St. Claude has everything--the frowning mountain-crests of
Salins, the pine-clad fastnesses of Champagnole, the romantic mountain
walls of Morez, sublimity, grace, picturesqueness, grandeur, all are
here, and all at this season of the year embellished by the crimson and
amber tints of autumn.
What lovely things did I see during an hour and a half's walk to the
so-called Pont du Diable! Taking one winding mountain road of many, and
following the clear winding deep green river, though high above it, I
came to a scene as wild, beautiful, and solitary as the mind can
picture, above bare grey cliffs, lower down fairy-like little lawns of
brightest green, deeper down still, the river making a dozen cascades
over its stony bed, and round about the glorious autumn foliage, under a
cloudless sky. All the way I had heard, mingled with the roar of the
impetuous river, the sound of mill-wheels, and I passed I know not how
many manufactories, most of which lie so deep down in the heart of the
gorges that they do not spoil the scenery. The ugly blot is hidden, or
at least inconspicuous. As I turn back, I have on one side a vast
velvety slope, sweeping from mountain to river, terrace upon terrace of
golden-green pasture, where a dozen little girls are keeping their kine;
on the other steep limestone precipices, all a tangle of brushwood, with
only here and there a bit of scant pasturage.
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