No; there scarcely breathes the human being who could be so insensible to the charms of scenery like that of Le Morvan as to do so without a pang. 'Tis a chalice of gold, brimful of real pleasures for those who love the joys of the open air; 'tis alive with fish and game, and has its vineyards and its cornfields too.
But we are thinking of the forests only, of the boar—that potentate of the solitudes—and the wild cat: of the ravines and caves, to which the hardy and venturous hunter, through bush, brake, or briar, over streamlet or torrent, will chace the ravenous wolf,—who, bearing the iron ball in his lacerated side, ever and anon gnaws the wound in his rage, and slinks on weeping tears of blood. The roebuck and the hare, the feathered and the finny tribe, are ever presenting an endless alternation of amusement more or less exciting; and the sportsman has but to settle with himself, when the rosy morn appears, whether he will bestride his gallant steed, or throw the rod or rifle over his shoulder,—his day's pleasure is safe.
It matters not whether the falling leaf announces that the woods are clearing for him, the deep snow warns him to look to the protection of his flocks from the dangerous intrusion of the wolves, or the genial air and the brilliant flies tell him that the silvery tenants of the many streams and rivers that intersect the forest are ready to provide him sport.
Arouse thee, sportsman! when the dark clouds of night fly before the rays of Phœbus as a troop of timid antelopes before the leopard,—when the lark abandons his mossy bed, and soaring sends forth his joyous carol,
"——blythe to greet
The purpling East,"
then, O sportsman, up, and to horse! Away! bending over the saddle-bow, follow the wild deer across the heath—inhale the perfume of the trampled thyme. Draw bridle for a moment, and pity the thousands of thy fellow-men to whom the pure air and light are denied, and let thy heartfelt thanksgivings for thy free and happy lot ascend to the azure battlements of heaven. Beneath your gaze lie valleys whence rise the morning mists as do the clouds from the richly-perfumed censer, and float over the bosom of the plain ere they wreathe the mountain side; all the bushes sing, every leaf is shining to welcome the glorious sun as he rises majestically over that high dark range, and the bright blue dome of day is revealed in all its purity.
Plunge onward to the forest—you will perhaps fall in with one of the braconniers—must I call them poachers?—of which there are many; all alike, in one sense, yet each having the most whimsical characteristics. The reader knows my friend Navarre, but I must now introduce him to another of the cronies of my youth, the Père Séguin, the thoughts of whom revive all the sweet recollections of my home when my family lived in the ancient and picturesque Vezelay.
Séguin's "form and feature" are as well impressed upon my memory as those even of Navarre. Could any one forget him? I should think not; for he was so fantastic and mysterious, such a determined sportsman and eccentric desperado, that he was known to all Le Morvan.
As well as I remember, he was about fifty-five years of age when I first knew him; from his earliest boyhood he had fancied and loved a forester's life, and for more than forty years had realized his dreams of its wild independence. The woods, the rocks, the streams had no secrets for him; he understood all their murmurs and their silence—he knew the habits of every bird and beast of these forests and the whereabouts of every large trout in his clear cold hole.
But it is of no use to describe Père Séguin; to know him you must hunt with him, and that pretty often, too—as I have done from my earliest youth. I am now with him, on one of those joyous mornings of my boyhood, and having threaded the woods for an hour, he has placed me in ambuscade at the corner of a copse. Here, after a short delay, he pulls out his watch, a time-piece weighing about two pounds, and after a mute consultation with the hands, says in a low decided tone: