Near the forests and the hills the rivers are much more shallow, more clear and limpid, and flow, dance, and bubble over a gravelly bottom or golden sands. In these the voracious trout abounds; he may be seen allowing himself to be lazily rocked by the eddy, by the twirling current, or reposing under the shadow of the large rocks, which, detached from the adjacent mountains, have fallen into the river, and been arrested in their course; here he waits for the delicious May-fly, and the fisherman's basket is soon filled—so soon that a celebrated doctor in our neighbourhood, whose house is situated near one of these streams, used to send his servant every morning to take a fresh dish for his breakfast. The largest and the best trout are found near Chatelux, in the heart of the Morvan,—an old château, on the summit of a high rock, ornamented with towers and turrets, and surrounded by thick and solitary woods, in itself a lion worth seeing.
The present Count de Chatelux was aide-de-camp to Louis Phillipe, and a great friend of that sovereign. The river Cure flows at the foot of the hill on which the castle is situated, and its bed at this part is frequently divided, and forms many little islets, full of flowering shrubs and forest trees, which give the landscape a pleasing and picturesque appearance. From hence, for nearly twelve miles, roach, dace, chub, and trout are numerous, and take the fly well.
Besides the Gours we have mentioned, there are three spots in the Morvan that deserve attention in connection with fishing. These are Sermiselle, Pierre Pertuis, and the Château des Panolas. Sermiselle, at the junction of the Cure and the Cousin, at which point the road from Paris to Lyons passes, is a charming village, full of life and gaiety. At this spot the river begins to make a respectable figure; deep, solemn, and silent, it seems proud of its boats and ferries; but its waters have not that transparent appearance, that vivacious, laughing, and brawling character which distinguished them some miles further up. The fish in like manner resemble the stream; there are in this part monstrous carp, majestic eels, and solemn pike; and the line should be doubly strong if the angler is desirous of ever seeing a fish, or his hooks again.
At some distance above Sermiselle, where the silence and solitude of the country still reign, a very curious mode of fishing is adopted during the burning heat of the summer months. About mid-day, when the sun in all its power shoots his golden rays perpendicularly on the waters, illuminating every large hole even in the profoundest depths, the large fish leave them, and, ascending to the surface, remain under the cool shade of the trees, watching for whatever tit-bit or delicacy the stream may bring with it, while others prefer a quiet saunter, or, with the dorsal fin above the water, lie so still and stationary near some lily or other aquatic plant, that they seem perfectly asleep.
The enthusiastic sportsman, who fears neither storms nor a coup-de-soleil, makes his appearance about this time, without, it is true, either fishing-rod, lines, worms, flies, or bait of any description, but having under his left arm a double-barrel gun, in his right hand a large cabbage, and at his heels a clever poodle. The fisherman, or the huntsman, I scarcely know which to call him, now duly reconnoitres the river, fixes upon some tree, the large and lower branches of which spread over it, ascends with his gun and his cabbage, and having taken up an equestrian position upon one of the projecting arms, examines the surface of the deep stream below him. He has not been long on his perch when he perceives a stately pike paddling up the river; a leaf is instantly broken off the cabbage, and when the Branchiostagous has approached sufficiently near, is thrown into the water; frightened, the voracious fish at once disappears, but shortly after rises, and grateful to the unknown and kind friend who has sent him this admirable parasol, he goes towards it, and after pushing it about for a few seconds with his nose, finally places himself comfortably under its protecting shade. The sportsman, watching the animated gyrations of his cabbage-leaf, immediately fires, when the poodle, whose sagacity is quite equal to that of his master, plunges into the water, and if the fish is either dead or severely wounded fails not to bring out with him the scaly morsel; thus so long as the heavens are bright and blue, the water is warm, the large fish choose to promenade in the sun, and the sportsman's powers of climbing hold out, the sport continues. Sometimes the poodle and the fish have a very sharp struggle, and then the fun is great indeed, unless by chance the sportsman should unfortunately miss his hold in the midst of his laughter, and drop head-foremost into the water with his cabbage and his double-barrel.
Pierre Pertuis on the Cure, is also a famous place for fishing, and an extraordinary spot, and the Morvinian peasant, a highly poetically-flavoured individual, has made it the theatre of some very fantastic scenes. Imagine a yellow rock, of gigantic height, terminating in a point, with its sides full of fissures, holes, and crevices, inhabited by crows, owls, and bats, having its base in the river and its summit crowned with a rough chevelure of brambles and large creeping plants. The lower part of this rock is intersected by holes, through which the water rushes, tumbles, and whirls. The peasants pretend that the river near the rock cannot be fathomed, and that this particular spot is inhabited by fairies, nymphs, syrens, and other amiable ladies of this description, who have superb voices, and sing from the interior of their grottos delicious melodies of the other world, with the charitable intention of attracting the passing traveller or fisherman, and drowning him in the whirlpool beneath—a fate that would certainly be inevitable, if the attraction in question could bring them within its vortex, for certain it is that neither sheep-dogs or cattle which have fallen in, or been drawn within reach of its power, have ever been seen again. When the tempest rages here, the wind, rushing into the holes and fissures, produces a kind of moaning Æolian noise, and this with the cries of the owls and the rooks when the mistral blows and they have the rheumatism, produces, and no wonder, a superstitious feeling of awe in the mind of the ignorant peasant.
On the Cousin, which flows majestically through some of the most magnificent pastures in the world, and on the summit of a large hill, stands the charming Château des Panolas, the towers and walls of which, covered with pointed roofs and weather-cocks, and surrounded by domes, belvederes, and old-fashioned dovecots, give it at a distance the appearance of some oriental building. The weather-cocks in particular are of the most fanciful and grotesque designs, and it is said, and I should think there can be no doubt of the fact, that in no other structure have so many been seen together: it is calculated there are no less than three hundred. In going and returning from the forest, many a time have I and my friends, in the hey-day of youthful iniquities, knocked one of them off with a ball from our guns, to the great anger of the proprietor, who threatened us with his mahogany crutch from the hall door.
In the great ponds of Marot, and in the lakes of Lomervo—immense liquid plains, deep and surrounded in their whole circumference by a forest of green rushes, water-lilies, flags, and many other aquatic plants, forming a wall of verdure—the enormous quantity of fish of every kind is almost incredible. Nor is this extraordinary, for the waters of at least a dozen streams from the mountains, which swarm with life, fall into these vast reservoirs, and they are only fished once in every five years. This is a delectable spot for fishermen; but, on the other hand, as the value of these sheets of water is well understood by their proprietors, they are sharply looked after by them and their keepers, and it is almost as difficult to find an opportunity of throwing a line during the day, as it is for a poacher to throw a casting net on a moonlight night.
Nevertheless, as the appropriation of other people's property has an exquisite charm for some temperaments,—as a stolen apple to a child's palate is much more delightful than one that is not—the demon of acquisitiveness is always leaning over a man's shoulder,—that is to say, a poacher's shoulder, or even that of a gentleman with poaching tastes and inclinations,—to breathe in his ear bad advice. As to the peasants in the neighbourhood, they are always consulting together, or inventing some method by which they may circumvent the proprietors and appropriate their fish to themselves.
One of the happiest discoveries of the kind I ever heard of,—not the most recent but the best,—is the following. Every person in the possession of a cottage, possesses also a few ducks and geese, which paddle about their humble habitations. A man who has an itching for the thing, and who desires to become a pond-skimmer, as they are called, carefully selects from his squadron of palmipedes, the strongest, the most intelligent duck or goose of the party; his choice made, he immediately sets to work to give him the education befitting a bird destined for so honourable and diplomatic an employment.