The next morning we were off betimes, intending to push through the mountains and the custom-houses that day.  The country was wild and far from fruitful, though there were bits of naked mountain, through which the road wound in a way to recall, on a greatly diminished scale however, that peculiar charm of the Apennines.  The villages were clean but dreary, and nowhere, for leagues, did we see a country that was genial, or likely to reward agriculture.  This passage of the Jura is immeasurably inferior to that by Salins and Neufchatel.  At first I was afraid it was my worn-out feelings that produced the impression; but, by close comparisons, and by questioning my companions, some of whom scarcely recollected the other road, I feel certain that such is the fact.  Indeed it would be like comparing a finished painting to an esquisse.

We had not much trouble at the second custom-house, though the officers eyed our ornaments with a confiscating rapacity.  For my part I took my revenge, by showing off the only ornament I had to the utmost.  A——­ had made me a present of a sapphire-ring, and this I flourished in all sorts of ways, as it might be in open defiance.  One fellow had an extreme longing for a pretty ferroniere, and there was a private consultation about it, among them, I believe; but after some detention, and a pretty close examination of the passports, we were permitted to proceed.  If Francois smuggled nothing, it must have been for want of funds, for speculation is his hobby, as well as his misfortune, entering into every bone of his body.

We were all day busy in those barren, sterile, and unattractive mountains—­thrice unattractive after the God-like Alps—­and were compelled to dip into the night, in order to get rid of them.  Once or twice on looking back, we saw the cold, chiseled peak of Mont Blanc, peering over our own nearer ridges; and as the weather was not very clear, it looked dim and spectral, as if sorry to lose us.  It was rather late when we reached a small town, at the foot of the Jura, and stopped for the night.

This was France again,—­France in cookery, beds, tone, and thought.  We lost the Swiss simplicity (for there is still relatively a good deal of it), and Swiss directness, in politeness, finesse, and manner.  We got “monsieur sait—­monsieur pense—­monsieur fera”—­for “que voulez-vous, monsieur?”

We had no more to do with mountains.  Our road next morning was across a wide plain, and we plunged at once into the undeviating monotony of French agriculture.  A village had been burned, it was thought to excite political commotion, and the postilions began to manoeuvre with us, to curtail us of horse-flesh, as the road was full of carriages.  It now became a matter of some moment to push on, for “first come, first served,” is the law of the road.  By dint of bribes and threats, we reached the point where the two great routes unite a little east of Dole,