The _Mares_--Manner in which they are formed in the depths of the
forest--_Mare_ No. 1.--Description of it--The appearance of the
spot--Mode of constructing the hunting-lodge--Approach of the
birds--Animals that frequent the _Mares_ in the evening.
Of all the various sports of Europe, that which produces the greatest
excitement, that which is, more than any other, full of deep interest,
dangerous and difficult, is without doubt hut-shooting at night on the
banks of one of our large _Mares_.[1] Here the sportsman, left to
himself, is deprived of all help; concealed in a corner of a wood, or
squatting at the foot of a tree, he requires all his courage, all his
experience; for he then finds himself engaged in a deadly conflict with
the most subtle and ferocious beasts, possibly a mouthful for the
largest and most powerful jaws, and at the mercy of the quickest ears of
the forest. Motionless in his hut, like a spider in its web, nothing can
put him off his guard--neither the view halloo of the passing huntsman,
the cheerful notes of his horn, nor the music of the dogs, can distract
his attention. All around is calm, solitude and gloom surround him, no
voice interrogates him, no eye sees him; he is alone, quite alone, his
blood circulates tranquilly through his veins, his faculties are all on
the stretch, he waits, he bides his time. The shadows lengthen, twilight
arrives, the forest puts on the garb of evening, the silence and
solitude are more deeply felt, night is at hand, the moment so ardently
desired approaches. Imagination begins to work, phantoms of every
description come across his brain, and glide before his eyes, he hears,
and fancies he sees the sylvan spirits dancing before him; his ears are
full of mysterious and unearthly sounds, plaintive and melancholy,
celestial harmonies, fairy melodies of another world, interrupted
conversations between the winds, the trees, the herbage and the earth,
as if they were offering homage to the great Creator of the universe.
Firm at his post, and uninfluenced by this phantasmagoria of the brain,
without movement and almost without breath, the sportsman waits
hopefully; for the greatest virtue in this kind of sport is patience,
the second courage, first-rate--his heart should be of marble, his flesh
of steel, and his members should possess a power of immobility as great
as that of a sphynx in an Egyptian temple. Yes! the sport _aux mares_ is
the most stirring, the roughest that I am acquainted with, not so much
on account of the real danger attending it, but in consequence of those
fictitious, unknown, and imaginary, produced by the silence and
loneliness of the forest. It is my intention, therefore, in describing
this kind of sport, to enter into the most ample details, in order that
I may make myself thoroughly understood. I shall take, as representing
very nearly all the pieces of water to be met with in the forest, three
kinds of _Mares_ of different dimensions. I shall explain their
position, the relative value they possess in the eyes of the sportsman,
the game, large and small, to be found on their banks, and the most
propitious time for approaching them, and I shall endeavour, if
possible, to impress my readers with the pleasures and adventures which
have on several occasions agitated me.
If the woods and forests of Le Morvan, which, by the clouds they
attract, the thunder-storms that continually fall over them, and the
moisture that generally prevails, feed a great many streams, the
district is not the less deprived, by its elevated position, of large
rivers and extensive sheets of water; for the rains, falling down the
sides of the trees, and penetrating the thick mossy grass at their
roots, do not remain for any length of time on the surface of the earth.
The whole forest may, in fact, be described as a large sponge, through
which the water filters, descending to the inferior strata, where it
finds the secret drains of Nature, and is by them conducted into the
plains. The roots being thus continually watered, the trees are fresh
and vigorous in their growth, and produce a most luxuriant foliage; the
ground itself, however, is generally dry under foot, and in some places
rocky.
It is therefore very rare, quite an exceptional case, to find on the
elevated heaths, or in our forests, any lakes or large pieces of water;
nevertheless they are to be seen here and there, and then the cottage of
the peasant, or the hut of the wood-*cutter is sure to raise its modest
head on their banks; in time these humble edifices are augmented in
number till they sometimes become a considerable village. If the spring,
once a silvery thread, and now a brawling rivulet, changes its character
to a deep and considerable stream, farm-houses, a chateau, or a
hunting-box are soon erected near it. If it is merely a tiny source
rising from the earth, or springing from some isolated rock, and soon
lost in the moss, without even a murmur, calm and silent, as the life of
the lowly peasant, which is slowly consumed in the scarcely varying path
of labour,--then no one takes the least notice of it.
Sometimes, however, the tears which the earth thus sheds, this crystal
thread, scorned by the unobserving passer-by, is arrested in its timid
course by some trifling obstacle--a rising path, a fallen branch or
tree. This little streamlet swells, frets the immediate spot of ground,
imperceptibly increases in size, and becomes after many efforts, the
patient work of months and years, something like the basin of a large
_jet d'eau_, a liquid cup lost in the recesses of the woods, reflecting
only a very small portion of the blue heavens above; unknown to man, but
always frequented by thousands of delighted and happy insects, and
little birds that come there in the great heats of summer to refresh
themselves, to skim across the surface, and sip, with head uplifted
towards heaven, its pellucid waters. These little springs, lost in the
thickness of the mossy turf and the dead leaves, like a gray hair in
the dark tresses of some village beauty, which accident or a lover could
alone discover, when thus interrupted and formed into a bowl of water,
such as I have described, is called a _Mare_.
If, therefore, the sportsman in traversing the depths of the forest
should chance to discover one of these mirrors of the passing butterfly,
of the flower which inclines its slender form towards it, or of the bird
that sings and plays in the branches that overspread its surface, he
must not look contemptuously upon it, for this little liquid pearl, thus
concealed in the shade, which the hot rays of the sun would dry up like
an Arabian well, if they could reach it, may prove to him a mine of
varied reflections--a page of nature's great book, and in it he may
possibly find, if he have an observing eye and an understanding heart, a
type of this lower world, with all its hateful passions, its follies and
virtues, its wars, rivalries, injustice and oppression.
One day, when out shooting, and following by tortuous paths, to me
unknown, the bleeding traces of a roebuck which I had wounded, I had the
good fortune to meet with one of these _Mares_. The piece of water of
which I thus became what I may term the proprietor, was from fifty to
sixty feet in circumference, though at the first glance I fancied it
was only half the size, so completely was it covered near the side by
thorns and briars, and in the centre by lilies, flags, and other aquatic
plants. By certain other signs, also, the gigantic creepers, and the
barkless and headless trees, bending and falling with age; by the deep
thickets that surrounded it, and by the solitary aspect of the pool, I
felt convinced that mine was the first footstep that had trodden its
precincts,--that I was the Christopher Columbus of the place.
Enchanted with my discovery, I determined to mark the spot, for I
thought it a _Mare_ of peculiar beauty. It was almost surrounded by wild
fruit trees, which grow in great numbers in our forests: here were the
sorb, or service tree, and the medlar, bending to the ground under the
weight of their luxuriant fruit; intermingled with these waved the lofty
and slender branches of the wild cherry, the berries of which, now ripe,
and sweet as drops of honey, and black as polished jet, offered a
delicious repast to clouds of little birds, that hopped chirruping from
twig to twig: and lastly, I may mention a fine arbutus, which in its
turn presented a tempting collation to the notice of many a hungry
bullfinch. The soft turf around was strewed with the shining black and
bright red berries, which the last breeze had shaken from the verdant
branches.
To describe the crystal notes, the liquid cadences, the merry songs of
the feathered inhabitants of this hive, that pursued one another
rejoicing amongst the leaves, is impossible. Besides, my unexpected
appearance threw them into perfect consternation; and this greatly
increased when, drawing from my side my hunting-knife, I began to cut
down, in all directions, the bushes which intercepted a nearer approach
to the miniature lake.
The storm of helpless anger, menaces, and complaints from these little
creatures was quite curious. "Oh! the wretch!" a cuckoo seemed to say;
"what does he mean by coming here, showing us his ugly face?"--"Oh! the
horror," cried a coquette of a tomtit, holding up her little
claw.--"_Hélas! hélas!_ our poor trees, our beautiful leaves, and our
lovely greensward--see how he is cutting away--Oh! the wicked man! the
destructive rascal!" they all piped in chorus. But I paid no attention
to them, and went on hacking away, and whistling like one of the
blackbirds. This indeed I continued to do for several days, working like
a woodman, and all alone, for I did not wish to associate myself with
any person, lest he should claim a share in my discovery; but it was
long before I began to enjoy the fruits of my hard labour. The trunks
were sawn, the branches lopped, and after considerable trouble I at last
cleared my piece of water from the bushes and parasitic plants which
blocked it up. The evening breeze now circulated rapidly over it, and
the sun could look in upon it for at least two hours of the day.
My friends who saw me leave the house every morning with a basket of
tools at my back and a hatchet at my side, like Robinson Crusoe, and who
witnessed my return each evening heartily tired, with torn clothes,
scratched hands, and dust and perspiration on my face, without a single
head of game in my bag, could not comprehend why I went out thus alone
into the forest, and remained there the livelong day. Often did they
persecute me with questions, and try in every way to penetrate the
mystery; all in vain, my whereabouts remained hidden like a hedgehog in
his prickly coat, and I managed matters so well that during two
successive years I was the unknown proprietor and Grand Sultan of my
much-loved _Mare_.
But when my task was finished, a task that hundreds of birds, perched in
the oaks, the elms, and the adjoining thickets, viewed with mingled
feelings of approbation, disapprobation, curiosity, or interest,--when
the last stroke of my hatchet was given, I said to myself, while looking
on the result of my unremitting toil, "'Tis well, and what a change has
taken place in this little corner of the forest. In truth, it looks
superb."
The little lake was now a perfect oval, and the water, not very deep,
but limpid as crystal, was full of green and coloured rushes--the
surface being partly covered by the white and rose-tinted flowers of the
water-lilies, which reposing delicately on their large flat green
leaves, looked like velvet camellias placed upon a plate of sea-green
porcelain. In the mossy turf which bordered it, beds of violets, pink
daisies, and lilies of the valley, sent forth a cloud of perfume, and on
the large forest trees hung festoons and garlands of the honeysuckle and
the clematis; so that the _Mare_ and the surrounding foliage, would,
seen from above, have appeared like a large well with leafy walls, or an
immense emerald, which some spirit of the air, returning from a marriage
of the gods, had inadvertently dropped on his way home.
Having given a description of the lake, I must describe my picturesque
and sylvan hut. This, constructed of trunks of trees, branches and
osiers, was placed about twenty paces from the water, completely
concealed by the bushes that encircled it; the inside was fitted up in
rustic taste with seats of wood, the whole carpeted with turf, and the
entrance planted with every kind of odoriferous flower.
This _Mare_, approached by marks known only to myself, became
thenceforward the source of all my pleasures. At that period very young,
and equally careless, I would not have parted with my large liquid
_tazza_, my little lake, my leafy castle, for all the vulgar comfortable
_chateâux_ in the neighbourhood.
If I have lingered too much over this subject, the reader must forgive
me for elaborating this picture--this portrait I may call it of my
_Mare_. He has before him a type of all the others, and this again must
be my excuse, it is so dear to the unfortunate to stir the still warm
embers of by-gone memories,--so dear to rouse from their slumbers the
treasured recollections of early days,--to wake those sweet spirits of
the mind, those phantoms robed in azure blue, and decked with the
pearls, the joys which never can glide again across the dreamer's
path--the joys of youth.
Oh _souvenirs_ of childhood!--of happy hours so quickly gone,--bright
visions that gild, yes, light the darkest clouds of after years,
blessed, blessed are ye! Alone, friendless, far from those I love, with
the heart steeped, drowned in sorrow, a sombre sky before my eyes,
wintry clouds, that distil but melancholy thoughts all around me,--well,
I, the poor sparrow, who has been cast from his nest by the raging
storm,--I hush my griefs to rest in tracing the picture of past
delights. Yes, memory comes to my relief; I build again in the casket of
the mind my sylvan hut, careless and full of youthful fancies. I am
again seated in the depths of my native woods, speaking to the
light-hearted thrush, and whistling to the breeze.
Once more I bathe myself in the golden rays of the mid-day sun; I tread
again the forest paths, and am intoxicated with the delicious perfume of
its wild flowers. Hark! again I hear the cooing of the amorous doves,
and in the distance the notes of the dull cuckoo, bewailing his solitary
life.--But no more....
The _Mares_, very different from one another, and having each of them
very different admirers, are of three kinds; they are either small or
large, near or distant from the village or neighbouring hamlet; and
according as they are circumstanced in one or other of these respects
they are more or less valuable. The largest, the deepest, the least
known, those in short that are situated in the recesses of the forest,
are the best and most frequented by game; to balance this advantage they
are the most fatiguing and the most difficult to approach.
In the violent heats of July and August, when the sun burns up the
herbage, when the wind as it passes parches the skin, and the sultry air
scarcely allows the lungs to play--when the earth is quite dried up--the
hot-blooded animals, whose circulation is rapid, remain completely
overpowered with the heat in their retreats all day, either stretched
panting on the leaves, or lurking in the shade of some rock; but the
moment the sun, in amber clouds, sinks below the horizon, and twilight
brings in his train the dark hours of night, and its humid vapours, the
beasts of the forest are again in movement, again their ravenous
appetite returns, and they lose no time in ranging the woods, seeking
how and where they may gratify it. Then it is these large _Mares_,
silent as a woman that listens at a keyhole--silent as a catacomb, is
all at once endowed with life,--is filled with strange noises, like an
aviary, and becomes, as night falls, a common centre to which the hungry
and thirsty cavalcade direct their steps.
The first arrivals are hundreds of birds, of every size and colour, who
come to gossip, to bathe, to drink, and splash the water with their
wings. Next come troops of hares and rabbits, who come to nibble the
fresh grass that grows there in great luxuriance. As the shades grow
deeper, groups of the graceful roebuck, timid and listening for
anticipated danger, their large open eyes gazing at each tree, giving an
inquiring look at every shadow, are seen approaching with noiseless
footsteps; when reassured by their careful _reconnaissance_, they steal
forward, cropping the dewy rich flowers as they come, and at last slake
their thirst in the refreshing waters.
At this instant you may, if you are fatigued, and so desire it, finish
your day's sport. You may bring down the nearest buck; and then as the
troop, wild with affright, make for the forest, the second barrel will
add a fellow to your first victim.
But, no! pull not the trigger; stop, if only to witness what follows.
See the roebuck prick their ears; they turn to the wind; they appear
uneasy; call one to the other, assemble; danger is near, they feel it,
hear it coming; they would fly, but find it is too late; terrified, they
are chained to the spot. For the last half hour the wolves and
wolverines, which followed gently, and at a distance, their own more
rapid movements, have closed in upon them from behind, have formed the
fatal circle, have noiselessly decreased it as much as possible, and at
length come swiftly down upon the helpless creatures; each seizes his
victim by the throat, the tranquil spot is ere long full of blood and
carnage, and the echoes of the forest are awakened to the hellish yells
of the savage brutes that thus devour their prey.
The cries of agony, of death and victory, sometimes last for a quarter
of an hour; and during the fifteen minutes that you are watching the
scene from your hut, you may fancy the teeth of these brutes are meeting
in your own flesh, and feel a cold paw with claws of steel deep in your
back or head.
The slaughter over, these monsters pass like a flight of demons across
the turf, vanish,--and again all is silent. And when the tenth chime of
the distant village clock is floating on the breeze, though it reaches
not your cabin--when the falling dew, now almost a shower, has bathed
the leaves, with rain chilling their fibres--when the bluebells and the
foxgloves and all the wood-flowers rest upon their stems--when the
songsters of the grove, with heads comfortably tucked under their warm
wings, sleep soundly in their nests, or in the angles of the
branches--when the young fawns, lost in some wild ravine, bleat for
their mothers whom they never will see more; and the gorged wolves,
their muzzles red with blood, are stretched snoring in their dens and
lurking-places--then it is the heavy boars, shaking off their laziness,
leave their sombre retreats--take to the open country, and trotting,
grunting, and with hesitating footsteps, come and plunge their awkward
and heavy bodies in the marshy waters, and wallow in the soft mud.
[1] Query,--fox-hunting and stag-hunting.--TRANSLATOR.