H El b: "J « AVTVMNVS a c > I > H > H HIEMS -S SI H5-I QJotnell Unittetattt) Suhraty 3ll)ara, Nero fork LIBRARY OF LEWIS BINGLEY WYNNE A. a. .A.M.. COLUMBIAN COLLEGE. '71. '73 WASHINGTON. D. C. THE GIFT OF MRS. MARY A. WYNNE AND JOHN H. WYNNE CORNELL '98 Cornell University Library QH 81.H21 1883 Sylvan year : 3 1924 024 735 619 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924024735619 THE SYLVAN YEAR. THE SYLVAN YEAR. LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF RAOUL DUBOIS. PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON, AUTHOR OF 'THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE,' 'ETCHING AND ETCHERS,' 'THE UNKNOWN BIVER,' ETC. WITH EIGHT ETCHINGS. ' Non canimus surdis ; respondent omnia silvze.' — Virg. Eel. x. THIRD EDITION. SEELEY, JACKSON, AND HALLIDAY, FLEET STREET, LONDON. MDCCCLXXXIII. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Ancient Chestnuts. By P. G. Hamerton. {Original) Front. PAGE Wolves. By A. Lan§on. {Original) 34 The Forest. By G. Greux. After Th. Rousseau . . 52 Shepherd in the Low Country. By G. Greux. After J. Dupre" ; 72 Ploughs Left in a Lane. By P. G. Hamerton. {Original) 90 Gardening. By E. Hedouin. {Original). . . .176 Shepherd and Sheep. By P. G. Hamerton. {Original) 194 Reaping. By E. Hedouin. After A. Leleux . . .222 PREFACE. IN order to give more unity to these pages, it was decided, after some hesitation, to introduce one or two fictitious personages and an element of human interest. Whatever Nature may be from the strictly scientific point of view, it is interesting to the artist (whether' literary or pictorial) mainly as it is related, in ways more or less mysterious, to the world of feeling which lies hidden within our own breasts. Therefore, although a man of science might have written about the forest without reference to human sorrows or satis- factions, an artist could not do so except at the risk of sacrificing his most effective forces, those which have influence by means of sympathy and association. The principal personage of the narrative was in some degree suggested by the 'Obermann' of De Senancour, a creation which has been, if not precisely popular, cer- tainly very influential amongst the more sensitive and Studious minds of Continental Europe during the earlier viii Preface. part of the present century, and which has not even at the present day altogether lost its attraction ; for ' Ober- mann' is still read by persons of culture, though the mental condition which De S^nancour painted in that work is much rarer in these days than it was in the days of Rene" and Childe Harold. The fictitious personage who tells what there is of story in. 'The Sylvan Year' is, however, a conception quite distinct from the dis- satisfied hero of De S^nancour, and is intended to leave a very different impression upon the reader. The dominant note of ' Obermann ' is ennui ; the ennui of a character capable of long, indefinite suffering, but not capable of passing out of such suffering by the discipline of active sight and thought. The following narrative so far as it paints the character of the imaginary narrator, is intended rather to exhibit the value of external nature as a refreshment to a spirit which, though it has suffered greatly, has still strength enough to take a hearty and healthy interest in everything that comes within the circle of its observation. THE SYLVAN YEAR. i. A Woodland Estate — Le Val Sainte Veronique — Scenery of the Valley. IN the heart of the forests between the vine-lands of Burgundy and the course of the river Loire my mother's family had for centuries possessed a property which had descended to myself, but which I had visited only on rare occasions. It required singularly little care from its proprietor, being nearly the whole of it forest- land, and the cuttings took place only once in twenty years. The estate had been divided into five portions, and the times of cutting had been so arranged that one such period should recur every fourth year ; so we came to the place each Leap-year, like the 29th of February. There were about four hundred acres of woodland, and it would be difficult to find, except on the slopes of the Alps, a similar extent of country with so little that was level. Seven miles from the nearest public road stood our ancestral habitation. It occupied the bottom of a little valley, and had for its title the name of the locality, le Val Sainte Veronique. The house was not a chateau, nor was it (I rejoice to say) an ordinary maison bour- geoise. It consisted of the remains of a monastic establish-.^ 2 November — A Woodland Estate. ment which had never been either extensive or splendid, but our religious predecessors had left upon the place that which suits my taste and temper better than either size or splendour — the impress of a quiet feeling, in harmony with the perfect seclusion that reigned there from year to year. They had left, too, a lovely chapel of perfect fourteenth-century work, which had been used by the farmer as a barn, and so little injured (for the soft hay did no harm to the delicate sculpture), that when I restored it some years since the walls and vaults required nothing but a careful cleaning, and the only serious outlay was that for a new pavement and the repair of the external roof. The monastic buildings pro- vided a capacious residence for one of my tenants, and a house for my own family ; but, as our visits had been so rare, we had gone to no expense in luxuries, and the furniture consisted of a few old things that had been left there by my maternal forefathers, who were people of simple tastes. Beyond the repair of the chapel, which had not been costly, I had laid out scarcely anything on these old buildings in the Val Sainte Veronique, but I thought of them always with a certain quiet affection, and sought their shelter willingly in the time of my deepest sorrow, going to that secluded place with a half- religious feeling, as if its monastic associations invited me, and made the retreat more perfect and its tranquillity more serene. I have said that the buildings were situated in a little valley. Three tiny meadows occupied the bottom, like a carpet of greenest velvet, and in the midst of them November — The Val Ste. Vironique. 3 flowed a stream, about four yards wide, whose water was of the most lucid purity, and abundant even in the fiercest heats of summer. The hills around were so steep that they derived some sublimity from their steep- ness, but they were not exceedingly lofty, the highest of them not rising to more than seven hundred feet above the stream's level. Entirely clothed with wood, they offered an appearance of great richness, especially in the golden weeks of autumn, when the little valley became, for a brief season, a glorious study for a landscape- painter. II. Arrival at the Val Sainte Veronique — Plans for the Employment of Time — Paternal Education — Companionship between Father and Son— Sad Associations. WHEN we came to the place — my boy and I — after the lamentable events of the war, it had not this temporary splendour, but was grey under a grey and rainy sky ; and it seemed better so, more in unison with the sadness of our hearts. Our first visit was to the chapel, which, when we had last stayed here, my wife had decorated with some delicate needle-work ot her own ; and here, as we knelt together, my boy and I had leisure to feel both the nearness of our lost ones and their remoteness. We chose two rooms that com- municated with each other, and, before evening, had given them an appearance of tolerable comfort. This 4 November — Employment of Time. can never be very difficult in a place where firewood is inexhaustibly abundant. Logs were heaped on the old rusty fire-dogs, and the most cheerful beams illuminated the red-brick floor and the naked, inhospitable walls. That night the good fire sufficed for us, but the next day we busied ourselves very actively in furnishing our little apartment with the least inconvenient of the old things that were scattered about the mansion. This activity was beneficial to both of us, and I was pleased to see how Alexis suddenly regained his boyish cheer- fulness in the toils of this novel occupation. Far from endeavouring to repress this happy elasticity of youth, I did my best to sustain and encourage it, for there is gloom enough between infancy and age without adding anything to it by the wilful refusal of whatever gleams of sunshine may be permitted to us. We passed a whole day in arranging the two rooms that were to be, in an especial sense, our home, and gradually they came to wear a pleasant and familiar aspect, as we unpacked our luggage and surrounded our- selves with our little personal belongings. We set up some book-shelves, and a rack for my pipes, and another for our fowling-pieces ; we hung up, with a melancholy satisfaction, the photographs of those who would come to us no more. The juxtaposition of these details is typical of what was going forward all the time in our innermost thoughts, for whilst we were busy about our things the images of the beloved ones were always near, always ready to rise vividly in the imagination. I had not come to the Val Sainte Veronique with- November — Paternal Education. 5 out a definite plan for the employment of our time. Employment is necessary to us all, and in all circum- stances, but it is most especially necessary to those who have to bear some poignant and constantly-recurring sorrow. In the solitude that death had made for me, I felt myself drawn nearer to my remaining son, and resolved to have him with me for a whole year in that lonely dwelling of the Val Sainte VeVonique. If this arrangement retarded his school-work, there might be, it seemed, an ample compensation in the constant exercise of a beneficent paternal influence, whilst the life he would lead with me was in the highest, degree favour- able to his physical growth and health. Nor was it inevitable, either, that his studies should be neglected during the months he passed with me. Though quite without ambition, I had employed a life of leisure in maintaining and extending my own culture in various directions, and might reasonably suppose myself capable of teaching what my boy, at his age, could have learned in an ordinary public school. The two disabilities which so commonly make paternal education practically an im- possibility, the want of leisure and the want of the neces- sary scholarship, did not exist in my case. I particularly desired to associate in my boy's mind the love of nature with the love of literature, and art, and science ; being firmly convinced, and knowing partly from my own ex- perience, that these pursuits enhance the value of wealth to those who possess it, and are in themselves true riches for many who have little material gold. I determined, therefore, that we would not pass our time in the forests 6 November — Sad Associations. like wild animals, but that some light of culture should brighten our sylvan year. I indulged myself, further, in the hope — though this may have been, to some extent, a common parental illusion — that by the constant but gentle exercise of paternal influence, whatever degree of that influence I already possessed over Alexis might be increased during the year that we were to live together in such close and uninterrupted companionship. It is the misfortune of public education that our sons are separated from us in their youth and delivered into the hands of teachers, who, however conscientious they may be, cannot, in the nature of things, take that earnest and complete interest in their whole mental and physical well-being which incessantly occupies the mind of every father who is worthy of the name. Since this boy alone remained to me, I desired to establish between us relations of intimacy and friendship of a kind which cannot be incompatible with respect on one side and dignity on the other. His brothers had loved me well, and when their life-blood flowed out upon the miry ground at Gravelotte, their last thoughts, so far as they related to anything in this world, were, I doubt not, thoughts of tender affection for their mother and dutiful love for me. I know that they loved me well. There have been times and occa- sions in our life In vain I school myself into forgetfulness ; I can- not quite forget, for all things remind me of my sons. Alexis himself reminds me of them continually, and he is constantly in my sight or in my thoughts. The place, November — The Old Building. 7 too, recalls them to my memory, for they came here to hunt the boar in the pride of their early manhood. And why should we endeavour to forget ? Do we not wrong the dead when we dismiss their memory as too disturbing and importunate? Let me rather welcome these re- collections, and be thankful for that clearness of the faculties which enables me still to see their faces and hear their voices as I heard and saw them when the only war they knew was that against the wild boar and the wolf. I will build a monument to their memory near the Val Sainte VeVonique. On the crest of the hill before the house two columns of spotless marble shall rise high above the summits of the trees, and as the marble mellows to the sunsets of the years that are to come, so may their sacrifice appear to me more in har- mony with the great purposes of the world ! III. The Old Building — My Herbarium — My Books — A Year of Retirement — Reading — Botany — Etching — Animal Life. THE day after our arrival in our new home it rained incessantly, and not a ray of sunshine came to brighten the dreary November landscape. We had arrived at a time of the year that offered no pros- pect of cheering natural appearances. The splendour of autumn had utterly faded away; the clear brightness of the frosty winter had not yet arrived to brace us 8 November — My Herbarium. with its healthier influences ; we had nothing around us but the dulness of advanced decay. From sunrise to sunset, or, more accurately in a valley shrouded by mist, from the time when the cloud grew paler in the morning to the time when it grew dark again in the afternoon, we remained in the house together. Our heavy baggage arrived from the distant railway station in the middle of the day, and we found an occupation in unpacking the various cases and in settling our interior arrangements; There was plenty of space in the old building, and, with unlimited supplies of excellent firewood, we were under no necessity for limiting our existence to the apartments we had especially selected as our own. We had dtjeuner in the dining-room, but it seemed so large and dreary, with its broad stone floor and the black beams in the rude old ceiling, that we determined not to eat in it any more, and dined that evening in a circular cabinet, which occupied the basement of one of the round towers — a cabinet which had been used by a lady of our family two generations before, and had still the charm of a faded elegance that affected the mind like the faint perfume of withered flowers. The German invaders of Lorraine had carried away the greater part of my library and my little collection of pictures. My herbarium, which it had taken me years to collect and classify, had gone I knew not whither; possibly some scientific invader may have been tempted by the rarer plants, and appropriated them, leaving the rest to comrades less enlightened, who may have used them to kindle fires. Even the cabinets that contained November — My Books. g them disappeared in the general ruin. All that remained to me of my material implements of culture were a few old books ; but these, as it fortunately happened, were my dearest friends and favourites. Better editions may have been printed by the enterpise of contemporary publishers, but to my feeling no copy of a beloved author, however fair, however faultless, can ever be worth the copy that has long been my companion. Books increase in value for their possessor as they diminish in saleableness at an auction of his effects. The remnant of what had been the best private library in the neighbourhood I lived in had for me a precious- ness far beyond that of the finest editions that were once its glory in the eyes of others. Especially had I loved the true immortal poets. From them, and from them only, can we win that wondrous lore which enchants for us the whole material world, and admits us into a fairy- land which is not illusory. A year of absolute retirement would seem like an interminable desert to any one without an occupation, but I knew from the experience of other years that when once we are absorbed in pursuits that are at the same time very interesting and very laborious, the months melt away like a treasure in the hands of a spendthrift. It was only, indeed, by the most method- ical arrangement of our time that we could possibly accomplish the tasks we had voluntarily undertaken. Besides our reading, which, for Alexis, was the most im- portant of my plans, I proposed to collect an herbarium, to include the entire flora of my woodland property, and ro November — An Excursion. to make an album of etchings which was to illustrate everything of interest on the estate. In the selection of subjects there was but one serious difficulty — their inex- haustible and bewildering abundance. In the Val Sainte Ve>onique itself there were groups of magnificent chest- nuts, centuries old, shadowing the woodland road that leads into the heart of the forest ; and though the dense young woods were cut regularly for their revenue, many an old giant had been spared from generation to generation, and there were hollow trunks more ancient than monarchy in France, and far more deeply rooted. I desired also to illustrate the animal life of the great woods, from the wild geese flying over their summits in the chill evenings of the dying year, to the deer in the sunny glade and the wolves in the winter snow. IV. An Excursion in the Forest — Dante's Suffering Trees — The Forest-road — A Hill-top — We go astray— Observation on the Adhesion of Dead Leaves— Analogy in Human Affairs — Wonderful Variety of Colour — Emerson on Winter Scenery — The Forest- Fear of Dante — How I first understood it. ON the third day after our arrival in the valley the weather, though still thickly overcast, was fair enough to encourage ideas of exploration, and we set out after dejeuner with the intention of making an ex- cursion in shape something like the outline of a pear, and so getting home again about dinner-time. We November-*- Dante's Suffering Trees. 1 1 began by following one of the narrow roads which from time immemorial have given access to the interior of the forest. There is evidence that some of these roads existed in the old Gaulish times, and the engineers of those days, trusting to the strength and patience of their oxen, seem to have considered mere steepness as no objection whatever. The road we followed was often closely hemmed in on both sides by impenetrable hedges of old beech, whose trunks were twisted into the most fantastic shapes long ago, when they were young, and have remained so ever since in grim deformity. Some of them were really painful to contemplate, the efforts of nature had been so thwarted. They were like powerful arms of men bound at the wrists to some immovable front of rock, with muscles swelling in vain efforts for deliverance. I thought of that dreadful fancy of Dante's, the suffering human trees, that bled dark drops of blood when a little twig was broken, and asked so pitifully, ' Why dost thou break me, why dost thou tear me, hast thou no pity ? ' Perb disse '1 Maestro : ' Se tu tronchi Qualche fraschetta d'una d'este piante Li pensier ch'hai si faran tutti monchi.' Allor pors' io la mano un poco avanti E colsi un ramoscel da un gran pruno, E '1 tronco suo gridb : Perche mi schiante ? ' Da che fatto fu poi di sangue bruno. Ricomincio a gridar : ' Perche mi scerpi ? Non hat tu spirto di pietate alcuno ? ' After being hedged in by these gaunt arms for the distance of nearly a mile, the road became less distinctly 1 2 November — The Forest Road. separated from the surrounding forest-land; it made several sudden turns, and finally offered us a bifurcation. Having nothing to guide us but a general project of wan- dering, we took the side which seemed most in our in- tended direction, and followed it where it might lead. The wheel-ruts soon ceased altogether; the road became a mere footpath, and after winding in an uncertain manner for a long distance, emerged at last on the very summit of a lofty knoll, where, in the midst of an open space of greensward, stood four enormous chestnuts, surrounded by tall bushes of holly with an abundance of red berries in the midst of its varnished green. Although we were certainly on the top of one of the many hills which carry this great forest upon their ample sides, it was impossible to see anything beyond the narrow circle of the open, space around us. We were enclosed by a sylvan wall> penetrable indeed by a pedestrian traveller, but as im- pervious to his vision as if it had been built of granite blocks. We were certainly not on our own land ; these giant chestnuts were not mine, for all the great old forest-trees that belonged to me were known to me as the richest plum-trees in his orchard are known to the market-gardener. It was impossible to ascertain the points of the compass. The whole sky was covered with one dense low cloud, not lighter in one place than another, so that we could not guess the sun's position ; nor did any inclination of the trees, or any growth of moss, give a reliable indication of the prevailing wind, and if they had done so the indication would have been useless to us in our ignorance of the local meteorology. November — Dead Leaves, 1 3 To retrace the path we came by might have been pos- sible, though difficult ; but I felt an invincible repug- nance to a mere retreat. So partly in reliance upon chance, and partly trusting an instinct of locality that I cannot account for or explain (an animal instinct, like that of the salmon or the housemarten) I determined to push on through the dense wood till the topography of the country became somewhat more intelligible to us. Before quitting the great chestnuts, I made an obser- vation which confirmed what I had observed before with reference to the adherence of dead leaves. These trees, as a rule, were entirely denuded of their foliage ; but two or three branches, on the contrary, retained almost every leaf that had adorned them in the glory of summer — changed indeed, in colour, from rich dark green to a lovely pale gold, far more delicate than the winter colouring of beech or oak, yet scarcely altered in form, and preserving great purity of curve. Now the question which interested me was, how it happened that these branches retained their foliage whilst all the others had lost it ? The answer is, that a branch which retains its foliage has always been virtually severed from the stem, by fracture before the fall of the leaf. Why the leaves fall from a branch that shares the life of the tree, and adhere to one that is separated from it I am not scientific enough to decide quite positively, but naturally conclude that it is due to the continuance of circulation in the one case and its stoppage in the other, the leaves adhering when the sap has not been able to descend, but detaching them- selves easily when the course of the descending sap has 1 4 November — A nalogy in Human Affairs. met with no interruption. This suggested the reflection that a very close analogy may be found in human affairs. A colony severed from the mother country will often preserve words, and even habits in thought and action, which have dropped off from the parent since the separa- tion took place, and which would also have been lost by" the colony if the old closeness of connexion had never been interrupted. The French Canadians are an excel- lent instance of this ; they have preserved traditional ways of thinking, and traditional manners, which have dropped off long since from the inhabitants of France itself. Although the season of the year was that which ii generally reputed to be least interesting, and most com- pletely denuded of the charms of colour ; although the sky above us was like lead, and there was not one flower on the earth beneath: still it would have been impossible for a painter, or for any one capable of seeing colour in nature, not to be continually interested by the wonderful variety around us. It was not merely those pale, golden leaves of the broken chestnut branches, but the rich green of the holly with its bright red berries, and the abundant beech leaves, and the young oaks that kept their foliage as in summer, changed only in hue and in the form of the shrivelled leaves. Amidst intensities of green, of moss and holly, blood-red berries, and foliage like rusted iron or faded gilding, the greys and purples of a thousand trunks and bewildering intricate branches had a beauty that is lost in the too monotonous verdure of July. The American philosopher, Emerson, says, November — Forest- Fear of Dante. 1 5 'The inhabitants of cities suppose that the country- landscape is pleasant only half the year. I please my- self with observing the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer. To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty.' It was not without some feeling of anxiety that I quitted that open space, to enter once more the obscurity of innumerable trees. The words of Dante came to me again, this time with a deeper gravity of meaning than I had ever found in them before, — Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura Chfe la diritta via era smarrita. Ahi quanto a dir qual' era fe cosa dura Questa selva selvaggia ed aspra e forte Che nel pensier rinnuova la paura ! Gradually there came upon me a certain feeling that I had never yet experienced, but which Dante had known well. Hour after hour we walked through that intermin- able forest, and the strange new feeling became more and more oppressive, till at length I realised what the- old poet meant with Questa selva selvaggia ed aspra e forte. We were so hemmed in by millions of stems, that although free to walk everywhere, we were held in an illimitable prison. The trees began to wear a hostile and menacing aspect, as if we were wandering amongst unnumbered enemies. They had no longer for us any grace or beauty, but united together in one horrible monotony. I remembered the enormous extent of this 1 6 November — A Shepherdess. forest, which covers a hundred square miles; its com- plicated and difficult geography, not thoroughly known to any human being ; its endless variety of hill and dale, that it would take weeks of travel to explore in their intricate detail. And then I reflected on the single hour of daylight that remained to us — one hour, — and that we were not only unprovided with food, but had no covering besides our light pedestrian dress. Alexis had brought his gun. I had my tobacco, and a good pro- vision of matches, and a little brandy in my flask ; but in the way of food, not even so much as a biscuit. V. A Shepherdess — Her Ignorance — A Shepherd I,ad — I resolve to follow a Rivulet— Emerson's Feeling about the Forest— That of Dante— How we were led by the Rivulet — Our Situation — Resolves for the Future — The Silence of the Woods— A' Wild Sow— We kill a little Pig— Our Bonfire — Signals — Searchers — Help reaches us — Our Geographical Situation. THE time was past when it might have been yet possible to retrace our steps, and the only prac- ticable issue before us was to get out of the forest as we might. I knew that there were occasional openings, little patches of tilled ground with rude habitations for the woodmen, and in one of these openings we should probably find a guide. We came at last to a clearing of about five acres on the slope of a hill-side, and from this place were able to get a view of the surrounding country. All that was visible consisted November — A Shepherd Lad. 17 chiefly of a valley, with a stream at the bottom, in character so precisely like the Val Ste. VeVonique that I concluded it to be the same rivulet, and therefore, of course, the most reliable of guides. On one side of the clearing passed a road of the kind common in these forests, so narrow in parts that an ox-cart would graze the trees on both sides, and then suddenly widening with verdant margins of pasture to the right hand or to the left. In one of these places, huddled in a coarse striped cloak and spinning from her distaff, stood the first human being we met with in these solitudes, a shep- herdess with a flock of the tiny Morvan sheep, and a wolfish dog to guard them. The dog rushed at us as if we had been wild animals ; the girl threw her sabots at him, and hit him rather severely, uttering violent excla- mations in a language entirely unintelligible by us. I asked her whither the road led, pointing before me, and she answered ' d la foret ' (pronounced fddret) ; then I inquired whither the road led in the other direction, and she answered 'a lapdture' (pronounced pddture). These two words comprised her entire conception of geography. In vain I mentioned the names of the Val Ste. Veronique, of the villages I knew, of the nearest market town, — all these were utterly unknown to her. Forest and pasture ! could we not see them with our eyes ? We followed the road for about a mile, and met a lad of sixteen with two curs after him. Here, at last, was a reliable guide. We asked him whither the road led, and got for answer ' d la fddret ;' then we asked him where it came from, and he answered ' de la pddture' C 1 8 November — I follow a Rivulet. He, too, was entirely impervious to questions about dis- tant localities, and he did not understand French, whether from weak intellect or mere isolation I know not. He spoke the uncouth patois of these regions, a language more remote from French than is either Spanish or Italian. Yet even bis patois was spoken with the greatest hesitation, as if utterance of any kind were a difficulty for him. It being impossible to gain any information from these dwellers in the wilderness, I determined to take a resolution and follow the rivulet in the valley. If it were our own rivulet it would surely lead us home- wards ; if not, we should at least escape the danger of wandering uselessly in a circle. Every stream in the forest gets ■ out of the forest ultimately, and he who follows a rivulet, if he can only follow it long enough, will emerge at last from its labyrinthine dells. ' In the woods,' says Emerson, ' is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life — no disgrace, no calamity (leaving me my eyes), which nature cannot repair.' How different is this from Dante's feeling about the forest ! As the gloom of evening settled down upon the land the views of Dante prevailed with me more and more. I felt that our modern conception of wild nature, simply as a field for the pursuit of health and amusement, or pleasant study, is not a complete con- November — Our Situation. 1 9 ception. The old dread of the wilderness had retained more of the early experience of man, when he found himself, in his weakness and ignorance, in the presence of natural forces that appalled but did not charm his imagination. The rivulet led us into the densest wood once more. Our easiest path, but a wet one, lay in the very bed of the stream itself, and we floundered along, guided by twilight glimmers on the fortunately shallow water. In this way we proceeded for a long time with considerable rapidity, and might have gone on until night fell in blackness, had we not met with an insurmountable difficulty in a sudden alteration of geological character, which made the rivulet no longer a practicable path. It became closed in between precipitous rocks, and fell in a loud cascade into the depths of a ravine below. Nothing remained of daylight but a feeble greyness in the sky, every near object was invisible, and after some ineffectual attempts to get round the rocky sides of the watercourse I determined to abandon, for that night, all further effort to reach the Val Ste. Veronique. Most fortunately it did not rain, and we were in a perfectly sheltered situation. The constant exercise of our long march (we had been walking for seven hours without intermission) had kept us hitherto safe from cold, but we could not prudently rest without a fire. I had matches and a newspaper in my pocket ; we collected a heap of the driest leaves and twigs, and soon had the satisfaction of illuminating the little dell with a cheerful blaze of light, that brought the rocks and nearest trees into the most vigorous relief 20 November — Silence of the Woods. against the forest gloom and the starless blackness of the sky. Near to us were some resinous firs, and under them Alexis found quantities of large cones, rich in tur- pentine, which kept our fire up very brilliantly, I had carefully economised my brandy, and now administered enough of it to -give us a little temporary comfort ; but we suffered seriously from hunger. Alexis had killed nothing with his gun, or else we might have tried our skill at such rough cookery as the circumstances permitted, but the cartridges he had with him turned out to be very useful to us ultimately. The lesson of the day's misadventure was certainly not lost upon either of us. Alexis declared that in future he would never trust himself in the forest without a mariner's compass in his pocket, and I mentally determined that on all future expeditions we would carry soldiers' rugs and a little supply of provisions. I had at least the consolation of my pipe, which aids a man wonderfully to support pri- vation, and deadens the sense of hunger. The hours passed one by one, and Alexis was over- powered with sleep. I cut a quantity of heather and covered him with it entirely ; after which I sat watching by his bed, and supplying fuel to the fire of our bivouac. There is a death-like silence in the woods on a winter's night, but I consoled myself for the quiescence of the nightingale by the torpor of a great population of vipers which inhabit the crevices of the rocks, and are dangerous things in summer. No sound was audible but the rushing of the rapid stream and the monotonous murmur of its • cascades. November — A Wild Sow. 2 1 About three o'clock in the morning I heard, or fancied that I heard, a movement in the brushwood, quite clearly distinguishable fromi the music of the rivulet. To this succeeded a crash of breaking branches, and a wild boat; or rather sow, dashed .through the water a few yards above oun resting-place. She was followed by a well-grown litter, which I took:to,