has come in to mar and spoil the whole. The mountains, clothed with
brightest green, rise grandly towards the sky, but all along the narrow
gorge of the Bienne, in which Morez lies, stand closely compacted masses
of many storied manufactories and congeries of dark, unattractive
houses. There is hardly a garden, a _chalet_, or villa to redeem the
prevailing, crushing ugliness; yet, for all that, if you can once get
over the profound sadness induced by this strange contrast, nothing can
be more delightful and exhilarating than the mountain environment of
this little seat of industry. Morez, indeed, is a black diamond set in
richest gold. The place abounds in cafes, and on this Sunday afternoon,
when all the manufactories are closed, the cafes are full to
overflowing, and on the lovely suburban road, winding above the
mountains, we meet few working-men with their families enjoying a walk.
The cabaret absorbs them all.
The working hours here are terribly long; from five o'clock in the
morning till seven at night, the bulk of the population are at their
posts, men, women, and young people--children, I was going to say--but
fortunately public opinion is stepping in to prevent the abuse of
juvenile labour so prevalent, and good laws on the subject will, it is
hoped, ere long be enacted.
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