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. 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. “Helas! helas! 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 chateaux 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.