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Rh . All this has disappeared except the coiffe, and that is only to be seen on fair-days and fêtes, and more rarely every day. We saw several of these fanciful caps on the occasion of the annual fair, some richly embroidered with tastefully assorted silks and gold braid; but here, alas! as everywhere else, costume is already a thing of the past, and the all-omnipotent bonnet and chimney-pot are superseding the far more picturesque and becoming head adornments of other days. At the fête in question we witnessed the out-of-door dancing so popular in these parts, even grey-haired Darbies and Joans paying their two sous for the sake of enjoying a waltz or mazurka in the charmed circle. Rich and poor, young and old, learned and simple, of course turned out to see what was going on, and take part in the popular amusements. Every minute we had to stop and shake hands with an acquaintance.

And now before turning to "fresh woods and pastures new," a word must be said about the illustrious name that will ever be linked with that of Montbéliard. Many a hasty traveller alights at the little railway station for the purpose of seeing the noble monument by David d'Angers and the antiquated house bearing the inscription: —

The bronze statue of the great anatomist stands out in bold relief before the Hôtel de Ville, the profile being turned towards the humble dwelling in which he first saw the light, the full face fronting the large Protestant church, built in 1602, a century and a half before his birth. The proximity is a happy one, since was it not by virtue of Protestantism, no matter how imperfect its manifestations, that Cuvier was enabled to pursue his inquiries with such magnificent results? Two centuries before, he might, like Galileo, have had to choose between martyrdom and scientific apostasy. The great Montbéliardais is represented with a pen in one hand, a scroll in the other, on which is drawn the anatomy of the human frame. He wears the long, full frock coat of the period, its ample folds having the effect of drapery. David d'Angers has achieved no nobler work than this statue.

The flourishing college of Montbéliard, called after its greatest citizen, was founded a few years ago, and is one of the first objects seen in quitting the railway station of the Rue Cuvier.

English tourists do not often turn aside from the Swiss route to visit the quieter beauties of Le Doubs, and residents here regret the absence of travellers, which, of course, tells upon the hotels. No one has a word to say in favor of anything in the way of hotels we are likely to meet with on our journey throughout the length and breadth of Franche-Comté. The new line of railway now in course of construction from Besançon to Morteau, through the heart of the country, will effect great changes. This will be a new line into Switzerland. The only way to see these regions to perfection is to hire a carriage by the day, and retain it as long as you please. The railway does not penetrate into the most picturesque regions, and the diligence is slow and inconvenient. Accordingly, having had an itinerary written out for us by friends who had gone over every inch of the ground, mostly on foot, I set off with an enterprising lady, a native of these parts, for a few days' drive in the most romantic scenery of the Doubs, southward of Montbeliard and in the direction of Switzerland. So well is the road marked out for us, that we want neither Joanne nor Murray, and we have, moreover, procured the services of a coachman who has been familiarized with the country by thirty years' experience. Thus far, therefore, we have nothing to desire but fine weather, which has been very rare since my arrival, tempests, showers, and downpours being the order of the day. However, choosing one morning of unusual promise, we start off at seven o'clock, prepared for the best or the worst, a description of the pine forests, mountain gorges, and romantic valleys of Le Doubs being reserved for the next paper.

 

 Blackwood's Magazine.

was a stray dog whose origin and whose name even were shrouded in mystery. In 1861 he had landed in Yokohama from an English tea-clipper, in the company of a melancholy traveller. Nobody, of course, took any notice of the dog at the time, and he, on his part, avoided all familiarity with strangers, having, apparently, eyes and ears only for his master, whom he followed everywhere. This master, Mr. Alexander Young, was a rather mysterious character. Nobody knew whence he came or whither he was