Charms of a forest life to the sportsman--The Poachers--Le Père
Séguin--His knowledge of the woods and of the rivers--The first
buck--A bad shot.
However dangerous the forests of Le Morvan may be, and certainly are, to
the citizen of Paris, whose knowledge of wood-craft, whatever may have
been his delightful visions of forest life, of fairy revels, and
hair-breadth escapes, is about equal to his proficiency in navigation,
they are no labyrinth to the true sportsman of this province; in his
mind, they are mapped with an accuracy perfectly astonishing to the
uninitiated in the countless indications of nature, of which the eye of
man becomes so keenly observant when thrown constantly into her
fascinating society. Let a man of a vigorous health, active frame, and
contemplative mind once enter, even for a short time, upon the
enjoyments of sporting, wild and varied as are those of Le Morvan, it
would be difficult to withdraw him from its delights, and persuade him
that it is in any way desirable to return to the crowded haunts of men,
and condemn himself to resume the harassing struggle for wealth or a
competence in his own legitimate sphere.
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 Phoebus 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:
"Good! Three o'clock. Stop here, youngster, and in an hour I shall send
you a buck."
"A buck at four o'clock? How are you to tell that?" And I felt that I
opened my eyes as an oyster does his bivalve domicile at high water. "A
buck! you are joking."
"I never joke," said the Père Séguin with a hoarse grunt, walking away,
and his face did not belie his words.
"Well, then, but how can you possibly--Stop, do, for one moment. Hear
me! holla! Père Séguin! I say, you old humbug.--By Socrates, he is off."
But Père Séguin was already striding fast and far through the bending
branches, wilfully, if not really out of hearing, and I had nothing to
do but to watch for the promised game. I had no watch, and it seemed to
me long after the appointed hour, when my reverie was disturbed by a low
voice, from I knew not where,--from heaven, from earth, from a murmuring
brook, from a tree,--which dropped these words in my ear.
"Silence--four o'clock--the buck."
At that moment I saw the ears of the roebuck, and soon after the animal
itself, pausing for a moment in his leisurely course, just where he
ought to be for a good shot. But amazement and trepidation seized me. I
fired in a hurry, and the deer bounded off unscathed. "How clumsy," said
I to the Père Séguin, as he emerged from the thicket, "and how
unfortunate, for I have some friends coming to dine with me this week."
"Never mind, never mind," replied the poacher; "I will fill your larder
to-morrow."
"Well, you are a good fellow, but remember I require also some fish--a
fine dish of trout."
"Very well," growled the Père, "you shall have one;" and without a word
more the _braconnier_ is off; and soon after I meet him with his rod, a
young fir-tree, on his shoulder, a box of worms as large as snakes, and
with the most entire confidence in his piscatory powers, proceeding on
his way to the stream that will suit his purpose. In the evening he
reappears, taking from the fresh grass in which he has carried them,
three or four magnificent fish studded with drops of gold. White wine
and choice aromatic herbs flavour them, and you rejoice in the pleasure
and praises of your friends as they partake of the savoury meal.
And now for a sketch, if possible, of this excellent purveyor. Père
Séguin was tall as an obelisk, strong as a Hercules, _vif_ as gunpowder,
thin and sinewy as any wolf in his beloved forests. His ear large, flat,
and full of hair; his teeth long, white, regular, and sharp as those of
his favourite and extraordinary dog; his eyes yellow, calm, and piercing
as those of a mountain eagle, and his chin had never been desecrated
with a razor. A kind of brushwood covered his face, and through it
peeped, with the tip of his hooked nose, the features I have described.
This immense uncultivated beard, tucked carefully within his waistcoat,
reached nearly to his waist. Did I say it had never been shaved? I might
add, it had never been combed. Lurking in it you might see leaves,
white hairs, red hairs, bits of a butterfly's wing, two or three jay's
feathers, a nutshell, some tobacco, a blade or two of grass, the cup of
an acorn, or a little moss. Indeed, so strangely was it garnished that,
when asleep on the grass under the trees, a robin was once seen to hover
over him undecided as to whether she would build her nest in it, or pick
out materials to make one elsewhere.
Of uncommon intelligence, peculiarly taciturn, brave, frank, loyal, and
incapable of a bad action, his mind was of a gloomy cast; he was always
alone, he had no friends, he wanted none, and, if not hunting, reading
the Bible or muttering to himself, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He
lived like the woodcock, sad and solitary in his hole.
The peasants dreaded him, and never spoke of him but as the _Sorcier_,
the _Vieux Diable_; when naughty little children refused to learn their
letters or to go to bed, it was only necessary to threaten them with
sending for the Père Séguin and his red dog, and the whole of the rosy
troop would scamper off to their nursery in an instant.
I need scarcely say that amongst his other perfections he was a perfect
shot--the best in the department,--and the moment he touched the
trigger death winged his charge at two hundred paces. With a single ball
from his rifle would he bring down the wild cat from the highest
branches, and cut the poor squirrels in two, stop the howl of the wolf,
or shiver the iron frontal bones of the wild boar.
In short, his gun was his joy, his friend, his mistress, his all; he
spoke to it, caressed it, rocked it on his knees as a mother would her
sick child, and took a thousand times more care of it than he would have
bestowed upon the most lovely wife, had he ever done anything so rash as
to marry. It was a singular accident that brought us acquainted; and if
I had had any respect for chronology, I should have related it before.
One day, when rambling over the mountain in search of game, I put up and
fired at a hare; she was evidently hit, and I gave chase, yet though
puss had but three legs effective I could not overtake her,
"I follow'd fast, but faster did she fly;"
at last, a bank stopped and turned her, and I was on the point of taking
possession when a large red brindled dog dashed past and anticipated my
purpose, carrying off my hare, without bestowing so much as a glance
upon me,--no, not even appearing to see that I was there. Electrified
with astonishment, my left leg seemed pinned to the spot, while the
right, extended on a level with my shoulder, emulated that of Cerito in
"Giselle;" but recovering myself, I followed the thief, who made off
with the speed of a greyhound, in the direction of a neighbouring wood,
and on arriving at a little green knoll almost as soon as he did, I came
suddenly upon a strange and uncouth-looking figure who was reclining
comfortably on the grass beneath the shade of a large walnut-tree.